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June 16th, 2014

Bad Blaze

Title: Bad Blaze

Summary: A case leaves a bag of weed in 221B.

Warnings: Casual talk about drug use, sexuality, and growing up different.  Also unresolved feelings about oneself.  Demi!Sherlock and GoodFriend!John.

Pairing: If you squint, there's some Johnlock.

Rating: PG-13

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A/N: Just so everyone knows, I'm posting this but I've written it as a purge of my own feelings.  Basically this happened except I wasn't high.  Yay emotions...


Being a doctor, John had seen people high on all sorts of drugs.  And he’d seen some pretty bad highs.  Also, having Sherlock Holmes, the infamous former-addict, he’d seen Sherlock high a few times as well as drunk.

He’d never seen him high on marijuana.

Their having weed in the house was entirely accidental.  A couple of teens living on the streets had come in with a case about a friend’s disappearance.  It turned out to be a very interesting case; involving a group of smugglers who transported everything from Kinder Eggs to people, a not-kidnapping, and a girl who had just gotten herself in too deep.  By the time John and Sherlock crashed after the nearly week-long case, the kids had moved on and were impossible to contact to return their bag of weed.

So Sherlock did what any normal person would - he rolled a joint.  Several, in fact.  While John was at work.  And was high as a kite when John came home.

“Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?  It smells like a skunk!”

“I…I think I’ve made a mistake, John.” Sherlock answered miserably.


John had to take a step back when the detective looked at him.  His eyes were glassy and rimmed in red, irritated.  In all the time they had been flatmates, John had never seen Sherlock cry for any reason other than to manipulate people.  But even Sherlock wasn’t this good of an actor.  There was no faking the despair that lined his face.

“What wrong?”

The way his lip trembled would have been comical had it not been so genuine. “… So much.  There’s so much wrong.”

“Do you… d’you want to talk about it?”

After a moment, Sherlock nodded. “I’ve never tried marijuana before.  I assumed it would be something like cocaine.  I expected euphoria, maybe drowsiness.”

“But you got sad instead?” John prompted after a moment’s silence.

“And then I started thinking about things I haven’t thought about in years.”

“Like what?”

“I’m a very lonely person, John.  You’re aware that I’m solitary but the fact of the matter is that I’m lonely.  Have been for years.  All in the name of the work.  I ignore so much in the name of work.  I’ve been consulting for so long, it makes me wonder if I still love it as much as I think or if I’m doing it out of habit.”

“Now I know for a fact that you love it.  It’s like Christmas every time we get a new case.”

“But the people.  I hate the people.  There are morons everywhere.  I’ve never related to people.  Even as a child, I was far ahead of my peers.”

Despite wanting to take advantage of Sherlock’s sudden openness, John couldn’t help but comment. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“All the same, it made for a frustrating childhood.  Believe it or not, there was a period of time when I was teacher and parent to many of the people I tolerated enough to call my friends.  It was because of that that I vowed never to father children.  It was exhausting.  There was, of course, also the problem of my odd sexual orientation.”

“It’s not that odd.”

“That’s because you only have a portion of the information.” He looked so distressed, John wanted to take him in his arms.  As if that was a scenario that would ever happen.  “I say that I’m asexual to make is easy for people to fit me into a box and never think about me as a sexual being ever again.  But it’s not entirely true.”

There was another pause, as if it was a hard topic to broach.  “What’s the whole story, then?”

“I’m a biromantic demisexual.” He paused, waiting for confirmation of understanding. “It means I can and have developed romantic feelings for both men and women, but there are only a select few people I could ever bring myself to have a sexual relationship with.  There has to be an incredible emotional connection before I could even consider sex.”

“So Irene-“

“Yes.  I had romantic feelings for her.  However, I never desired anything physical.  I suppose you could say there was a sapiosexual component to it as well.”

That lost John. “A what component?”

“Sapiosexual.  Sexual attraction to a person because of their intelligence.  But that was more on a theoretical plane than a desire to make it happen.”

“Right.  Okay.”

“But you must realize that that makes it far too complicated for most people.  The idiots that populate the world can handle definitives - either a person will or they won’t.  I am neither here nor there.  I’m a ‘maybe’.  Do you see?”

“I’m not sure.”

Sherlock sighed, a little hiccup of a sob escaping.  “Let’s make a scenario then.  Let’s say that I got into a romantic relationship with a sexual person.  Either sex will do.  They desire sex and I do not.  That is incompatible because sex is a base instinct for most sexuals and they often cannot do without.

"Let’s revise - I get into a relationship with an asexual.  Somewhere along the line, I develop sexual desires for them.  But, being asexual, they don’t desire me physically.  This is equally unsatisfactory as my desires are not being attended to.”

“What about someone like you?”

A true sob spilled out with tears.  “The timing would be an incredible gamble.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Even if I found another demisexual, which is an incredible feat in itself, speaking statistically, it’s impossible to say if one or the other of us would ever desire the other sexually.  And if only one of us did?  That’s almost worse than the other two possibilities.  I couldn’t expect someone who didn’t desire me to have sex to make me happy.  Nor would I tolerate someone asking the same of me.”

“… Have you never had a relationship?  There must have been something.”

“Once, long ago.  There were very strict rules between us and it was an altogether awful result.  I recall ‘cocktease’ being one of the highlights of our final conversation.”  He was wiping strongly at his eyes.  His hands and face were shining and pinking from the salt in his tears.  “I tried to compromise.  I did everything to him that he asked.  I became incredibly proficient at a myriad of sex acts that didn’t involve my own genitals trying to keep him satisfied.  But in the end, it was a point of contempt.”

“That was one person.  You can’t know that no one would be okay with just what you were comfortable giving.”

“Name one person you know who would be satisfied with that.” Sherlock pronounced laboredly, glaring.  John had no answer.

A long silence stretched between them.  Sherlock wiped his eyes and tried to quiet the sobs that made his chest bounce awkwardly as he breathed.  John tried to think of something to say to make it better.

Eventually, John handed Sherlock the tissue box from the table and fetched a damp flannel.  With careful tenderness, he wiped the tears from Sherlock’s raw face.  The detective sniffled, surprisingly pliant.

“Do you really think the marijuana would make me this sad?”

“I’ve seen it before.  You’re used to drugs that keep dopamine in your system instead of being reabsorbed.  The high you’re riding right now is throwing the balance between your dopamine and anandamine.  Maybe weed just doesn’t suit you.”

He sniffed again.  “Don’t tell anyone?”  He looked so fragile that he might burst into tears again.

“Course not.  And we’re tossing the rest of that skank.”

“Give it to Mrs. Hudson.  Tell her to have an herbal soother on me.”


And because I'm dumb, I have to add comedy.  Because that's how I deal with my feelings.  No, really.