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After the adrenaline from “A Study in Pink” had faded, John had sat down with his laptop and researched Sociopathy. He’d remembered a bit from medical school, but if he was going to be living with one, he felt he ought to be an expert. So he thought he was well prepared to fall in love with one. He wasn’t even close.
Manipulative and Conning
John often found himself, at 3 am, standing in line at Tesco’s for things he didn’t need because Sherlock had asked him to. No- ask was the wrong word.
“I need iodine,” he breathed, his hands ghosting down John’s stomach. They settled at his hips and John could feel himself turning beat red as Sherlock spoke in that low grumble reserved for sex. “Can you get it for me?”
“Sherlock it’s 3 am,” John begged, trying to maintain some composure. It was getting progressively harder (pun intended) as Sherlock’s hands traveled ever lower and his head dipped down to graze John’s ear.
“I’ll be forever grateful,” he murmured, his teeth on John’s ear, as his hands settled and John gasped.
Yes. The man was a manipulative bastard.
Grandiose Sense of Self
“Sherlock, for god’s sake, I’m supposed to be at the surgery tomorrow at seven,” John begged, standing in the kitchen in his bathrobe.
Sherlock looked up from the table, the table an exploded mess. “But I’m doing an experiment.”
“Sherlock, the world does not revolve around you,” John sighed, sinking his head into his hands.
“It ought to- it’d be so much less boring that way,” Sherlock said and John was not quite sure if he was serious or not. Chances were he was.
“Think of the neighbors,” John tried.
“They should be grateful. I could save their lives with this experiment,” Sherlock shrugged, going back to his tubes.
John gave up and left, shuddering as another explosion rocked the house behind him.
Pathological Lying
Sherlock surveyed the scene, the blood, and the bullet casings before getting up.
“No sorry, afraid I don’t see anything,” he said, his face impassive.
Lestrade gaped at him. “Nothing?”
“Nothing,” Sherlock repeated, without a twitch. “Now come John, we need to run. We have a meeting with two dead bodies at Bart’s.”
John followed him from the crime scene as the officers stared in utter shock. Once they were a good distance away, Sherlock grabbed his hand, pulled him into an alley and shoved him up against a wall.
“I don’t-“ John tried and failed as Sherlock kissed him, his mouth all tongue and teeth and it was several moments before John could speak again.
“The woman-“
“Killed by her fiancé. Don’t worry, I’ll text Lestrade,” Sherlock said and then went back to attacking John’s neck.
“So you-“
“Lied, yes,” Sherlock said, his teeth leaving purple marks on John’s skin.
“And Bart’s-“
“Not till tomorrow,” the detective replied, his nails digging deep into John’s hips.
“You are an amazing liar,” John choked out as his knees went numb.
“Thank you,” Sherlock smiled before capturing John’s mouth in a searing kiss.
Not a compliment John thought but he pushed it aside.
Lack of Remorse
“You are being utterly illogical,” Sherlock sniped, walking into the apartment.
“Sherlock you left the crime scene without me,” John cried. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done this. Or the second. Or even the third.”
“I had an idea, I had to find out if I was right,” Sherlock shrugged. “It was a rush.”
“Sherlock, I do not need those… pity stares from Donovan every few weeks,” John begged. He felt his heart constrict as the detective stared at him with those silver eyes, not a care in them.
Does he even realize he’s missing me, when he leaves? John thought, his heart physically hurting. Or does he talk to an empty cab as if I’m there?
“I don’t understand why it upsets you, but I will stop,” Sherlock said, breaking John out of his reverie and the doctor could cry with relief.
“Thank you,” he says, smiling from ear to ear.
Sherlock leaves him at a crime scene two weeks later. This time, John doesn’t bother complaining.
Need for Stimulation
He could slap him. He could slap him and shake him and hit him while he cried into his shoulder and never let him go.
“Oh Sherlock,” John feels like he’s going to collapse as he steps over the body of the murderer he just shot and envelopes the detective in a bone-crushing hug. “You could have died!”
Sherlock looks down at the dead man who, until five seconds earlier, had been pummeling the living daylight out of Sherlock. “I suppose so.”
“You suppose so?” John really could hit him. “Why didn’t you call Lestrade? Or me? Or anyone?”
“He was running away,” Sherlock shrugged.
“You chased down a murderer without telling anyone where you were going?” John wants to cry.
“It does help the boredom,” Sherlock smiles. He doesn’t understand why John is shaking with his arms around him. He never will.
Callousness/Lack of Empathy
“You really ought to put her in rehab,” Sherlock says as John walks through the door.
“I’m sorry, what?” John asks, hanging up his coat.
“Harriet,” Sherlock clarifies. “It’s clear from your shoes she’s no better. Put her in rehab.”
John stares at the man. He doesn’t even question how Sherlock knows he just spent his last visit with his sister helping her clean her own vomit off kitchen linoleum and holding her in his arms while she sobbed.
“She’s my sister Sherlock. You don’t just shove family into institutions when they’re down,” he says. He feels old. He feels so inexplicably old and sad.
“Why not? She only wastes your time and energy this way,” Sherlock says and it’s because he doesn’t get it that it gets John.
“She’s my fucking sister Sherlock,” John hisses out. He’s too miserable to deal with this.
“I fail to see the connection-” Sherlock starts but he doesn’t finish as John slams the door to his bedroom, settles onto his bed and cries.
Poor Behavioral Controls
“Oh,” Sherlock says softly. They’re having sex and John is nestled comfortably under him, Sherlock rocking back and forth in gentle waves of ecstasy. “Oh that’s brilliant.”
“Thank you,” John smiles but the look Sherlock shoots him is one of utter disdain.
“No, not you,” he snaps and John’s poor heart twists so painfully he can’t breathe. “She left the ring there!”
“Are you talking about the case?” John struggles to sit up but Sherlock is suddenly off him with a wet pop and running down the stairs.
“Sherlock!” John yells as he tries to ignore the utterly crippling pain that shoots through him from his balls as he’s suddenly cut off seconds before orgasm. “Where the hell are you going?”
“I need to fry aluminum! It all makes sense now!” he yells back from the kitchen and John groans, curling in on himself. He was far too sensitive for this.
“Can we finish first?” John is ashamed to hear himself beg.
“I’ll be up in a minute,” Sherlock says in a voice that promises he’ll be there all night. John sighs and reaches down to finish himself off, wincing slightly. He wakes up alone the next morning.
Unreliability
John looks around the restaurant and then at his watch for the sixteenth time. It’s officially and hour after Sherlock promised to meet him for dinner. The waitress shoots him another sympathetic glance and comes over.
“Hey,” she says and he knows what she’s going to say before she says it.
“Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” he says, handing her a tenner for her troubles. He walks out of the restaurant and texts Sherlock.
Where are you? We were supposed to have dinner an hour ago.
The reply is almost instantaneous.
At Bart’s. Molly has a burn victim. – SH
Of course. John should have realized he couldn’t even hold a candle to a burn victim. With a resigned sigh, he sticks his hands in his pocket and walks home.
Sherlock comes home at twelve and John’s bedroom door is locked.
Incapacity for Love
He’s come to terms with all of them, he really has. He can live with being stood up, forgotten, blue-balled and ignored. But he refuses to believe the last one is true. He refuses because, if it is, he may very well self-immolate.
John says it once. He’s so careful not to scream it out during sex or to say it casually at breakfast or to declare it publically after Sherlock is just utterly brilliant at a crime scene. But he whispers it, just once.
They’re lying in Sherlock’s bed, bathed in afterglow. His arm is wound around the thinner man’s waist and he finds his mouth nestled in Sherlock’s black curls. Sherlock’s breath has been even and shallow for the past half-hour now and he’s sure he’s asleep.
“I love you,” John whispers, letting it fall into Sherlock’s curls. His poor, broken heart wrenches as he says it because he will never hear it back. He is destined and doomed to love a highly functioning sociopath who will let him fuck him senseless but never love him. And it ruins him.
He’s just closed his eyes when he feels a rustle underneath him and suddenly there are lips at his ear and a whisper so soft he can’t be sure he didn’t dream it.
I love you too.