Chapter 20 (part 1): Less Than Zero

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"That's good news for you, Sherlock, but you didn't have to hit me so hard!"

"And you didn't have to stick your tongue so far down John's throat!"

"Worth it, though," Peter chuckled, turning to me. "You don't give yourself enough credit. Made me want to look deep into those pretty blue eyes."

Sherlock almost hit him again. I plopped down on the chair next to the door, staring at the floor. I didn't need this.

"Experiment?" I repeated. I guess getting injected with serum twice in one day fucked with my libido. That was the excuse I was going with anyway. That, and utter shock. When Peter started kissing me, I felt like I'd been hit with a cattle prod. When I'd pulled away from him, I was stunned. Not just from Sherlock's words and neat right hook, but from what I saw inside Deal. I'd have thought that by now nothing about him should be unexpected to me. "You could have told me instead of all the subterfuge."

"If we told you," Peter said, "then it wouldn't have worked since you wouldn't have let me in."

"Blame Mycroft. This was his theory," Sherlock said. "He insisted the hypothesis needed to be proven. I only agreed to it on the stipulation that I must be present."

"Oh my God, Sherlock. You know how 'not good' that sounds, don't you?" I stood back up. I needed coffee. Or a shot of whiskey. Maybe a double.

"I postulated that you would have this reaction afterward, but Mycroft insisted. He did not want me to take the serum unless he was correct. I will be able to feel pain."

"That wasn't all," Peter said, bouncing in the chair and flinging his arms around like a mad scientist. "It's a two way street. I saw what you felt!"

"Then you know how bad I want to hit you too," I said.

"Don't hate me for doing this," he pouted. "It was for a good cause."

So, Sherlock and I would be equals. I rather doubted it was Mycroft's theory. More like Eurus'. Which led to more family secrets. This kissing experiment had nothing to do with my loving Sherlock, but I resented not being told another plan. It was about intimacy and its invasion; trust and its betrayal.

I'd always believed Sherlock saw into me. Stupid of me to never come right out and ask. Well, now I knew. Amazing what I learned in one short French kiss.

"Sorry, John, about the espionage à la tonsil hockey," Deal said with a laugh. Was everything a fucking joke to him?

Well, I learned something from the kiss about Deal too. I knew his motive. He got what he wanted. Have fun with all that pain. And as for Sherlock, Deal didn't want him. Although Deal certainly didn't hold any affection for me. Maybe a touch of lust for us both. But he could get sex elsewhere.

From the way I read Deal, physical sensory experiences intertwined with extrasensory experiences in my brain's wiring. I already surmised that one on my own. He just confirmed my suspicions; I was hard wired for psychic sexual healing.

My lips burned where Peter's mouth had touched mine. Kind of an internal-combustive penalty for betraying Sherlock. What was I? Easy? Fucking might have well kissed on a vibrating insert-a-quarter bed in a seedy motel. For a millisecond I had actually contemplated having Sherlock join us. Then I was slammed with a thought— no, a premonition. I touched my mouth and stared at him.


"You're wrong," I said. "I don't think it lasts."

"Maybe I need to kiss you again or..." Deal winked.

"Not happening," Sherlock blurted out.

Nope. Not even a peck on the lips. I was wrong to let him in even once. I wouldn't let him look inside my head again. I got up from the table and stepped around in back of Sherlock's chair. Peter crawling inside my head made me more than nervous: vulnerable. And naked. Maybe Peter was comfortable with all his nudist clients, but I sure as hell preferred clothes. This bordered on professional misconduct. Wasn't he breaking some Hippocratic oath?

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