fic: Like The Back Of Your Hand
Title: Like The Back Of Your Hand
Author: fengirl88
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Wordcount: ~1600
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: sexual content, pwp.
Summary: There's a first time for everything.
Disclaimer: They're still not mine.
Beta: blooms84, aided and abetted by ginbitch.
A/N: This story is for blooms84, who made sure it ended properly, and for ginbitch, whose encouragement was invaluable as always.
Like The Back Of Your Hand
He's not sure he can do this at all. John keeps saying they don't have to, it's fine, it's all fine, but Sherlock's pretty sure he's just saying that. And anyway he wants to, or he thinks he wants to. It ought to be all right with John. John may go around the place looking a bit dazed and confused sometimes but he seems to know about this sort of thing. And Sherlock's pretty sure John won't laugh at him or be contemptuous if he gets it wrong, as he almost certainly will. Nobody gets it right the first time. Not even Sherlock Holmes.
Anyway, here they are, sitting awkwardly side by side on the sofa at 221b Baker Street, not sure where to start. Even after all these weeks of living together, well, sharing a flat, there are still so many unknown things about John. He wants to know them but he's not sure he's ever going to get the chance. Certainly isn't going to get it if neither of them makes a move soon, because Sherlock's really going to panic and run away, the way he almost has the last few times they've talked about doing this. He's already getting distracted again, his mind whizzing off into unrelated areas of speculation.
“Why do people say that?” he asks, as if continuing a discussion.
“Say what?” John asks, sounding thrown.
“That they know something like the back of their hand.”
“Don't know,” John says. “Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking of all the things I don't know about you,” Sherlock says.
“Plenty of time to find out, with any luck,” John says.
His voice is calm but his left hand's shaking a bit. Sherlock looks at it. John looks at Sherlock looking, and grins.
“You're getting to know that quite well, aren't you?” he says. “Let's see yours.”
He takes Sherlock's left hand in his right one, and gently traces lines on the back of it. Sherlock shifts a bit, nervously. John's fingers are steady now, careful and slow. Nobody's ever touched Sherlock there, not in this slow deliberate way. It feels strange. Not unpleasant, but odd.
John's saying something about the hand, about how people often don't really think about the sensitivity of hands as parts of the body to be touched, rather than doing the touching. But he can't really take it in, because John's sliding his finger into the gaps between Sherlock's fingers, stroking the softer skin in between, then moving on to the next gap and doing it again. Something seems to be happening to Sherlock's breathing.
John brings Sherlock's hand up to his lips, pushes his tongue into the gaps between Sherlock's fingers where his finger was exploring before. Sherlock makes a noise which surprises them both.
“Mm,” John says thoughtfully, turning Sherlock's hand over. The point of his tongue draws a teasing circle on Sherlock's palm. He says something about the number of nerve endings in the palm of the hand, but his mouth is against Sherlock's palm and his tongue licks him in between the words and Sherlock is starting to feel dizzy. John licks the inside of Sherlock's wrist, and Sherlock moans.
“Mmm,” John says again, not sounding thoughtful this time. His tongue traces a slow line from Sherlock's wrist up through his palm and along the length of his middle finger. Then along the ring finger, little finger, back across to the index finger, and a quick lick of Sherlock's thumb which he takes into his mouth, sucking slightly.
“I want to lie down,” Sherlock says urgently, because this is making him start to shake.
“So lie down,” John says, sounding unexpectedly shaky himself.
“With you,” Sherlock says, pulling John down on top of him.
“Yes,” John says fiercely.
John's lying full length on him, heavy, wonderful, strange. “Do you want me to kiss you?” he asks unsteadily.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes.
He doesn't really know how to do this but apparently it doesn't matter. John's mouth feels tentative, shy, then not shy at all. Sherlock kisses him back, clumsily, eagerly, desperate to get more of him, get all of him. Wraps his arms and legs around John and squeezes, hard.
“Oof,” John says. “Whoa. Not so tight, Sherlock.”
“You don't want this!” Sherlock says, panicking and starting to struggle under him.
John holds him still and pushes his hips against Sherlock's, grinding into him. There's the unmistakable feeling of John's erection against Sherlock's own.
“No, I want this,” John says, “God, yes, I just - I can't really breathe if you grip me that hard. And I'm thinking that might be a bit of a drawback.”
“Too much talking,” Sherlock complains, pulling John down into another desperate kiss.
John's trying to get his hands in between them, but he can't manage it. So he pulls back a bit and starts unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, both hands shaking now, surprising, but Sherlock can't think about that because John leans in to kiss the base of his throat.
Sherlock's startled to hear himself make that whimpering sound, didn't know he could. John's kissing his neck and his collarbone and his sternum but it's too slow and Sherlock's starting to panic again, any minute now he's going to get distracted and unable to focus on what's happening. John sits back and fumbles with Sherlock's shoelaces, taking off his shoes, socks. The cold air's distracting against Sherlock's skin where his shirt's already half off, but then John runs one finger along his bare sole, almost tickling, and the touch makes him jolt with pleasure. He sees John making a mental note to come back to that one later, or possibly some other time, but right now the rest of Sherlock's clothes are definitely coming off. In a very short time he's naked on the sofa while John still has all his clothes on, which is quite strange but also exciting.
“You are so beautiful,” John says, as if he can't quite believe it. Sherlock knows this isn't true - he can see what's in the mirror as well as the next person and he looks like an alien. But the taut note of desire in John's voice is so good he doesn't have time to worry that John's talking nonsense.
John's hands on his body are making Sherlock gasp for breath now. His skin feels more sensitive than he's ever known it, everything's tingling and shivery. John's touching him all over, all but the place Sherlock most wants him to, and he strains up towards John, trying to rub himself against him.
John laughs, a sound so full of delight that it doesn't feel at all like being laughed at.
“Oh, you want this,” John says, as if that fact is the most amazing thing anyone's ever discovered.
“Yes,” Sherlock says, and that's all, because he can't say anything else.
John's hand slides between Sherlock's thighs, moves down to his knees and then back up again. He starts tracing a sort of figure-of-eight pattern along Sherlock's inner thighs and up across his stomach, but still doesn't touch Sherlock's cock. Sherlock's hips buck frantically, surging up as he tries to push his erection against John's hand.
“Not yet,” John says teasingly, sitting back and pulling his hand away. “You've got to wait a bit longer.”
Sherlock moans.
“Made me wait long enough,” John says, letting the tips of his fingers just graze the head of Sherlock's cock.
Sherlock gasps, then gives a little cry of frustration as John's hand moves away and begins tracing that maddening pattern along his thighs again. John seems to be enjoying himself, judging by the expression on his face.
“Please,” Sherlock says. “I want you to touch me.”
“Thought I was,” John says wickedly. “You might need to be more specific in your instructions.”
“Please touch my cock,” Sherlock says.
“Good,” John says. “Like this?”
He brushes his fingers lightly along Sherlock's erection. Sherlock moans again.
“No?” John says. “Tell me what to do.”
Sherlock is beside himself now with wanting. “Your hand on my cock,” he says, “hard. Tight. Squeezing me - oh, yes, like that, oh god like that, John, please, yes, that's -”
John's hand is on him and it feels incredible, everything seems to be gathering and pushing and clenching and, and, and -
“Ah!” The orgasm breaks over him, wave after wave of it. He grabs John's shoulders, pulls him down and clings on to him as if he's the only thing that can save him from drowning, crying out again and again.
John holds him, kisses his hair and his eyes and his cheekbones and the point of his chin and the curve of his shoulder. Murmurs things they'll probably both be embarrassed about later but which just now feel like the best things anyone has ever said in the history of the world.
Sherlock thinks of the things he's getting to know about John. John's gentleness, his strength, the way he can make Sherlock do things he's never done before but still make him feel safe. The unexpected moments when his hands shake. The unexpected moments when they don't. Lots more to find out still. And as John says, with luck there'll be plenty of time to do that.
He turns around in John's arms so they're lying spooned together, presses his lips against the back of John's hand.