Posh boy left his mug on the papers again. It will leave a rim
on the sports section.
John goes over to the living room
table. Then he stops in his tracks. It’s happened again, hasn’t it?
More and more often he finds himself giving Sherlock silly petnames
in his head. He was never a friend of those, can hardly explain why
he is doing it now – in his own thoughts – but something
about it calms and provokes him at the same time. He picks up the
half-emptied mug of cold tea and thinks this over on his walk to the
He likes Sherlock. He knows this, has
known this for literally ages. That he likes him, and that he likes
him in a way that Sherlock most definitely won’t find appealing.
Sexually. There, he said it. In his head, of course, never out
loud. But Sherlock, with his many frustrating qualities, of which
many where outrageously attractive to John, is practically forcing
him to feel provoked. Those feelings then lead to … petnames,
apparently. He’s had stranger coping mechanisms before.
In his head greets him with hey,
handsome in the morning, those wonderful mornings where Sherlock
has actually slept and still looks all soft and not quite awake. He
calls him genius when he is being too clever again and doesn’t
notice, calls him pretty man and silly git and
sweetheart when he’s feeling like it, and, of course, posh
boy. He doesn’t even know what it is about that one in
particular, but he finds that to be the worst. For his sexual
frustration, that is. Every time it comes up in his head, which is
more and more often, it fuels his imagination vividly. So much that
it has even made it to his bedroom and he has dreams, half-asleep,
half-awake, about teaching posh boy a lesson, getting posh boy a
little dirty, treating posh boy a little rough. These are all
terrible thoughts. Because they will stay just as imaginary and
sexually frustrating. Posh boy won’t love him back, after all.
One morning Sherlock sits in front of
his microscope on the kitchen table. He hasn’t moved for at least two
hours. Nothing unusual. In fact, it was how they spend most of their
Sundays now. John doesn’t really date anymore, and even if he did, he
would not trade these days for anything. They have fallen into this
pattern a while ago, the pattern of staying in on lazy Sundays,
waking up later and waiting for the other to have breakfast together.
Now Sherlock occupies himself with some experiment on maggots and
fingers (John doesn’t even ask) and John is sitting in his chair. He
is reading a novel about an incredibly clever and cunning explorer
who kind of reminds him of Sherlock (he can’t help it, as much as he
would like to). Being absorbed in the book, he is confused at first
when Sherlock calls him from the kitchen.
With Sherlock this is either going to
be of highest importance or an absurdly unnecessary request.
“Care to pass me my phone?”
John sighs loudly. The latter.
“Where is your phone?”
With his eyes rolling at the ceiling
John puts a bookmark in his book, places it on the table next to him
and gets off his chair. Walking into the kitchen, he murmurs under
“I see posh boy’s being a lazy
He takes the phone out of Sherlock’s
breast pocket and holds it out for him. But instead of taking it and
paying no more attention to him, Sherlock is suddenly staring at him
like his face was on fire. John frowns at him. Sherlock, in turn,
raises one brow.
John’s eyes widen in shock and his
heart jumps once in his chest and then stops, he thinks, just stops,
and he wants to melt and become one with the floorboards. This is
“I’m not posh,” Sherlock complains.
He must notice how John is only
blushing more deeply. How? How did he say that out loud without
noticing? How the bloody hell could he?
John clears his throat and decides to
go along with it. There is no more turning back from here on anyway.
“You… are, actually. Just look at
you, you with your… cheekbones. Your… perfectly tailored suits,
your annoying British accent and deep voice-”
“We all have British accents.”
“I know!” John is enormously
embarrassed, and he feels that if he doesn’t take a long walk right
now, he will punch something to calm his inner unsettlement. “I
But Sherlock isn’t finished. “If
anything, you are the posh one, John.”
“Hah! How so, Sherlock Holmes? Have
you looked at yourself?”
“Have you looked around this
flat in the past years? There are piles of magazines in the corners
of every room, there is a Cluedo board pinned to the wall by me, I
leave my things wherever I please, the kitchen is a mess of syringes
and human body parts – an organised and well structured mess if you
know where to look, but not the point right now – and I am
currently examining maggots. In contrast to this you, John Watson,
are a doctor, you wear your chequered shirts buttoned up to your
chin, you’ve lived a clean life not suffering from a drug addiction,
have had girlfriends and relationships and altogether live as part of
the middle-class society in Central London. You wish for a wife and
children and probably a German Shepard and a house in the suburbs, or
at least that’s what you think you want, so tell me, John: How am I
the posh one?”
John has a hard time finding a response
to this that doesn’t only consist of loose vowels. It takes him a
good minute, but Sherlock is oddly patient with him.
“First of all,” he manages then, “
I don’t think I want a wife and children, thank you very much. And
maybe… maybe I’m not that serious when I call you things like
“So why do you?”
“What?” John’s heart began beating
faster once more. He’s so tense.
“Why do you call me a posh… boy?”
Oh fuck, hearing those two words spoken
out loud and together and out of Sherlock’s mouth, for God’s
“I- I don’t. Why- why should I even
tell you? You read my mind all the time, can I not be allowed to keep
this one thing to myself for once?!”
Sherlock narrows his eyes and observes
him from head to toe. Oh please no. “No, that’s not it.”
“Alright, you know what? It’s you.
Okay? It’s your fault! You just make me so angry all the time. No,
don’t- don’t look at me like that.”
Sherlock’s eyes have gone wide and very
blue. He looks genuinely hurt by this. Scared even. Scared at what
John would say next, what this would mean for them. John feels and
shares his pain, and he hates himself for every word he has ever said
that would make Sherlock look like this. He is vulnerable and human,
after all. Even if he tries to convince everyone around him that he
isn’t, John has to stop falling for Sherlock’s own defence mechanism.
“I didn’t mean it like that. It’s
just… what you said. There’s no wife and there is no house in the
suburbs for me, Sherlock. I just can’t see it. But I see this.” He
means Baker Street, means 221B, means … Sherlock. “This life.
Sherlock’s eyes are still so very blue.
He wants to lose himself in them.
“And that makes you angry?”
“What? No. I’m just. Forget it.”
John finally has the courage to turn
around and go, or maybe he lacks the courage to face him and stay,
but either way he walks back into the sitting room, prepared to put
on his jacket and leave the house for at least two hours. Sherlock
jumps up and follows him.
“John! Wait. We never say what we
want to say.”
John swirls around, his mouth a thin
line of held back emotions. He stands close to the door. Ready to
flee. “And what do you wanna say?”
Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes
his eyes. When he opens them again, there is courage in the one and
fear in the other.
“Me too. I see this, too. Us. This
life we share.”
John bites the insides of his mouth
because his whole skin feels hot with disbelief and wonder and hope,
oh god, so much hope that he doesn’t let himself own.
“What?” he asks instead, going for
a weak smile, “You don’t see yourself with a wife and children?”
Sherlock huffs a laugh. “No. Weirdly
They smile at each other.
“So ‘posh boy’,” Sherlock says
after a while, “is actually about…?”
“Me being an ungrateful moron? Me
never saying what I should say before it’s too late? Me trying to get
my anger at all of this under control? Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”
Sherlock looks down at the spot between
his feet. He’s thinking. But not as he usually is, not fast and
calculating and mechanical. He’s thinking about the right thing to
do. The things he has always wanted to do, but never thought it to be
right or appropriate or good for them.
“I can wait for you to figure this
“Wait for me?”
“As long as you need, John. We both
agreed, didn’t we? Both of us don’t plan on leaving or getting
married and reproduce anytime soon, so.”
“You don’t like waiting,” John
points out, but he is already incredibly relieved and impressed by
“No, I don’t. But I like you.”
John doesn’t flee to take an hour-long
walk that day. He would never trade a lazy Sunday with Sherlock
Holmes, after all. Sherlock continues with his experiment, and John
reads. Later they watch telly together and Sherlock yells at the
incompetent game show host on BBC One. He said he could wait till
John figures this out, whatever this is. But maybe they both don’t
have to wait that long. Maybe, just maybe, posh boy could actually
love him back.
Don´t feel guilty if you don´t work out on days when you feel tired. Dedication is awesome and looks good on motivational pictures but, sometimes, life happens and you need to let go of your perfect work out plan. It is ok to push yourself on lazy days but please don´t exercise when your body tells you it doesn´t have enough energy for it. Accept the fact that some days will be worse than others. Your health is more important than the sense of accomplishment. It is okay to take a day off when you need it. You don´t have to prove anything to anyone. Just listen to your body and give it what it needs.