Lovers in Captivity 1/2 Sherlock/John
Title: Lovers in Captivity
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 11,500
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Through season 1 and 2
Summary: John is well aware he is a medical impossibility. Sherlock knows something is not-quite-right and he’s physically incapable of leaving secrets tucked away in their boxes (he was a horror on Christmas).
Notes: Un-beta-ed, typos and edits welcome!
Sherlock didn’t notice it at first. He would be irritated about that except that it was so wildly improbable as to border on the impossible. The evidence hid itself well, ordinary things that Sherlock tended to overlook until they manifested themselves into a pattern with such blinding clarity he was struck stupid with it for a second, stopping half way through pouring the contents of a flask through a filter.
’Oh’ Oh. Oh. Oh.
Patterns coalesce, and there was something interesting there. Something unexplained in there, a puzzle to be solved and Sherlock loved puzzles more than he loved anything else. He finished pouring the liquid on autopilot. It filtered slowly, as thick particulate often did each drip falling slowly and predictably constrained by the laws of fluid-physics.
Suddenly isolating different types of metals from lock shavings didn’t seem as much fun. Patience and delayed gratification had never been his strong suit. The facts were as such, Sherlock didn’t pay attention to Watson because he understood John, his motivations were painfully pedestrian. He kept tabs on where he went because John was important and Sherlock felt better when he knew where John was and what John was doing. It had become part of maintaining his brain like eating and sleeping when required.
Right now John was at his sister’s. Every two weeks and one day John would go and see his sister. Like clockwork. In the beginning when there was something interesting on Sherlock would try and bait him away from it, but this was the one point on which John would not budge. He would blow off girlfriends if Sherlock pushed just so, he’d try not to call in sick to work, but it wasn’t unheard of. John would say no body parts in the fridge, and they would fight about it silently for a few days until Sherlock won. Never once had he missed one of these appointments with his sister. Sherlock just learned to work around it as irritating as it was.
Of course he had been curious; despite the evidence that John would come back unchanged no trace of anything out of the ordinary on him. So he’d tailed him, as Sherlock did when he was feeling like walking but with nothing better to do, and John simply went to his sister’s flat in Chelsea he rode the tube there and had tea in a cafe near her apartment block, flirted with the owner of the cafe and finally went into the flat.
He never spent more than half an hour and then he would be on his way, taking the tube back to Baker street. Curious but case closed.
Until last week Sherlock had never seen John shirtless. It wasn’t too odd of a thing, but for two men who lived together. John saw him naked all the time in his capacity as a flatmate and varying states of undress in his capacity as Sherlock’s unofficial doctor. Last week the police had to be called when a case brought them a little closer than Sherlock had expected to some unsavoury types, they had grabbed John and in trying to press the knife against his throat scraped the blade across his shoulder. Sherlock had killed that one, and incapacitated the rest.
John had argued with the ambulance attendant that the wound wasn’t as bad as it looked, blood soaking into his jumper. It did need stitches. It would be hard for John to do himself with only one hand. Eventually he agreed to let them cut away part of his jumper but refused to take the whole thing off. Curious but Sherlock picked the lock to the bathroom and John’s chest wasn’t massively disfigured he could see no reason for this.
Sherlock chalked it up to one of those things John did because he was John, like insisting on the five a day rule, and eating toast for breakfast whenever there was bread.
He’d bluntly asked once and John had given him a funny look and told him to stop being silly.
Oh but clues, there were lots of little clues hidden around. John’s behaviour was irrational when looked at from afar. John was often irrational but was rarely so illogical.
The filtration finished, he carefully pried the filter off, and placed it in a Petri dish, placed a clean filter in its place and pulled out a new flask to go under it, he wet it with a bit of distilled water and poured the flask he’d just filtered into the new flask after adding a little bit more of chelating agent. Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table and contemplated John.
John was at work.
John would go to see Harry in four days exactly.
John didn’t like it when people approached him from behind.
John was shot from in front. Sherlock was intrigued.
~~
“Don’t go.” Sherlock was lying on the couch, a position optimal for his neck and legs without sacrificing the ability to move quickly. John thought he was being ridiculous, why couldn’t he just accept it as ‘the right thing’ like Mrs. Hudson had done?
“I always go Sherlock.” John hummed, as if it were a forgone conclusion.
“That doesn’t mean you always shall go.” Sherlock responded and John smiled at him fondly.
“But today I will.” John was fussing with his scarf. The weather was a little nippy after all he needed to be prepared.
“What if I need you? I need you.” Sherlock proclaimed loudly.
“Stop being ridiculous Sherlock.” There was nothing ridiculous about it. John was 98% likely to help if Sherlock needed him, only not now Sherlock didn’t like when probabilities shifted.
“And if I were bleeding to death?” Sherlock tilted to look at John who was patting himself down for his keys and wallet.
“You’re not, so it doesn’t matter does it?” John was almost out the door.
“If I was?”
“I’d let you die you annoying git.” John shut the door quietly and Sherlock hummed happily to himself. He’d expected that.
~~
John stiffened the first time Sherlock touched his back. Sherlock wasn’t a tactile being, he rarely needed to touch something; to elucidate its texture and there was little other reason to touch. People more-so, the idea of hugging Mycroft was alien.
The response was immediate he all the muscles going tense from trapezius all the way down to the latissimus dorsi. John didn’t say anything, making himself smaller by hunching his shoulders and cowering low over the counter.
The move had meant to be reassuring, John was busy buttering toast to go with his morning tea, and he was wearing the thin shirt, made of some soft grey material that clung to the softness in his shoulders and the sharp curve where the scapular crest was closest to the surface.
“Sherlock?” John said, his voice was thin and brittle in the way it was when people were pointing guns at him.
“Can you make me some too?” He tried to act as if this were normal, after all that usually worked when he was found in places he wasn’t supposed to be. The key is to make the other person believe you version of reality is the right one, offer evidence until they begin to doubt themselves. “I’ve been up all night researching seasonal variations in lady birds across London, and I am famished. I’d like some tea too while you’re at it.”
“Make yourself tea.” The tone was a little more normal and Sherlock removed his hand. All the muscle groups felt normal, there wasn’t a clue in there. The reaction was unusual for someone as painfully normal as John. It wasn’t unheard of to be jumpy, but John wasn’t the jumpy sort, not so early in the morning anyways.
“But you’re going to make tea for yourself.” Sherlock said reasonably, John squinted at him over his shoulder; he was still tense and looking a paler than usual.
“Okay, go sit down, I’ll make breakfast.”
Sherlock sprawled in one of the rickety chairs that surrounded their scarred and burned kitchen set. He tapped his finger over one of the mild acid burns. There was a clear spot of varnish left in the centre where the chemistry set stood usually, blocking any spills. John didn’t face him as he set about making toast and tea.
Sherlock watched him absently. There were regional and species differences in the different ladybirds all across London and he’d charted it all. The data was easy to absorb it was creating the chart that others might understand that took most of the night.
What would John do if he touched his back more firmly? Was there a difference to touching him somewhere else? Previous data suggested that casual touches in other places were acceptable. Still Sherlock would need it as a null control.
The kettle whirled and clicked to show that it was boiling finally. John moved to get the tea cups, the ones he kept on the top shelf away from the danger zone. He lifted onto his toes to snag two of them there were only three in case someone dropped by. They clanked together as he moved them by the handle down to the counter, pressing down more toast with his other hand.
~~
Sherlock touched his sternum flat against his chest while saying with certainty that he was measuring the health effects of shit tele. John only laughed and tossed a pillow at Sherlock’s shoulder.
So Sherlock tossed it back. He could only assume this was ‘normal flat mate behaviour’ because John only grinned at him like that when he did something right. Still, Sherlock caught the pillow as John tossed it back again in a half-hearted throw.
‘You’re really serious?’ John smiled at him but let his arms fall limp to the side so Sherlock could get in close. He kneeled on the pillow and reached for John’s pulse in his neck. He suffered this with the same ill-grace he did most of Sherlock’s experiments, he did seem to be getting more comfortable, or at least more resigned to them lately. Sherlock chose to see this as improvement of sorts.
He didn’t react when Sherlock touched his neck, or his wrist. No change in heart rate or pupil dilation.
~~
He didn’t react when Sherlock touched his shoulders, but the data was tainted by extreme circumstance. They had taken John and Sarah from him, and Sherlock had gone to get him back. Adrenaline, too many conflicting signals. John’s reactions could have been acute stress.
Sherlock wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be collecting data. His heart was racing with the thrill of the hunt, of being the smartest. He was on fire and he’d won. John was back, gasping and terrified on the ground, but he was back and Sherlock despite himself was reaching for him before he knew it.
Sherlock discounted it but didn’t delete the experience.
~~
The second time Sherlock touched his back had much the same results.
‘Quickly’ Sherlock hissed, keeping his voice low and urgent. He didn’t miss the way that John stumbled when he touched him and put on a little speed, when he was usually lagging behind.
~~
The third time Sherlock did it again at breakfast and John tensed but relaxed quickly enough hands only stuttering over the tea cups. He had one down for Sherlock ahead of time.
“Morning.” John said and Sherlock hummed.
“Toast.”
“Jerk.” John sighed, but reached for the loaf of bread for more toast to go with the tea.
Saturation effect. The data was being biased by the fact that Watson was used to these casual touches now. If the experiment continues any clues will most likely prove useless to understanding the initial motivations. John was adapting to Sherlock’s presence.
~~
Fourth time probably shouldn’t have happened.
He couldn’t help the hand to the small of John’s back as they were going into Angelo’s. John frowned, but seemed to be more or less resigned to this. Everyone had secrets, only Sherlock had thought he knew all of John’s.
~~
The fifth, sixth and seventh definitely shouldn’t have happened. The casual touching experiment had failed completely.
John’s favourite jumper was soft under his fingertips, the weave of the wool almost ticklish against the whorls of his finger prints. Warm with John’s body heat. A quick touch worked a lot better than a verbal command for getting John’s attention. It would serve little purpose to stop now. John’s back always evoked a small stress response even at the perceived saturation point. It remained a mystery.
~~
It would have been easy to just sneak into John’s room when he was sleeping. Wake him when he was having a nightmare and check him over. If he woke up Sherlock would affect concern and John wanting to believe in Sherlock’s human nature wouldn’t question him further.
That seemed a lot like cheating. The experiment continued.
~~
Sherlock didn’t lose count. Sherlock didn’t forget things the way normal people forgot things, either he knew or he didn’t care. Things either went into one category or the other. He simply didn’t bother to count any more, or when he did think about it he’d blend one into another, touching John’s shoulder and side at the same time. That way it would have been difficult to tell.
It was almost a game at first. Something he did not because he needed too but because he drew pleasure from it. Much like cocaine. Sherlock didn’t have a lot of experience in the field so the occasional mistake could be forgiven.
“John.” Sherlock breathed, smelling the clean smell of him: laundry detergent and body wash, deodorant and sweat. Everything overlaid with the sharp almost painful tang of chlorine in the air from the pool.
His heart was still racing, going a mile a minute and brain racing down so many different paths at the same time that his head was going to explode. Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. That single thought reverberated inside his skull like a gong. An echo because the man’s presence was so big he’d left a piece of it behind for Sherlock to pick up and play with.
This was so big, all the shadows and whispers coalesced into the man himself. The man of the hour. Sherlock was happy as happy as you could be given an opponent worth a real challenge.
“John.”
He had no data for the feel of John’s face against his palms. His mind was buzzing like a hive of bees. So much input and everything was whirling and clicking without connecting properly at all. He was awash with the childish glee of Christmas morning.
John was precious. John was the 364 days a year that weren’t Christmas.
“Sherlock?” John’s voice shook, coming in like a fuzzy radio. He was scared, petrified pupils dilated too wide in an acute response to adrenaline probably pumping at a dizzying pace through his endocrine system. Sherlock could feel the heat of John’s flush through his face. Vaso-dilation to improve muscle reaction pupil dilation to increase light sensitivity. Hallmarks of the activation of the sympathetic nervous system.
Watson’s mouth was slack when Sherlock touched them with the pads of his fingers. The skin here was different, softer with a hint of roughness where it was peeling from days of being out in the cold wind. New sensations, John’s lips felt different than his own the faint grooves and creases were all different. Lip prints were unique to an individual the same way finger prints were, at least the theory was, statistically highly improbable that two should ever be the same.
Sherlock wondered if this was what shock was like. He didn’t think so. Still he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. John was breathing fast and it was hot against the skin where his nails met his skin.
“What just happened?” John whispered, confusion written so plainly in his eyes.
“I have no idea.” Sherlock’s voice had never been quite so high nor giddy.
John began to giggle, hitch pitched and just on the very edge of hysterical. Sherlock began to laugh too; nothing was funny but he couldn’t stop it, leaning his forehead against John’s and breathing the same air.
“We can’t laugh here.” John managed between his giggles. “We almost died.” Of course that wouldn’t stop a pair like them.
~~
Something shifted. Sherlock was aware enough of his own feelings to know that he had no idea what it was. A catalogue of the days following the incident Sherlock noticed a few things.
John reciprocated the touches, something that until this point he hadn’t done. Leaning into gentle touches that Sherlock would grace his shoulders with, and brushing his fingers against Sherlock’s elbow as they passed each other. He wasn’t sure what it meant, only that he lingered on the places they touched wondering if he could collect the skin cells, the dust from John’s skin left on his shirt. It wouldn’t have any clues on John’s behaviour but that didn’t stop the niggling compulsion to try anyways. What could he say, he was a scientist at heart.
The next time John reached for him Sherlock grabbed his wrist first, holding it tight. John jumped hand jerking back instinctively but trapped by Sherlock’s long fingers curled around his wrist. The angle was wrong to feel John’s pulse. Sherlock wasn’t sure what John was feeling without being able to check.
“Sherlock, what’s this now?” the tone was painfully flippant; trying too hard to sound casual. It came out strained and a little brittle.
“What were you doing?” Sherlock asked him instead, a question for a question.
“I was going to make you tea.” John sounded cross but it wasn’t quite right.
“Don’t be stupid on purpose, it doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock snapped, he tugged on John’s wrist in punishment. John frowned at him, tugging back; Sherlock didn’t let go.
“You were about to touch my shoulder.”
John’s lips tightened a little, his face doing something strange. He didn’t look happy at all. Sherlock was trying to understand the expression but it kept shifting subtly before he could quite pin it down.
“You’re staring at me.” John said quietly. He should be used to it by now. Sherlock liked to read John, to know him. Sherlock took care to blink slowly.
Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure what was going to happen, his heart began to pound the way it did after the pool. Increased heart rate, warm flush of blood. Oh.
Sherlock tugged him in closer, using the grip on his wrist as a reel. John’s mouth was still saying something when Sherlock pressed his own against it. He wasn’t kissing him; just letting his lips rest against John’s breathing together. John’s hands twisted, one jerking in his grip and the other coming to rest lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Now?” John said against his mouth, lips and tongue moving where Sherlock could just feel the pressure difference of each letter. Sherlock just hummed in response, gauging his own heart beat and creating a scale for the flush of heat through his body. “Sherlock?” His response wasn’t purely sexual, that would have been easier to catalogue to figure out which room in the mind palace that this encounter belonged.
He wasn’t completely sure what he was doing, moving almost entirely on automatic, free hand curling around John’s lower back. John made a soft sort of confused sound but he ended up in Sherlock’s lap anyways. Clumsy and too timid to let his weight on Sherlock’s thighs he braced himself mostly against the couch flushed and confused.
“Hey.” John blinked. “What? Sherlock slow down a minute.”
Sherlock froze, fingers tight around John, holding him close and watching his face for clues what was supposed to happen next. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing right or wrong. John’s face for all he was learned to read it wasn’t giving him much by way of clues.
He let his hand slide a little higher up John’s back the only movement between them in the silence that followed besides the steady rasp of their shared breathing. John shivered slightly his eyes widening.
“How did you know?” His voice wavered.
Sherlock knew it was something. He didn’t know what exactly what. “You’re not subtle.” Was what he said instead, John stared at him in wide-eyed awe.
“No one else has noticed anything.”
Sherlock let his fingers trail a little higher up John’s back rubbing the cotton material of his shirt against the skin of his back. He could feel the heat of John’s skin, muscle and fat supple under his palm. “Everyone else is stupid.” John should have known that.
“I guess.” John huffed out a laugh letting the lock of his elbows relax enough to dip his head pressing his face against Sherlock’s again in a silent sign of affection.
“Don’t be stupid.” Sherlock chided keeping up his bluff. John kissed him again, letting his lips brush against each other lightly. There were just as many nerve endings in the lips as there were in the finger tips. It was why people kissed, even when the microbiome of the mouth should have put everyone off it. It was like licking the pavement at Victoria Station. Sherlock licked into his mouth and wondered if he could ever culture a sample from John’s lips if that would change the electric thrill of pleasure that stirred in his stomach. John helped him, letting his mouth open over Sherlock’s and letting their tongues tease each other.
The feeling was luxurious, like when he wrapped himself in fine clothes-- gluttony at its finest. The slick wet slide of their mouths the delicious almost friction. The first kiss broke into a second, Sherlock’s lips were heating up, the skin feeling like a fresh bruise. Slowly John relaxed against him, letting go of the tension in his knees and elbows and slowly sinking down against Sherlock’s chest.
John was a warm weight pushing him into the cushions of the couch, fingers all over Sherlock’s face and running through his hair. Kissing had been strictly off limits before, but Sherlock wanted to know about even about John’s personal bacteria. Sherlock’s tongue curled in John’s mouth, feeling the faint bite of his teeth. The tips of his fingers found the bottom edge of John’s shirt, snagging on the material.
He distracted John by kissing him harder, angling his head to push himself deeper into John’s mouth wanting to taste every last corner. There was something interesting here and he needed to figure it out before John realized that he was bluffing. He knew it was something, but his fingers slid over skin, epidermis flat cells interlocked together, dead on top of a living basal - warm under his hands but not unusual. Perhaps it was something cosmetic?
Sherlock was about to give up in favour of more interesting pursuits when his fingers bumped something. John froze completely making a soft sort of wounded-startled sound that was muffled somewhere between them. It didn’t feel organic, it felt like a button, stuck to him.
“Sherlock.” John hissed, sitting back and narrowing his eyes at him.
“I want to see it.” Sherlock ran his fingers across the odd hardness again. “Let me?” John flushed, sitting back on Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock refused to let go of him, following him forwards and watching John think. John could never call a bluff.
“This wasn’t what I expected for today.” John hedged; his mouth was all flushed with heat and sore looking, too pink.
“Plans.” Sherlock scoffed. John didn’t have plans, he had Sherlock. “The bedroom has better light, let’s go.”
“Sherlock!” John protested but wasn’t able to stop Sherlock from strong-arming him off the couch. It was less than graceful John flailing around and Sherlock trying to force him to stand without either of them falling through the end table. John hesitated and Sherlock didn’t give him the time. He was onto something now and he wasn’t about to delay gratification any more than necessary. Without giving him time to think about what he was doing Sherlock pushed him onto his bed.
John’s arms flailed and he would have rolled over if Sherlock hadn’t sat on the backs of his legs.
“Get off.” John hissed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. That made it easier because it meant that he wasn’t lying on the hem of his shirt and it wasn’t hard for Sherlock to get his hands under it. “Sherlock.”
“I need to see.” Sherlock said shortly.
“You’re being ridiculous.” John hissed, breaking off in a groan as Sherlock rubbed his hands across lower back, smoothing his palms across the span to measure the length. Slightly less than the span of both of his hands. He splayed his fingers out, letting just the medial phalange bone curl around the softness of his waist, his thumbs meeting in the shallow dip where his spine was closest to the surface. If he ran his thumbs just so he could feel the edges of each lumbar vertebrae.
He traced them upwards mapping out the trace of muscle, the warm spot where the left and then the right kidney were just under the skin. John was a medical man; he had to understand what Sherlock was doing why he lingered on certain spots.
John stopped fidgeting and stilled under his hands eventually letting out a little defeated sigh, he was warm and sweetly pliant under Sherlock’s fingertips. Higher up past the small expanse where the skin and muscle were softer without bone underlying it. His shirt caught and Sherlock shoved it a little higher to expose more skin. He was aware he was stretching out the cotton horribly. Floating ribs were the next up, the strength of bone just under the thin muscle there.
Right in the middle of John’s back where he would never be able to reach Sherlock’s fingertips ran into the shape again. Eager, Sherlock slipped the rest of the exploration, there would always be time after, he shoved John’s shirt up higher much more carelessly.
He stopped, confounded by the visual evidence for a moment.
It was round, embedded in his black flawlessly the edges melding to the skin almost seamlessly. In the middle was a tiny dark keyhole; the material was impossible to determine it could have been dirty gold but that was impossible. Sherlock leaned closer, noting absently the way that John had gone completely still under him, corpse-like if it wasn’t for the too-rapid beat of his heart and the spreading flush across his pale shoulders.
Sherlock rubbed his fingers over the point where metal met flesh looking for scar-tissue and finding none. He leaned down to get a closer look and itched for the magnifying glass that was in a pocket on his coat. The keyhole was tiny, the edges scratched and scraped, the hand that put the key in shook. It was impossible to reach for John himself, but who did he know with unsteady hands. “You let Harry?”
John hummed, relaxing in degrees. Sherlock touched the tiny keyhole, it was the same temperature as his skin. On a whim Sherlock kissed it.
“I -- it-- needs to be wound up roughly every two weeks.”John replied, it was impossible to see his face and the tone was curiously flat.
“I see.” The metal tasted like soap and fabric softener, and nothing else when he licked it gently. “I want to do it.” He rubbed his palms across the skin to either side, but kept coming back to it.
“I’d need to get the key off of Harry.”
Sherlock hummed. He let himself blanket John, more of his weight pressing him down against the bedding while he nosed at his hairline. He smelled here of shampoo and hair oils, the slightly dryer texture of scalp, pale through his blond hair. There weren’t words for what Sherlock wanted to do to him.
He wanted John to roll over so Sherlock could see more, but more than that he wanted to stay right like this wallowing in John’s secrets.
“Sherlock.” John sighed when Sherlock’s indecision froze them.
Instead of answering Sherlock tugged at John until they were both kneeling, John still trapped under Sherlock and taking a fair bit of his weight at the same time. Sherlock could feel the heat of his skin though the material of his shirt, knew the buttons had to be digging but John twisted back and Sherlock tugged him closer until they could kiss. The logistics were all different, the approach angle something new entirely. It was a sort of sideways kiss, but John’s tongue was pushing into his mouth and it was different but not bad.
John fit perfectly into the curve of his body, Sherlock’s half-hard penis digging into his lower back, the both of them still wearing their trousers. The space between them was too-warm and Sherlock relished in the boarder-line overstimulation of material against his cock.
“Don’t you think this is going a little fast?” John breathed as Sherlock rubbed him through the material of his trousers. He could just feel the shape of him, the bend of his thighs and the warm shape of his dick.
It wasn’t too fast or too slow, it was exactly what Sherlock wanted. He sat back on his heels and tugged John into kneeling with him, back to chest. The angle was easier for him to tug at the button to his trousers. It was easy enough to undo the whole thing, tugging it out of the way just enough so he could reach inside and pull John out.
The skin here was softer than anywhere on his body, softer even than the skin behind his ear where Sherlock was pressing his nose. The tissue was suffused with tiny blood vessels, more so than anywhere else besides the brain. Sherlock could feel the racing of his pulse there, could time it to know that John was under an acute stress reaction.
His breath stuttered sweetly when Sherlock gave it a little squeeze.
“More.” John hissed, pushing his hips into the light hold Sherlock had on him.
“Okay.” Sherlock said amiably. He hooked his chin over John’s face, pressing his lips to John’s cheek absently. He could watch himself better now, John’s shirt tucked up under his arms and exposing the soft blond hair leading down his stomach. That was Sherlock’s hand wrapped around John’s cock, looking small against the width of his palm, still half-hard.
“H-how did-“ John was mumbling but Sherlock wasn’t paying much attention “-we get here?” He was watching the way the skin moved with Sherlock’s palm. John’s breathing sped up as he got harder, mumbling all sorts of things against Sherlock’s hair where he was twisting and looking for kisses. Sherlock was torn between giving it to him and cataloguing the way that the tip beaded with moisture.
John gripped at his hips, reaching behind himself. Bitten nails digging into the material of Sherlock’s trousers and pulling him closer against John’s back. As if Sherlock wouldn’t be as close as he could possibly already; he wouldn’t allow himself to be any further from John than he needed to be. He was pressing against John’s lower back, hot and faintly distracting, but John was far more interesting than the possibility of a quick orgasm. You could pay someone for an orgasm; you can’t buy someone as inexplicably interesting as John.
John made a soft sort of groan, like a small animal and Sherlock twisted him, following the curve of John’s cheek to give into a wet and messy kiss.
John sobbed into Sherlock’s mouth when he rubbed his thumb over the head. John broke their kiss so he could roll his head to the side. Sherlock used his other hand to rub low on John’s stomach. He shivered all over groaning something about Sherlock’s hands that he took as a compliment.
John was pushing into his hand and rubbing up against Sherlock’s body with each shift of his hips. Sherlock took to it with intent, he wanted to see John come; a potent mix of neurotransmitters lighting him up like Piccadilly Circus during Christmas. John whined a mix of incentive and awed praise (and it was a little irritating to know his brilliant deductions could elicit the same tone as a hand on his dick could. Sherlock felt offended, like there should be a difference in there somewhere.) Sherlock brought him to the edge fast and hard, and John groaned between his teeth, trapped in the circle of Sherlock’s arms skin feverish with blood rushing to the skin as blood vessels widened becoming more porous.
Sherlock was waiting for the signs, watching as John visibly drew closer to orgasm. One of John’s hands clasped over his own, not really helping just holding on. His breath went fast and sharp, as he tried to curl forward, held against Sherlock’s body. Sherlock wasn’t about to have him ruining the view. There was a moment of stillness where John sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth holding it, his cock jerked against Sherlock’s palm. The chemical cocktail in John’s veins would be dizzying, Sherlock was holding his breath just watching as John shuddered, all the air whooshing out of him in a long low groan that vibrated against Sherlock’s chest where it was pressed against John’s back. John came all over their hands in pulses that timed with the erratic jerk of his hips, trying to push deeper into the tunnel of their fingers.
It ended slowly until John was resting against Sherlock’s chest and just breathing slowly, heart still beating too fast. Sherlock continued to move his palm lazily over John’s messy dick and he bit off a sound, twisting his hips in an attempt to escape. “Too much.” John groaned.
Sherlock almost smiled, he never understood the meaning of ‘too much’. John shuddered, and Sherlock knew it had to be sensitive.
“Sherlock.” John whined, clutching at his wrist to stop his hand. Sherlock continued to shift his fingers because those little sounds were amazing. Their hands all messy, John’s sticky palm spreading it up Sherlock’s wrist in an attempt to stop. Sherlock could feel the bones in his wrist shifting under John’s grip. “I can’t.” John groaned.
Sherlock finally let him go and John flopped on the bed, giggling faintly. “You’re mad.” He twisted so he was sort of looking up sideways at Sherlock from the sheets. Sherlock hummed neither in agreement nor protest.
He realized all at once that he was fully and desperately hard, trapped against the soft clingy material of his y-fronts. He was tempted to ignore it completely. He wanted his magnifying glass to get a closer look. Could he figure out the shape of the key from the scratches? Sherlock’s fingers itched.
“You want help with that?” John raised up on his elbows and he was looking at Sherlock, flushed with warmth and endorphins and smiling loosely. Sherlock hesitated.
“It’ll go away itself.” He finally said.
John sort of huffed.
Which was how Sherlock found himself sitting against the headboard trying to marshal his thoughts into order as they broke over and over again. He’d been reduced to scattered obsessions, words flicking through in a tangled map of things related to John. One hand on John’s shoulder, because it has been swatted out of John’s hair irritably when Sherlock tried to control the pace. The other was splayed across John’s back, fingers framing that curious little shape.
It wasn’t the best blowjob. Sherlock would prefer it faster with more of an edge but John needed to back away when he triggered his gag reflex, unable to do more besides mouth wetly at the head while jerking Sherlock with a sure hand. Room for improvement. Optimal tempo experiments. The faint swell of John’s ass where his trousers had slipped down and exposed the band and material of his briefs.
There were a lot of details to contemplate, experiments to set up. Sherlock couldn’t focus on one for very long before it got derailed by the slick wet sound of John trying to push himself further than his limit and not quite getting it right over and over again. The build was slow, almost too much, like being killed with a thumb tack. Sherlock revelled in it, curling his toes against the sheet in a rare moment of consideration and not shoving his dick down John’s throat. He didn’t have the leverage this way, legs splayed instead of bent.
“I’m going to learn how to do this.” Sherlock mumbled, shocked when his voice came out scraped and raw. He’d learn how to do this until he could prefect it and show John how a genius did it.
John jerked, used to Sherlock’s wordless approval, dipping his chin and trying to look up at Sherlock. The anatomy was all wrong; things just didn’t bend that way. Sherlock cradled his jaw in one hand, brushing his fingers over where the hinge to his jaw was. He mapped out the light hollow, the way the movements of his lips correlated with sensation.
“That’s good.” Sherlock sighed when John managed to synchronize his mouth and hands perfectly. He’d make John do this over and over until it was right. It wasn’t like it was a hardship. “I’m going to come.” Sherlock let his head fall back, the dull thump of it hitting the wall rattling what was once a perfectly good brain.
John pulled back, mouth looking completely abused now, lips all swollen with fresh bruising, watching Sherlock with rapt wonder as Sherlock’s toes dug into the bed. He bit his tongue against a stream of words ’wanttowatchyouswallowit need to know’ and came with a low sound. There wasn’t any science behind it being any different than wanking himself, but it blazed sharp and overly bright for a moment that seemed to go on and on.
They were filthy, John’s face pressed awkwardly into his chest, skin cooling except where they were touching, the contact remaining tacky and too-warm. Sherlock didn’t move unless he needed too as a matter of principle. Instead he watched the faint shift in John’s shoulders with each measured breath.
“That was unexpected.” John sighed, breath hot and moist against Sherlock’s shirt.
“You said that already.” Sherlock said back, already mentally cataloguing the experience. This was something that needed to be kept in entirety, even if he still hadn’t figure out where or how to index it. John idly stroked his fingers down Sherlock’s side, the touch was almost light enough to be ticklish.
“It needed to be said again.” John huffed.
“Speak for yourself, the clues were there.”
“Oh, and did the great detective solve it?” John’s tone was just a shade shy of out and out mocking.
Sherlock pinched him and John retaliated by biting his shoulder. Things devolved rapidly from there and Sherlock was chuckling in between kisses because things were so delightfully improbable.
~~
Part 2
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 11,500
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Through season 1 and 2
Summary: John is well aware he is a medical impossibility. Sherlock knows something is not-quite-right and he’s physically incapable of leaving secrets tucked away in their boxes (he was a horror on Christmas).
Notes: Un-beta-ed, typos and edits welcome!
Sherlock didn’t notice it at first. He would be irritated about that except that it was so wildly improbable as to border on the impossible. The evidence hid itself well, ordinary things that Sherlock tended to overlook until they manifested themselves into a pattern with such blinding clarity he was struck stupid with it for a second, stopping half way through pouring the contents of a flask through a filter.
’Oh’ Oh. Oh. Oh.
Patterns coalesce, and there was something interesting there. Something unexplained in there, a puzzle to be solved and Sherlock loved puzzles more than he loved anything else. He finished pouring the liquid on autopilot. It filtered slowly, as thick particulate often did each drip falling slowly and predictably constrained by the laws of fluid-physics.
Suddenly isolating different types of metals from lock shavings didn’t seem as much fun. Patience and delayed gratification had never been his strong suit. The facts were as such, Sherlock didn’t pay attention to Watson because he understood John, his motivations were painfully pedestrian. He kept tabs on where he went because John was important and Sherlock felt better when he knew where John was and what John was doing. It had become part of maintaining his brain like eating and sleeping when required.
Right now John was at his sister’s. Every two weeks and one day John would go and see his sister. Like clockwork. In the beginning when there was something interesting on Sherlock would try and bait him away from it, but this was the one point on which John would not budge. He would blow off girlfriends if Sherlock pushed just so, he’d try not to call in sick to work, but it wasn’t unheard of. John would say no body parts in the fridge, and they would fight about it silently for a few days until Sherlock won. Never once had he missed one of these appointments with his sister. Sherlock just learned to work around it as irritating as it was.
Of course he had been curious; despite the evidence that John would come back unchanged no trace of anything out of the ordinary on him. So he’d tailed him, as Sherlock did when he was feeling like walking but with nothing better to do, and John simply went to his sister’s flat in Chelsea he rode the tube there and had tea in a cafe near her apartment block, flirted with the owner of the cafe and finally went into the flat.
He never spent more than half an hour and then he would be on his way, taking the tube back to Baker street. Curious but case closed.
Until last week Sherlock had never seen John shirtless. It wasn’t too odd of a thing, but for two men who lived together. John saw him naked all the time in his capacity as a flatmate and varying states of undress in his capacity as Sherlock’s unofficial doctor. Last week the police had to be called when a case brought them a little closer than Sherlock had expected to some unsavoury types, they had grabbed John and in trying to press the knife against his throat scraped the blade across his shoulder. Sherlock had killed that one, and incapacitated the rest.
John had argued with the ambulance attendant that the wound wasn’t as bad as it looked, blood soaking into his jumper. It did need stitches. It would be hard for John to do himself with only one hand. Eventually he agreed to let them cut away part of his jumper but refused to take the whole thing off. Curious but Sherlock picked the lock to the bathroom and John’s chest wasn’t massively disfigured he could see no reason for this.
Sherlock chalked it up to one of those things John did because he was John, like insisting on the five a day rule, and eating toast for breakfast whenever there was bread.
He’d bluntly asked once and John had given him a funny look and told him to stop being silly.
Oh but clues, there were lots of little clues hidden around. John’s behaviour was irrational when looked at from afar. John was often irrational but was rarely so illogical.
The filtration finished, he carefully pried the filter off, and placed it in a Petri dish, placed a clean filter in its place and pulled out a new flask to go under it, he wet it with a bit of distilled water and poured the flask he’d just filtered into the new flask after adding a little bit more of chelating agent. Sherlock tapped his fingers on the table and contemplated John.
John was at work.
John would go to see Harry in four days exactly.
John didn’t like it when people approached him from behind.
John was shot from in front. Sherlock was intrigued.
~~
“Don’t go.” Sherlock was lying on the couch, a position optimal for his neck and legs without sacrificing the ability to move quickly. John thought he was being ridiculous, why couldn’t he just accept it as ‘the right thing’ like Mrs. Hudson had done?
“I always go Sherlock.” John hummed, as if it were a forgone conclusion.
“That doesn’t mean you always shall go.” Sherlock responded and John smiled at him fondly.
“But today I will.” John was fussing with his scarf. The weather was a little nippy after all he needed to be prepared.
“What if I need you? I need you.” Sherlock proclaimed loudly.
“Stop being ridiculous Sherlock.” There was nothing ridiculous about it. John was 98% likely to help if Sherlock needed him, only not now Sherlock didn’t like when probabilities shifted.
“And if I were bleeding to death?” Sherlock tilted to look at John who was patting himself down for his keys and wallet.
“You’re not, so it doesn’t matter does it?” John was almost out the door.
“If I was?”
“I’d let you die you annoying git.” John shut the door quietly and Sherlock hummed happily to himself. He’d expected that.
~~
John stiffened the first time Sherlock touched his back. Sherlock wasn’t a tactile being, he rarely needed to touch something; to elucidate its texture and there was little other reason to touch. People more-so, the idea of hugging Mycroft was alien.
The response was immediate he all the muscles going tense from trapezius all the way down to the latissimus dorsi. John didn’t say anything, making himself smaller by hunching his shoulders and cowering low over the counter.
The move had meant to be reassuring, John was busy buttering toast to go with his morning tea, and he was wearing the thin shirt, made of some soft grey material that clung to the softness in his shoulders and the sharp curve where the scapular crest was closest to the surface.
“Sherlock?” John said, his voice was thin and brittle in the way it was when people were pointing guns at him.
“Can you make me some too?” He tried to act as if this were normal, after all that usually worked when he was found in places he wasn’t supposed to be. The key is to make the other person believe you version of reality is the right one, offer evidence until they begin to doubt themselves. “I’ve been up all night researching seasonal variations in lady birds across London, and I am famished. I’d like some tea too while you’re at it.”
“Make yourself tea.” The tone was a little more normal and Sherlock removed his hand. All the muscle groups felt normal, there wasn’t a clue in there. The reaction was unusual for someone as painfully normal as John. It wasn’t unheard of to be jumpy, but John wasn’t the jumpy sort, not so early in the morning anyways.
“But you’re going to make tea for yourself.” Sherlock said reasonably, John squinted at him over his shoulder; he was still tense and looking a paler than usual.
“Okay, go sit down, I’ll make breakfast.”
Sherlock sprawled in one of the rickety chairs that surrounded their scarred and burned kitchen set. He tapped his finger over one of the mild acid burns. There was a clear spot of varnish left in the centre where the chemistry set stood usually, blocking any spills. John didn’t face him as he set about making toast and tea.
Sherlock watched him absently. There were regional and species differences in the different ladybirds all across London and he’d charted it all. The data was easy to absorb it was creating the chart that others might understand that took most of the night.
What would John do if he touched his back more firmly? Was there a difference to touching him somewhere else? Previous data suggested that casual touches in other places were acceptable. Still Sherlock would need it as a null control.
The kettle whirled and clicked to show that it was boiling finally. John moved to get the tea cups, the ones he kept on the top shelf away from the danger zone. He lifted onto his toes to snag two of them there were only three in case someone dropped by. They clanked together as he moved them by the handle down to the counter, pressing down more toast with his other hand.
~~
Sherlock touched his sternum flat against his chest while saying with certainty that he was measuring the health effects of shit tele. John only laughed and tossed a pillow at Sherlock’s shoulder.
So Sherlock tossed it back. He could only assume this was ‘normal flat mate behaviour’ because John only grinned at him like that when he did something right. Still, Sherlock caught the pillow as John tossed it back again in a half-hearted throw.
‘You’re really serious?’ John smiled at him but let his arms fall limp to the side so Sherlock could get in close. He kneeled on the pillow and reached for John’s pulse in his neck. He suffered this with the same ill-grace he did most of Sherlock’s experiments, he did seem to be getting more comfortable, or at least more resigned to them lately. Sherlock chose to see this as improvement of sorts.
He didn’t react when Sherlock touched his neck, or his wrist. No change in heart rate or pupil dilation.
~~
He didn’t react when Sherlock touched his shoulders, but the data was tainted by extreme circumstance. They had taken John and Sarah from him, and Sherlock had gone to get him back. Adrenaline, too many conflicting signals. John’s reactions could have been acute stress.
Sherlock wasn’t in the right frame of mind to be collecting data. His heart was racing with the thrill of the hunt, of being the smartest. He was on fire and he’d won. John was back, gasping and terrified on the ground, but he was back and Sherlock despite himself was reaching for him before he knew it.
Sherlock discounted it but didn’t delete the experience.
~~
The second time Sherlock touched his back had much the same results.
‘Quickly’ Sherlock hissed, keeping his voice low and urgent. He didn’t miss the way that John stumbled when he touched him and put on a little speed, when he was usually lagging behind.
~~
The third time Sherlock did it again at breakfast and John tensed but relaxed quickly enough hands only stuttering over the tea cups. He had one down for Sherlock ahead of time.
“Morning.” John said and Sherlock hummed.
“Toast.”
“Jerk.” John sighed, but reached for the loaf of bread for more toast to go with the tea.
Saturation effect. The data was being biased by the fact that Watson was used to these casual touches now. If the experiment continues any clues will most likely prove useless to understanding the initial motivations. John was adapting to Sherlock’s presence.
~~
Fourth time probably shouldn’t have happened.
He couldn’t help the hand to the small of John’s back as they were going into Angelo’s. John frowned, but seemed to be more or less resigned to this. Everyone had secrets, only Sherlock had thought he knew all of John’s.
~~
The fifth, sixth and seventh definitely shouldn’t have happened. The casual touching experiment had failed completely.
John’s favourite jumper was soft under his fingertips, the weave of the wool almost ticklish against the whorls of his finger prints. Warm with John’s body heat. A quick touch worked a lot better than a verbal command for getting John’s attention. It would serve little purpose to stop now. John’s back always evoked a small stress response even at the perceived saturation point. It remained a mystery.
~~
It would have been easy to just sneak into John’s room when he was sleeping. Wake him when he was having a nightmare and check him over. If he woke up Sherlock would affect concern and John wanting to believe in Sherlock’s human nature wouldn’t question him further.
That seemed a lot like cheating. The experiment continued.
~~
Sherlock didn’t lose count. Sherlock didn’t forget things the way normal people forgot things, either he knew or he didn’t care. Things either went into one category or the other. He simply didn’t bother to count any more, or when he did think about it he’d blend one into another, touching John’s shoulder and side at the same time. That way it would have been difficult to tell.
It was almost a game at first. Something he did not because he needed too but because he drew pleasure from it. Much like cocaine. Sherlock didn’t have a lot of experience in the field so the occasional mistake could be forgiven.
“John.” Sherlock breathed, smelling the clean smell of him: laundry detergent and body wash, deodorant and sweat. Everything overlaid with the sharp almost painful tang of chlorine in the air from the pool.
His heart was still racing, going a mile a minute and brain racing down so many different paths at the same time that his head was going to explode. Moriarty. Moriarty. Moriarty. That single thought reverberated inside his skull like a gong. An echo because the man’s presence was so big he’d left a piece of it behind for Sherlock to pick up and play with.
This was so big, all the shadows and whispers coalesced into the man himself. The man of the hour. Sherlock was happy as happy as you could be given an opponent worth a real challenge.
“John.”
He had no data for the feel of John’s face against his palms. His mind was buzzing like a hive of bees. So much input and everything was whirling and clicking without connecting properly at all. He was awash with the childish glee of Christmas morning.
John was precious. John was the 364 days a year that weren’t Christmas.
“Sherlock?” John’s voice shook, coming in like a fuzzy radio. He was scared, petrified pupils dilated too wide in an acute response to adrenaline probably pumping at a dizzying pace through his endocrine system. Sherlock could feel the heat of John’s flush through his face. Vaso-dilation to improve muscle reaction pupil dilation to increase light sensitivity. Hallmarks of the activation of the sympathetic nervous system.
Watson’s mouth was slack when Sherlock touched them with the pads of his fingers. The skin here was different, softer with a hint of roughness where it was peeling from days of being out in the cold wind. New sensations, John’s lips felt different than his own the faint grooves and creases were all different. Lip prints were unique to an individual the same way finger prints were, at least the theory was, statistically highly improbable that two should ever be the same.
Sherlock wondered if this was what shock was like. He didn’t think so. Still he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. John was breathing fast and it was hot against the skin where his nails met his skin.
“What just happened?” John whispered, confusion written so plainly in his eyes.
“I have no idea.” Sherlock’s voice had never been quite so high nor giddy.
John began to giggle, hitch pitched and just on the very edge of hysterical. Sherlock began to laugh too; nothing was funny but he couldn’t stop it, leaning his forehead against John’s and breathing the same air.
“We can’t laugh here.” John managed between his giggles. “We almost died.” Of course that wouldn’t stop a pair like them.
~~
Something shifted. Sherlock was aware enough of his own feelings to know that he had no idea what it was. A catalogue of the days following the incident Sherlock noticed a few things.
John reciprocated the touches, something that until this point he hadn’t done. Leaning into gentle touches that Sherlock would grace his shoulders with, and brushing his fingers against Sherlock’s elbow as they passed each other. He wasn’t sure what it meant, only that he lingered on the places they touched wondering if he could collect the skin cells, the dust from John’s skin left on his shirt. It wouldn’t have any clues on John’s behaviour but that didn’t stop the niggling compulsion to try anyways. What could he say, he was a scientist at heart.
The next time John reached for him Sherlock grabbed his wrist first, holding it tight. John jumped hand jerking back instinctively but trapped by Sherlock’s long fingers curled around his wrist. The angle was wrong to feel John’s pulse. Sherlock wasn’t sure what John was feeling without being able to check.
“Sherlock, what’s this now?” the tone was painfully flippant; trying too hard to sound casual. It came out strained and a little brittle.
“What were you doing?” Sherlock asked him instead, a question for a question.
“I was going to make you tea.” John sounded cross but it wasn’t quite right.
“Don’t be stupid on purpose, it doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock snapped, he tugged on John’s wrist in punishment. John frowned at him, tugging back; Sherlock didn’t let go.
“You were about to touch my shoulder.”
John’s lips tightened a little, his face doing something strange. He didn’t look happy at all. Sherlock was trying to understand the expression but it kept shifting subtly before he could quite pin it down.
“You’re staring at me.” John said quietly. He should be used to it by now. Sherlock liked to read John, to know him. Sherlock took care to blink slowly.
Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure what was going to happen, his heart began to pound the way it did after the pool. Increased heart rate, warm flush of blood. Oh.
Sherlock tugged him in closer, using the grip on his wrist as a reel. John’s mouth was still saying something when Sherlock pressed his own against it. He wasn’t kissing him; just letting his lips rest against John’s breathing together. John’s hands twisted, one jerking in his grip and the other coming to rest lightly on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Now?” John said against his mouth, lips and tongue moving where Sherlock could just feel the pressure difference of each letter. Sherlock just hummed in response, gauging his own heart beat and creating a scale for the flush of heat through his body. “Sherlock?” His response wasn’t purely sexual, that would have been easier to catalogue to figure out which room in the mind palace that this encounter belonged.
He wasn’t completely sure what he was doing, moving almost entirely on automatic, free hand curling around John’s lower back. John made a soft sort of confused sound but he ended up in Sherlock’s lap anyways. Clumsy and too timid to let his weight on Sherlock’s thighs he braced himself mostly against the couch flushed and confused.
“Hey.” John blinked. “What? Sherlock slow down a minute.”
Sherlock froze, fingers tight around John, holding him close and watching his face for clues what was supposed to happen next. He wasn’t quite sure what he was doing right or wrong. John’s face for all he was learned to read it wasn’t giving him much by way of clues.
He let his hand slide a little higher up John’s back the only movement between them in the silence that followed besides the steady rasp of their shared breathing. John shivered slightly his eyes widening.
“How did you know?” His voice wavered.
Sherlock knew it was something. He didn’t know what exactly what. “You’re not subtle.” Was what he said instead, John stared at him in wide-eyed awe.
“No one else has noticed anything.”
Sherlock let his fingers trail a little higher up John’s back rubbing the cotton material of his shirt against the skin of his back. He could feel the heat of John’s skin, muscle and fat supple under his palm. “Everyone else is stupid.” John should have known that.
“I guess.” John huffed out a laugh letting the lock of his elbows relax enough to dip his head pressing his face against Sherlock’s again in a silent sign of affection.
“Don’t be stupid.” Sherlock chided keeping up his bluff. John kissed him again, letting his lips brush against each other lightly. There were just as many nerve endings in the lips as there were in the finger tips. It was why people kissed, even when the microbiome of the mouth should have put everyone off it. It was like licking the pavement at Victoria Station. Sherlock licked into his mouth and wondered if he could ever culture a sample from John’s lips if that would change the electric thrill of pleasure that stirred in his stomach. John helped him, letting his mouth open over Sherlock’s and letting their tongues tease each other.
The feeling was luxurious, like when he wrapped himself in fine clothes-- gluttony at its finest. The slick wet slide of their mouths the delicious almost friction. The first kiss broke into a second, Sherlock’s lips were heating up, the skin feeling like a fresh bruise. Slowly John relaxed against him, letting go of the tension in his knees and elbows and slowly sinking down against Sherlock’s chest.
John was a warm weight pushing him into the cushions of the couch, fingers all over Sherlock’s face and running through his hair. Kissing had been strictly off limits before, but Sherlock wanted to know about even about John’s personal bacteria. Sherlock’s tongue curled in John’s mouth, feeling the faint bite of his teeth. The tips of his fingers found the bottom edge of John’s shirt, snagging on the material.
He distracted John by kissing him harder, angling his head to push himself deeper into John’s mouth wanting to taste every last corner. There was something interesting here and he needed to figure it out before John realized that he was bluffing. He knew it was something, but his fingers slid over skin, epidermis flat cells interlocked together, dead on top of a living basal - warm under his hands but not unusual. Perhaps it was something cosmetic?
Sherlock was about to give up in favour of more interesting pursuits when his fingers bumped something. John froze completely making a soft sort of wounded-startled sound that was muffled somewhere between them. It didn’t feel organic, it felt like a button, stuck to him.
“Sherlock.” John hissed, sitting back and narrowing his eyes at him.
“I want to see it.” Sherlock ran his fingers across the odd hardness again. “Let me?” John flushed, sitting back on Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock refused to let go of him, following him forwards and watching John think. John could never call a bluff.
“This wasn’t what I expected for today.” John hedged; his mouth was all flushed with heat and sore looking, too pink.
“Plans.” Sherlock scoffed. John didn’t have plans, he had Sherlock. “The bedroom has better light, let’s go.”
“Sherlock!” John protested but wasn’t able to stop Sherlock from strong-arming him off the couch. It was less than graceful John flailing around and Sherlock trying to force him to stand without either of them falling through the end table. John hesitated and Sherlock didn’t give him the time. He was onto something now and he wasn’t about to delay gratification any more than necessary. Without giving him time to think about what he was doing Sherlock pushed him onto his bed.
John’s arms flailed and he would have rolled over if Sherlock hadn’t sat on the backs of his legs.
“Get off.” John hissed, pushing himself up onto his elbows. That made it easier because it meant that he wasn’t lying on the hem of his shirt and it wasn’t hard for Sherlock to get his hands under it. “Sherlock.”
“I need to see.” Sherlock said shortly.
“You’re being ridiculous.” John hissed, breaking off in a groan as Sherlock rubbed his hands across lower back, smoothing his palms across the span to measure the length. Slightly less than the span of both of his hands. He splayed his fingers out, letting just the medial phalange bone curl around the softness of his waist, his thumbs meeting in the shallow dip where his spine was closest to the surface. If he ran his thumbs just so he could feel the edges of each lumbar vertebrae.
He traced them upwards mapping out the trace of muscle, the warm spot where the left and then the right kidney were just under the skin. John was a medical man; he had to understand what Sherlock was doing why he lingered on certain spots.
John stopped fidgeting and stilled under his hands eventually letting out a little defeated sigh, he was warm and sweetly pliant under Sherlock’s fingertips. Higher up past the small expanse where the skin and muscle were softer without bone underlying it. His shirt caught and Sherlock shoved it a little higher to expose more skin. He was aware he was stretching out the cotton horribly. Floating ribs were the next up, the strength of bone just under the thin muscle there.
Right in the middle of John’s back where he would never be able to reach Sherlock’s fingertips ran into the shape again. Eager, Sherlock slipped the rest of the exploration, there would always be time after, he shoved John’s shirt up higher much more carelessly.
He stopped, confounded by the visual evidence for a moment.
It was round, embedded in his black flawlessly the edges melding to the skin almost seamlessly. In the middle was a tiny dark keyhole; the material was impossible to determine it could have been dirty gold but that was impossible. Sherlock leaned closer, noting absently the way that John had gone completely still under him, corpse-like if it wasn’t for the too-rapid beat of his heart and the spreading flush across his pale shoulders.
Sherlock rubbed his fingers over the point where metal met flesh looking for scar-tissue and finding none. He leaned down to get a closer look and itched for the magnifying glass that was in a pocket on his coat. The keyhole was tiny, the edges scratched and scraped, the hand that put the key in shook. It was impossible to reach for John himself, but who did he know with unsteady hands. “You let Harry?”
John hummed, relaxing in degrees. Sherlock touched the tiny keyhole, it was the same temperature as his skin. On a whim Sherlock kissed it.
“I -- it-- needs to be wound up roughly every two weeks.”John replied, it was impossible to see his face and the tone was curiously flat.
“I see.” The metal tasted like soap and fabric softener, and nothing else when he licked it gently. “I want to do it.” He rubbed his palms across the skin to either side, but kept coming back to it.
“I’d need to get the key off of Harry.”
Sherlock hummed. He let himself blanket John, more of his weight pressing him down against the bedding while he nosed at his hairline. He smelled here of shampoo and hair oils, the slightly dryer texture of scalp, pale through his blond hair. There weren’t words for what Sherlock wanted to do to him.
He wanted John to roll over so Sherlock could see more, but more than that he wanted to stay right like this wallowing in John’s secrets.
“Sherlock.” John sighed when Sherlock’s indecision froze them.
Instead of answering Sherlock tugged at John until they were both kneeling, John still trapped under Sherlock and taking a fair bit of his weight at the same time. Sherlock could feel the heat of his skin though the material of his shirt, knew the buttons had to be digging but John twisted back and Sherlock tugged him closer until they could kiss. The logistics were all different, the approach angle something new entirely. It was a sort of sideways kiss, but John’s tongue was pushing into his mouth and it was different but not bad.
John fit perfectly into the curve of his body, Sherlock’s half-hard penis digging into his lower back, the both of them still wearing their trousers. The space between them was too-warm and Sherlock relished in the boarder-line overstimulation of material against his cock.
“Don’t you think this is going a little fast?” John breathed as Sherlock rubbed him through the material of his trousers. He could just feel the shape of him, the bend of his thighs and the warm shape of his dick.
It wasn’t too fast or too slow, it was exactly what Sherlock wanted. He sat back on his heels and tugged John into kneeling with him, back to chest. The angle was easier for him to tug at the button to his trousers. It was easy enough to undo the whole thing, tugging it out of the way just enough so he could reach inside and pull John out.
The skin here was softer than anywhere on his body, softer even than the skin behind his ear where Sherlock was pressing his nose. The tissue was suffused with tiny blood vessels, more so than anywhere else besides the brain. Sherlock could feel the racing of his pulse there, could time it to know that John was under an acute stress reaction.
His breath stuttered sweetly when Sherlock gave it a little squeeze.
“More.” John hissed, pushing his hips into the light hold Sherlock had on him.
“Okay.” Sherlock said amiably. He hooked his chin over John’s face, pressing his lips to John’s cheek absently. He could watch himself better now, John’s shirt tucked up under his arms and exposing the soft blond hair leading down his stomach. That was Sherlock’s hand wrapped around John’s cock, looking small against the width of his palm, still half-hard.
“H-how did-“ John was mumbling but Sherlock wasn’t paying much attention “-we get here?” He was watching the way the skin moved with Sherlock’s palm. John’s breathing sped up as he got harder, mumbling all sorts of things against Sherlock’s hair where he was twisting and looking for kisses. Sherlock was torn between giving it to him and cataloguing the way that the tip beaded with moisture.
John gripped at his hips, reaching behind himself. Bitten nails digging into the material of Sherlock’s trousers and pulling him closer against John’s back. As if Sherlock wouldn’t be as close as he could possibly already; he wouldn’t allow himself to be any further from John than he needed to be. He was pressing against John’s lower back, hot and faintly distracting, but John was far more interesting than the possibility of a quick orgasm. You could pay someone for an orgasm; you can’t buy someone as inexplicably interesting as John.
John made a soft sort of groan, like a small animal and Sherlock twisted him, following the curve of John’s cheek to give into a wet and messy kiss.
John sobbed into Sherlock’s mouth when he rubbed his thumb over the head. John broke their kiss so he could roll his head to the side. Sherlock used his other hand to rub low on John’s stomach. He shivered all over groaning something about Sherlock’s hands that he took as a compliment.
John was pushing into his hand and rubbing up against Sherlock’s body with each shift of his hips. Sherlock took to it with intent, he wanted to see John come; a potent mix of neurotransmitters lighting him up like Piccadilly Circus during Christmas. John whined a mix of incentive and awed praise (and it was a little irritating to know his brilliant deductions could elicit the same tone as a hand on his dick could. Sherlock felt offended, like there should be a difference in there somewhere.) Sherlock brought him to the edge fast and hard, and John groaned between his teeth, trapped in the circle of Sherlock’s arms skin feverish with blood rushing to the skin as blood vessels widened becoming more porous.
Sherlock was waiting for the signs, watching as John visibly drew closer to orgasm. One of John’s hands clasped over his own, not really helping just holding on. His breath went fast and sharp, as he tried to curl forward, held against Sherlock’s body. Sherlock wasn’t about to have him ruining the view. There was a moment of stillness where John sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth holding it, his cock jerked against Sherlock’s palm. The chemical cocktail in John’s veins would be dizzying, Sherlock was holding his breath just watching as John shuddered, all the air whooshing out of him in a long low groan that vibrated against Sherlock’s chest where it was pressed against John’s back. John came all over their hands in pulses that timed with the erratic jerk of his hips, trying to push deeper into the tunnel of their fingers.
It ended slowly until John was resting against Sherlock’s chest and just breathing slowly, heart still beating too fast. Sherlock continued to move his palm lazily over John’s messy dick and he bit off a sound, twisting his hips in an attempt to escape. “Too much.” John groaned.
Sherlock almost smiled, he never understood the meaning of ‘too much’. John shuddered, and Sherlock knew it had to be sensitive.
“Sherlock.” John whined, clutching at his wrist to stop his hand. Sherlock continued to shift his fingers because those little sounds were amazing. Their hands all messy, John’s sticky palm spreading it up Sherlock’s wrist in an attempt to stop. Sherlock could feel the bones in his wrist shifting under John’s grip. “I can’t.” John groaned.
Sherlock finally let him go and John flopped on the bed, giggling faintly. “You’re mad.” He twisted so he was sort of looking up sideways at Sherlock from the sheets. Sherlock hummed neither in agreement nor protest.
He realized all at once that he was fully and desperately hard, trapped against the soft clingy material of his y-fronts. He was tempted to ignore it completely. He wanted his magnifying glass to get a closer look. Could he figure out the shape of the key from the scratches? Sherlock’s fingers itched.
“You want help with that?” John raised up on his elbows and he was looking at Sherlock, flushed with warmth and endorphins and smiling loosely. Sherlock hesitated.
“It’ll go away itself.” He finally said.
John sort of huffed.
Which was how Sherlock found himself sitting against the headboard trying to marshal his thoughts into order as they broke over and over again. He’d been reduced to scattered obsessions, words flicking through in a tangled map of things related to John. One hand on John’s shoulder, because it has been swatted out of John’s hair irritably when Sherlock tried to control the pace. The other was splayed across John’s back, fingers framing that curious little shape.
It wasn’t the best blowjob. Sherlock would prefer it faster with more of an edge but John needed to back away when he triggered his gag reflex, unable to do more besides mouth wetly at the head while jerking Sherlock with a sure hand. Room for improvement. Optimal tempo experiments. The faint swell of John’s ass where his trousers had slipped down and exposed the band and material of his briefs.
There were a lot of details to contemplate, experiments to set up. Sherlock couldn’t focus on one for very long before it got derailed by the slick wet sound of John trying to push himself further than his limit and not quite getting it right over and over again. The build was slow, almost too much, like being killed with a thumb tack. Sherlock revelled in it, curling his toes against the sheet in a rare moment of consideration and not shoving his dick down John’s throat. He didn’t have the leverage this way, legs splayed instead of bent.
“I’m going to learn how to do this.” Sherlock mumbled, shocked when his voice came out scraped and raw. He’d learn how to do this until he could prefect it and show John how a genius did it.
John jerked, used to Sherlock’s wordless approval, dipping his chin and trying to look up at Sherlock. The anatomy was all wrong; things just didn’t bend that way. Sherlock cradled his jaw in one hand, brushing his fingers over where the hinge to his jaw was. He mapped out the light hollow, the way the movements of his lips correlated with sensation.
“That’s good.” Sherlock sighed when John managed to synchronize his mouth and hands perfectly. He’d make John do this over and over until it was right. It wasn’t like it was a hardship. “I’m going to come.” Sherlock let his head fall back, the dull thump of it hitting the wall rattling what was once a perfectly good brain.
John pulled back, mouth looking completely abused now, lips all swollen with fresh bruising, watching Sherlock with rapt wonder as Sherlock’s toes dug into the bed. He bit his tongue against a stream of words ’wanttowatchyouswallowit need to know’ and came with a low sound. There wasn’t any science behind it being any different than wanking himself, but it blazed sharp and overly bright for a moment that seemed to go on and on.
They were filthy, John’s face pressed awkwardly into his chest, skin cooling except where they were touching, the contact remaining tacky and too-warm. Sherlock didn’t move unless he needed too as a matter of principle. Instead he watched the faint shift in John’s shoulders with each measured breath.
“That was unexpected.” John sighed, breath hot and moist against Sherlock’s shirt.
“You said that already.” Sherlock said back, already mentally cataloguing the experience. This was something that needed to be kept in entirety, even if he still hadn’t figure out where or how to index it. John idly stroked his fingers down Sherlock’s side, the touch was almost light enough to be ticklish.
“It needed to be said again.” John huffed.
“Speak for yourself, the clues were there.”
“Oh, and did the great detective solve it?” John’s tone was just a shade shy of out and out mocking.
Sherlock pinched him and John retaliated by biting his shoulder. Things devolved rapidly from there and Sherlock was chuckling in between kisses because things were so delightfully improbable.
~~
Part 2