Fic: Another blink in time - (5/9)
And another week has started! Time for the next chapter. This one featuring a wet and naked Sherlock! :D
Title: Another blink in time
Author: anarion
Words: 1695
Warnings: UST
Pairings : Sherlock/John eventually
Beta: the wonderful and ever so patient verityburns
Disclaimer: Sadly the characters are not mine and no money is made (that would be sooo cool!).
Chapter 4 here
Chapter 5
“Really, John, I don’t understand why you have to be so difficult about it.”
“Sherlock, we talked about this. Repeatedly, I might add. No health hazardous experiments close to our food.”
John saw that Sherlock was about to open his mouth and start to argue. “No, this is not negotiable,” he spat out and then left the room before things could escalate.
When the door slammed shut behind him, he turned around and sighed. Great, he shut himself out by storming off... He stared at the door for a while then decided to go for a walk rather than facing Sherlock again before he could cool down.
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Living with Sherlock was never easy, but the last week had been a challenge. Sherlock didn’t have a case going on and was irritable at best. There was an argument about something almost every day.
It certainly didn’t help that John was edgy as well and lost some of his calmness, which usually saved him when Sherlock became obnoxious. But waiting for Sherlock to remember got harder every day. John wanted him to remember so badly that he at times got angry at Sherlock though he knew that it was not his fault.
But being around Sherlock without being able to be close to him was hard. John felt incomplete, as if he had a hole inside that nothing and no one was able to fill. Except for Sherlock. Sometimes it was like a hunger, sometimes like a dull pain, but it killed him every second.
John reached the corner of Park Lane and turned left, thinking back.
The first weeks after he moved into 221B everything was fine. Just being around Sherlock was enough for the moment. There was so much to learn about him and John treasured every bit of it.
He adored the way Sherlock sometimes curled up in the armchair, though it seemed impossible to fit such long limbs into it. It amused him to no end when Sherlock just walked over the couch table, because clearly going around it was just a waste of time. And he simply loved listening to Sherlock playing the violin.
There were so many things they were complementary at, which was logical since they were two parts of a greater one, even if one part was still not aware of it. John hardly noticed slipping into the habit of getting Sherlock to eat or to sleep when it was clearly necessary, reining him in when he behaved very badly or reminding him of social norms now and then.
And of course being with Sherlock on a case was thrilling. The way his brain worked never failed to amaze John. He loved watching him come to conclusions, using John as an audience. And he nearly died every time Sherlock pierced him with his gaze after John said something clever. Life was exciting and good.
John again slept peacefully and without dreams.
Until, a few weeks later, he walked in on Sherlock standing at the window in the living room in the middle of the night. The room was dark and the light of the street lamp shone on his face and body. Sherlock was clearly lost in thought, absently reaching under his t-shirt to scratch something on his chest. This revealed part of his stomach, a bare strip of pale skin.
He looked very young and vulnerable. John swallowed and fought the sudden urge to cross the room, kneel down before Sherlock and press his lips to that exposed strip. He wanted to inhale his scent, feel the texture of his skin and lay his hands on Sherlock’s bare chest to feel his heartbeat.
After what felt like an eternity John was able to avert his eyes and he silently went back upstairs, where he curled himself up in his bed, feeling decidedly lonely.
John's memories trailed off as he looked around, surprised to find how far his feet had taken him. With a sigh, he started heading back towards home...
A few days later it had got even worse. Sherlock went to his room to dress up for a case and when he came back, John’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor. Sherlock wore skin-tight jeans and he looked incredible in them.
John’s mouth went dry and he found himself staring at Sherlock’s ass. The only thing he could think about was that he wanted to grab Sherlock, press himself to his backside and rub against it.
He was already two steps into the room when he realized what he was doing and redirected his feet to the kitchen, where he promptly dropped a mug. Luckily Sherlock was absorbed in his phone call to Mycroft and just shot John an irritated glance.
From then on things started to spiral downwards. John had a hard time ignoring how Sherlock's presence affected him. His reactions were varied, sometimes they were tender, and he just wanted to hold Sherlock and awake the connection they once had. Sometimes they were not tender at all, but full of desire and longing.
His body’s strong reactions astonished him because, although he remembered great sex between them in their past lives, it had never been the essential heart of their relationship. And despite the fact that he found Sherlock extremely attractive, this was not what John truly longed for. It was the emotional connection that he missed, the way they had been able to understand each other without words, communicate through a look or a touch, complement each other in almost everything.
At first he was embarrassed by the strength of this physical reaction to Sherlock, until he came to understand that it was simply his body's way of coping with the longing for a bond that went deeper than any physical intimacy could. The carnal desire was stronger than usual because it was compensating for the current lack of an emotional connection.
This realisation came one night, after a day running around London looking for clues that ended with both of them squished into a small corner, trying to listen to a suspect. John was unable to concentrate, because Sherlock was pressed to his side, breathing down his neck. And then it started to rain.
When they came home, completely drenched, Sherlock shed his coat, just letting it fall to the floor where he was standing and looked at John, who had started to shake because he wanted to touch Sherlock so badly. Luckily Sherlock seemed to think that he was just cold.
The next thing John knew was that he was standing in the bathroom and Sherlock was trying to help him undress.
“John.” Pulling at John’s jacket. “John, you need to get out of the wet clothes or you will get sick.” Stripping the jacket from John’s shoulders.
John snapped out of his haze and stopped Sherlock from unbuttoning his shirt.
“Thanks, I can manage from here.” He needed to get away from Sherlock, otherwise he would probably lose it any second and just rip the other man’s clothes off.
And then he remembered that Sherlock was equally wet and therefore equally likely to get sick. Sherlock who was still holding unto John’s arm, which was really distracting.
“Sherlock, you need the hot shower as much as I do. Probably more, because you are still too skinny.”
“Don’t be ridiculous John. My body is perfectly capable of dealing with these things. You on the other hand look pretty bad, maybe I should help you with the shower?”
“Sherlock!” John snapped, trying to hide his arousal behind anger. “Just let go of me and get the damn shower.”
“Fine!” Sherlock’s gaze would have probably killed him if that were possible.
Instead of arguing further or waiting for John to leave the room, Sherlock shocked him completely by stripping naked. John just stared. Stared at that perfect, beautiful body he had been dreaming of so often.
Oh God, he needed to get out of here.
Two minutes later a still very naked Sherlock climbed out and shot him a pointed 'There, happy now?!' look, which was not really helping the situation. Then he snatched up a towel and walked out of the bathroom.
John went into the shower, hard as a rock and in need of relief so badly. He closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock’s long pale hands on his skin while he touched himself. It was over very fast and when the rush of his orgasm died down and he came crashing back to earth, he realized that the pain was worse now.
Everything he wanted was so close and yet unreachable. John sat down in the shower and cried.
After that he preferred the permanent state of arousal to the deep yearning of his soul.
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When John returned from his walk late in the evening, he felt a lot calmer. He entered the flat through the kitchen door and stopped dead in his tracks to look at the cleaned table in amazement. Sherlock had put away all his experiments and the kitchen looked almost sanitary.
John walked on into the living room, where Sherlock sat at the desk, typing in his usual rapid pace on John's laptop. When he heard John come in, his head shot up and John found himself caught in one of Sherlock's famous hypnotic gazes.
“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have yelled at you and I certainly should not have walked out. That was immature. I was in a bad mood before and took it out on you. BUT I need you to respect that I live here, too. And I don't want to be hospitalised because I ate raw sheep testicles.”
“It wasn't…”
“Not the point, Sherlock.”
“I respect you, John, more than anybody else. I hope you know that. Sometimes I lose sight of the mundane aspects of life. The need to know is so much stronger. You help me to anchor myself when that happens. Therefore I will try to remember to keep the dangerous things out of the kitchen.”
And with that he turned back to the laptop and John was left standing in the doorway with a widening smile on his face.
Next chapter
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