Still The Addict

It Never Happened

I've always been addicted to....something. In my life, not a period has gone by when I'm not at mercy to some external substance. In my childhood it was the affection of my dog Redbeard. In my adolescence it was heroin and in my twenties cocaine. In my thirties self-harm. Well, I'm turning forty next week and I have a new addiction to contend with. A new impulse to fight off; sex. Specifically sex with John Watson. I know, I don't seem the type. And never before was I the type either. Not until I experienced that beautiful euphoria that is the touch of John Watson. His hand caressing my thigh, his pouting lips crashing into mine. We have only made love once, in the bathtub last week. But I can't help but want more. I get aroused and love-stricken at the slightest brush of our bodies, melt whenever he speaks. I'm addicted to John Watson.

It's affecting my work too. None of my previous addictions have blinded me to the details I need to focus on. But whenever I look at John Watson I see nothing. I see him and only him. I don't see where he's going that night, or how many days he's worn his shirt for, or whether he's wearing fluffy or regular socks underneath his shoes. I see no details, just him; his 'big picture'. This has only happened once, with The Woman. And I know what it means. It means I'm addicted. But what exactly does that mean? Can I tell him? I've never been good at this...interaction...thing. I'm sitting on my chair right now, John at the table writing his blog. It's been a week since we fucked but we haven't mentioned it. Not a word, not an implication. John is acting as if everything is normal. How can he just do that? So unnecessarily complicated for me. Too complicated. I prefer to talk things out properly, find out exactly what's going on. And this is going to happen my way whether John likes it or not.

"John?" I ask over my copy of The Telegraph. He looks up in all his innocent curiosity, the gleam from the laptop screen illuminating his face blue.

"Yeah?" He blinks.

"What happened last week in regards to...our relationship?"

"I'm not gay," he immediately blurts out.

"Okay," I nod, hoping he's going to explain and elaborate. That wasn't much of an answer. "I know you aren't gay, but I think we need to talk about it don't you?" John runs his face in his hands, closing his laptop. He watches me for a few seconds before his face twists in confusion.

"Since when do you talk?"

"Since I have no idea why you fucked me in the bathtub Mr Not Gay," I snap back and John's eyes widen. He isn't used to hearing me curse. I feel like I have the upper hand now, which isn't something I feel often when it comes to talking to people "Don't you think I'm owed some kind of explanation?"

"Look, Sherlock," John sighs. Is he stressed? Or is that guilt? "I have a girlfriend, okay?"

I was right. The night he found me cutting. He had been going on a date. He has a girlfriend. A fucking girlfriend! I feel my heart crack and implode, crushing under my ribs and shattering into a million tiny pieces. I lose my breath in the debacle, for a second or two I forget how to speak, how to breathe, how to blink. It had meant nothing to John, hadn't it?

"So we just...pretend it never happened?" I ask with my heart in my mouth, dread boiling in my stomach. I watch as John smiles. 

"Pretend what never happened?" I look at him in confusion before he decides to elaborate "It never happened, okay Sherlock?"

It never happened. It never happened. The best night of my life, the most euphoric experience of my life, the only time I've ever been able to stop thinking, stop my racing brain, the only time I've ever properly connected with another person and...it never happened. I never held John, felt his skin dance under my fingertips, I never kissed him, felt his lips brush mine, connected him in the most physically intimate way a person can. It never happened. I nod quickly, and John goes back to his blog, or whatever the hell he's doing on that thing. Probably texting his wonderful girlfriend he claims to love so much. That actually gets me thinking.

It isn't a difficult deduction to make that John lists having a girlfriend as the main reason for not being with me. For not accepting what happened between us. Take the girlfriend out of the picture and...I smirk and sit opposite John, flicking the television on, quietly biding my time. I know exactly what I have to do.

(John's POV)

I needed to give him an excuse. I had to. He seems to have bought it, sitting watching the telly. I do have a girlfriend yes, but that's actually besides the point. The truth is I'm just not gay. Not interested in Sherlock in the slightest. I was last week, don't get me wrong.  That was he best sex I've had in my entire bloody life. But that's all it was. I thought that's all it was for Sherlock too, but apparently not. I've been worried that's the reason he started cutting ever since. The fact that he loves me. Must be so hard, keeping a secret like that from me. Being so lonely.

Tonight just clinched it. It was just sex for him. So I had to give an excuse, play the victim in my own right. It's like saying to a kid 'I can't get you that ice cream cause I don't have money' when you do have money you just don't want to get them the ice cream. If I loved Sherlock I'd be with him. The girlfriend gives me the perfect out. And I do love her. I love Sarah so much it kills me knowing I cheated. With Sherlock of all the unlikely candidates. Thankfully Sherlock seems to be okay about it now. I just hope he doesn't relapse into cutting. Or drugs. Or anything else he's ever been addicted to.

(Sherlock's POV)

It's nighttime now. John will be sleeping; I know he's sleeping cause he's tossing and turning. He's silent as a mouse when he's awake up there. So I claims the status cautiously, as I used to do when I watched him sleep. I've done this so many times now I know every place the floorboards creak, every stair to avoid lest I tumble and wake him. His chest slowly rises and falls as he groans, turning over and pulling his sheets close to him; a comfort. He's having a nightmare, I know it. He always has those. My eyes tear away from the beautiful man for a split second, and look at his bedside table. Where he still keeps his gun. And where his phone sits, unguarded. He thinks he has no reason to guard his phone. He does.

I walk over, sliding it off the little table and into my hand. It feels strange in my hand. It isn't my phone and that bothers me. I find the name 'Sarah <3' and I want it to be 'Sherlock <3'. I click on the numbers, weigh the pros and cons one last time and begin to type.

'We need to talk. Here is my number.

SH'