Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/Sally Donovan
Notes: Written for MMOM. Day 2. Beta'd by evila_elf. Takes place prior to The Reichenbach Fall.
Summary: Sherlock needs the perfect partner for his fantasy.
“Come on Sherlock, don’t knock it. What was it that Woody Allen said? At least it’s sex with someone you love?”
Lestrade's announcement came in response to what must have been the expression on Sherlock’s face following the tale of a suspect who'd been apprehended while in an act of self-gratification in the gentlemen’s loo at St Pancras.
Sherlock looked at Lestrade, feeling more than usual the gap between himself and the rest of the so-called “normal world.” It wasn’t necessarily the criminal’s foolishly timed need for a wank that perplexed him, as much as the idea that there was any love involved in the process.
He knew his intellect made him the superior of virtually any living human, equal only to his brother, and for that he held himself in great regard. But love? He thought not. Sherlock knew he was not a good man, nor a kind one. His own weaknesses disgusted him and his failures hung in his memory like a bad smell. Whether it was Molly’s cloying affections, John’s doggish loyalty or even the smothering devotion of his mother, there was nothing of those emotions in his feelings toward himself.
Thus when he did give in to physical manifestation of base desires, he inevitably chose a fantasy partner he could count on to hate him as much as he hated himself. Sally Donovan, cheekbones taut with disdain and voice heavy with sarcasm, showing Sherlock her surprisingly voluptuous body, while castigating him as the deviant, repulsive, self-loathing fraud, that only she could see clearly while the rest of the world chose to cover him in accolades.
So potent was the fantasy that a session of stimulation rarely lasted long. He’d timed it down to a mere two minutes from the point he ascertained his own arousal, counting the time to disrobe and apply lubricant. The minute he thought of DS Donovan sneering at his erection, he’d feel his buttocks clench and his hand would start moving faster at her imagined orders to bring himself off, and prove exactly what a piece of filth he really was. He’d obey her demands and if he was feeling particularly randy, the fantasy might culminate with her permission to spill his ejaculate onto her breasts, only on the condition that he clean it off with his tongue.
That was the ultimate frisson; the soiling of Sally and his own debasement.
It did occasionally make it difficult to keep up the face of indifference the next time he encountered her, but Sherlock was nothing if not a consummate actor. For instance, right now he was feigning the urgent need to leave the pub and get home because one of his experiments was approach its culmination and he needed to be there.
Whether Lestrade believed him was irrelevant as long as his true reason for departure went unsuspected. No need for his friend to think he was going anywhere other than Baker Street.
“Where to?” asked the cabbie.
“St Pancras, and please hurry.”