A.N.: This was sent to me by an anonymous reader who especially liked the short scene in Sherlock's bedroom and developed it - I was given the go-ahead to post it here, as they don't wish to publish it anywhere. It takes place while John is checking lap dance tutorials online, and Sherlock is waiting for him in his room. I didn't wish to say too much about Sherlock's point of view in 'Let me dance for you', because I intend to examine it more thoroughly in 'Dance is chemistry'. I thought I would post this and share it with you. Hope you enjoy, and thanks again to Anonymous for sharing! :)

The room was quiet, dark. Sherlock wasn't going anywhere, John had made sure of that hadn't he? In all likelihood he'd block any chance for escape. He could slip out the window, and John had nicely confiscated anything that looked too sharp or pointy. It would have been comical, at another time, being stuck in his room like he was a grounded adolescent. It would have been a funny situation on a different day at a different time. It would be easy to imagine the scenario for a day when he was desperately craving a cigarette. Those days the hunt for the prize was almost as good as the actual prize.

But not today. There was no hunt, no chase, no thrill, just an overwhelming feeling of nothing. It wasn't just nothing, it was nothing under which he had feelings that he could recognize, he just couldn't feel them. He could observe what he normally ignored but he didn't feel them anymore. John didn't understand. It was just too much trouble to speak. Talking was always a pain, but showing off was so much fun. It was better to speak fast, get it all out and then be called brilliant or freak, depending on the person.

But it took so much energy to talk… so much energy to move. His mind was moving so fast. Thinking kicked into high gear, even for him. But he had nothing to express. He had nothing. It just played over and over in his head: that day. He played the morning over. It'd been so normal, John trying to force him to eat toast while his mind was focused on a case he'd just been starting to get interested in from a Russian newspaper. It would have been an interesting case. He wasn't going to touch it now. He had nothing to give to it. Even if he solved it, what would that mean? Moriarty had everything already, he couldn't beat him. There was no better, there was no next.

And then there was that small bit from just a moment ago. John said that he was beautiful, that he wanted him. He hadn't expected it to hurt like it did. Even under the nothing he could feel, he could feel the hurt even through the nothing. It was easier to feel that then the unending nothing.

"You're nothing."

Those words swirled around his mind, permeating everything. No, easier to grab tight onto that unbearable pain with both hands. Even now, even when all John wants is… that… Yes, John always helped him, no matter what.

What could he deny the only person who'd be able to see something that awful and still want him around? Even if it was only sex? Could he say no? No. Was he expected to do something, expected to get up and try to seduce him? Seduce John? No, there was no way to do that. He was too awkward, too unsure, too wrong, too… "You're nothing".

No, don't think about that, think about now.

Why was John taking so long? Propriety, probably. It wasn't right to simply come and have his way with his flatmate. John, for all that he was too interesting to be completely normal, also strived to fit into society. John wouldn't just instantly come up and demand it, but he also probably wouldn't let him leave until he got what he wanted. So what was he to do? John wanted what he wanted, but he wouldn't demand, might not ask. He'd have it eventually.

It didn't matter. Sherlock felt a chill run up his spine. His whole body shivered, the first time he'd moved except for breathing in minutes. How long? Not important.

John would come up eventually, either to take what he wanted or because he was tired of him not coming down and doing as he was supposed to. He'd already played the part of Moriarty's harlot, why not John's too? It couldn't possibly be any worse. It was just sex, it was just a body. It didn't mean anything.

Except that it did, but he would never say it. It was why Moriarty won, why he would always win. He'd always ignored what his body needed and wanted. Moriarty didn't need to. It was so obvious, why hadn't he seen it? He thought of Moriarty as his arch-enemy (no matter how much Mycroft seemed to wish for that to be his job). But Moriarty wasn't. He was everything, everything. He was everything he'd always wanted and wished he could be; everything he'd always strived for.

He was brilliant, but that was all, and that wasn't enough because he'd always be held back by the body he was trapped in. He couldn't be what he wanted to be. He'd never be that good, never be great. And if he couldn't be, then he was just nothing.

Stop, focus on the problem at hand.

That was such a silly thing to think. It wasn't a problem. John would take what he wanted in the end anyway. Better to just give him what he wanted… ah! There he was, at the door.

Sherlock's eyes flicked over to his flatmate. As if on cue, he laid himself down onto the mattress, spreading his legs slightly, body limp. John's eyes widened at the implication. Yes, pretend surprise, just do it already, get it over with.

"Oh God, Sherlock," John said. "This is a misunderstanding."

That hurt went a little deeper, cutting through the nothing. Yes, John was big on propriety. But no one would see. Couldn't he just go ahead and do it? Ruin him, whatever was left and have it be over? He didn't want to wait for it to be over anymore, he just wanted it to be done.

"You're not a harlot or a broken puppet or whatever image that psycho ingrained into your mind. You're you. Just you."

There, saying the words that seemed right. John always did that, he never could. He just wished he could believe them. John sat down on the bed next to him. He didn't even blink. Yes, just get it over with.

"I owe you a dance."

You can't be serious.

"Oh but I am. Well, I probably won't look very serious, lap dancing in our living-room, but... Please let me dance for you, Sherlock."

It would have been funny. He was so ruined even John could read his thoughts, stupid John, not just Moriarty. A lap dance? Really? He felt a stab of fear cut through his nothingness. Was John going to make him relive it all just to pretend it was consensual? He'd say yes, he'd do it. He couldn't say no, why not just get it over with?

John took his hand. "You've got to overcome this. I'm not giving up on any tender gesture, nor on any part of your body, just because a maniac jumbled your mind. I'm not giving up on you – on this."

John pulled him up to sitting and stood up himself. Get over? There's nothing to get over. It's already done.

"Just wait for me in the living-room, all right? I won't be long."

On a normal day he might have sighed. He watched John go, just sitting there for the longest time before he heard John's footsteps. He stood up instantly, afraid of not complying until he heard the steps head down a different way, to John's room. He was standing now, though, and so he headed to the living room. He avoided the chairs, sitting on the couch. Just let John do whatever he wants to do. Nothing will change when it's over anyway, and maybe it will make John feel better. There wasn't anything he could deny John, anyway.