The Rush
Title: The Rush
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2,076
Spoilers: none
Warnings: slash, feelings, empathic connection
Disclaimer: Sherlock isn’t mine.
A/N: Written for the Five Acts Meme, for the kink: telepathic or emotional bonds enhancing feelings and/or sex.
Summary: John finds his unique bond with Sherlock has some unintended consequences.
Living with Sherlock was an exercise in patience. His hours were strange, he did disgusting experiments in the kitchen, and he frequently relieved his boredom by doing things that were distracting at best (a dissonant violin solo at three a.m.) or dangerous at worst (shooting the wall with John’s gun). But there were compensations, there were reasons to stay; God knows there were reasons to stay or John might have tried something drastic.
He admired Sherlock. He admired his mind, his frankly dizzying intellect, his self-confidence, and guiltily even admired the way he could gleefully offend everyone around him and still keep them close. He didn’t get resentful when Sherlock figured out the “obvious” and left everyone around him begging for answers.
But sometimes John wondered why Sherlock hadn’t died years ago, from offending the wrong person, from skipping one too many meals, from having everyone throw him out for living habits so irritating you’d have to be a saint to forgive him. And even John had his limits.
It was the violin this time, a rapid-fire torturing of the strings that set John’s nerves to fraying and spikes of pain through his brain. Dragging himself out to the front room to shout at Sherlock would just involve getting into a long argument, which was probably what Sherlock wanted more than playing his violin. All John could do was lie in bed and think his complaints as loudly as he could in the futile hope Sherlock would stop soon.
Just stop it. Sherlock, stop it. Damn you, I have work in the morning and my head is possibly going to explode, and is there any quiet way on God’s green earth that you can think at this hour of the morning?
The screeching stopped suddenly, as if a switch had been turned off. A moment later John could hear Sherlock stomping to the bathroom, and finally back to his bedroom.
Just. Go. To. Bed. John thought firmly, praying for a miracle.
The flat dropped into silence for the rest of the night.
-----
John thought it was a coincidence. Sherlock must have simply found what he was looking for and had thrown himself into bed to think about it. Most likely he genuinely exhausted himself and had gone to sulk about have to sleep and then, predictably, fell asleep. Once in a dozen times of John wishing for peace it was bound to happen. Law of averages.
When it happened again the next night, and again for three more days in a row, John started getting suspicious.
At week’s end, on duty at the clinic, John had tried to put it out of his mind. But by two in the afternoon, a crushing weight of ennui descended upon him. And that simply didn’t make any sense. Tending to sprained ankles and ulcers might not be the most stimulating thing that he did, but John had been fine with it until now.
Then his phone had beeped.
Bored. Pick up package from Molly at Burt’s on way home. SH
Sherlock hadn’t had a case in days. Of course he was bored and wanting John to illegally transport human remains for his experiments. John stopped himself in mid-thought. Sherlock was bored. Then he shook his head. Nonsense.
-----
Lestrade opened the door to the flat, revealing the sprawled body of his puzzling murder victim.
“I can give you ten minutes before Anderson starts screaming bloody murder.”
Sherlock barely nodded in acknowledgement, leaving John to do such niceties as tendering polite thanks. Sherlock was more animated than he’d been in a week, stalking around the corpse, touching clothing here, jewelry there, lifting a hand to inspect the fingernails. Enthusiasm filled John as he crouched down beside Sherlock to determine what he could of the woman’s death. This was a bit of a guilty pleasure; the woman being dead was horrible of course, but being able to solve the crime alongside his friend, one of the strangest, greatest minds in the world, gave him purpose.
“Shot in the back, small caliber weapon. Probably a .22. She’s only a few hours dead and…” John gently ran his fingers over the material of the woman’s coat near the entry wound and felt faint grit. “Very close range.”
Sherlock got the “A-ha!” expression on his face, the one that meant John had just given him a vital clue, and John suddenly felt a powerful rush of triumph all out of proportion to what had just happened. The last time he’d felt anything that powerful he’d been in a field hospital in Afghanistan, drugged out of his mind to stop the pain.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, standing and beckoning Lestrade from his place against the wall. John listened with half an ear as Sherlock rattled off everything Lestrade needed to know to catch the killer. Half an ear because the rush kept coming, sweeping through him and leaving him feeling almost half-drunk by the time Sherlock stopped talking.
Part of John’s mind was desperately saying, “Nonsense!” The rest of him suddenly understood why Sherlock dreaded boredom and looked forward to new cases with unholy enthusiasm. Why Donovan had warned John that one day Sherlock would be responsible for the very murders he now helped solve. If that rush was what he felt every time he was able to use his mind against a new challenge, it had to be as addicting as any drug.
The rush finally faded into a kind of afterglow as they climbed into a cab to go back home, for which John was grateful. It had been having an embarrassing effect on him.
“You haven’t said a word,” Sherlock said mildly.
John looked up. It wasn’t like Sherlock to state the blindingly obvious. A curl of heat licked his belly, and John struggled to find words that didn’t make him look delusional.
“Nothing to say, I suppose.”
Sherlock reached over and touched the side of John’s face with the back of his hand. The rush was back, but more focused. Deliberate, with intent. No words, but feelings. Want. Desire. The phantom feel of lips against his. Warmth, and a crushing closeness that-.
John’s eyes snapped open as Sherlock withdrew his hand. He could feel the glowing heat of a fierce blush in his face, and he was breathing as if he’d just finished a cross-city sprint. And to his surprise, Sherlock looked more than a little stunned as well.
“Ah, it does go both ways.”
John snapped his mouth shut, wondering what Sherlock had felt from him. All of that admiration, frustration, innuendo, and exasperation he’d felt over the past year? Half-acknowledged idle fantasies? Something more? Surely not.
Please not.
Sherlock cocked his head. “Why on Earth are you afraid?”
“I’m not-.” John stopped as a surge of indulgent amusement swept through him, thawing his fear. “Perhaps I am.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Sherlock said, turning away as the cab pulled up to Baker Street. John paid and followed Sherlock up, berating himself for the pure, utter, ridiculousness of the situation. Right up until they were inside their flat. Then Sherlock shut the door behind them and turned to face John. His cheeks still had a faint blush, and that perversely made John feel better.
“Do stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Sherlock said, divesting himself of his coat and muffler. “It’s very distracting.”
“Distracting,” John repeated, not quite certain how to get through to Sherlock that this was not normal.
“Of course it’s not normal,” Sherlock said sharply. “And no, I’m not reading your mind, it was just an obvious deduction from your expression.”
John felt behind him for the wood of the door, uncertain if should try to get to his own room, or run out of the flat entirely. That would solve the problem, at least temporarily.
Sherlock looked him over, slowly, and John could feel a rapidly-building tension that was not his, a flush of heat and want directed at him.
At him.
So when Sherlock closed the gap and kissed him, John abandoned every thought of moving. The phantom feelings from the cab mixed and overwhelmed with the real thing, the sudden and overwhelming wave of want, want, want pouring into John with every one of Sherlock’s panting breaths. Their lips moved together, John recalled that he had arms, and a brief pleased shock rocked them both when he pulled Sherlock closer.
There wasn’t any need to ask, Is this ok? Do you want this?. Because John could feel the desire and urgency thrilling through him, rising or falling with everything he did. Sherlock was fine with being held tightly, but a brief flash of warmth, an almost-clear vision of skin, and clothes were being flung around the room.
Coming up for air, John felt Sherlock shift in his grip, sliding low, desire centering on hard flesh and warm, sucking moist heat.
“Sherlock…” John’s head thunked back against the door as Sherlock took him into his mouth, and ran his hand through Sherlock’s curls. He was coming apart at the seams, every vague urge for harder or softer, wetter or deeper, a bit farther, touch me there, right there, please happening at the speed of thought. Slick fingers teased the entrance to his body while Sherlock’s tongue did obscene things to his cock, and John had to pinch himself once to make sure he was still awake.
He was. He was awake, and Sherlock was here, on his knees for him. Because he wanted him. John could feel the urgency in Sherlock’s body like it was his own, the pleasure burning through both of them.
He wants me. Dear God, he actually wants me.
Sherlock actually hummed deep in his throat, and John choked off a gasp.
He could have anyone if he put his mind to it and he picked me. Why?
His fingers pushed deeper into John’s body in response to a wordless plea for more, and John felt his orgasm building, climbing higher atop the pleasure Sherlock was feeling from tormenting John’s body.
What am I to him? He drives me insane.
Sherlock moaned, and pressed in with a third finger, opening his eyes and staring right up at John. There was a silent burst of light across John’s eyes as he came, giving up every bit of control, every ounce of dignity as Sherlock had to hold him up against his knees collapsing. Breathing hard, Sherlock let him down easily to kneel bonelessly on the floor, his own cock hard and twitching slightly as he smiled at his handiwork. One Army doctor, thoroughly wrecked.
I think I love you. And I don’t know when that happened. Or why. John’s thought was one that only could have come in the vulnerable post-orgasmic haze, but the protective rush that filled him was familiar as it was strong. And Sherlock actually cried out softly at the force of it.
“Sherlock?” John asked softly.
“Don’t stop,” Sherlock demanded, reaching out again to pull John close. Curiosity, need, and desire filled him, to test the limits of what was going on. To make an experiment out of emotion, sex, and…
John’s eyes widened, and he let every feeling he’d been keeping under wraps come out in full force. Admiration stroked down the length of Sherlock’s body, desire teased him and made him squirm, repressed lust filled him and enveloped him, making him cry out. Respect caressed his brow, and the delicate, fragile love settled with warmth over Sherlock’s heart.
Every swell of feeling seemed to rock Sherlock farther back into John’s arms, until he was sprawled in them, hips thrusting up against an invisible touch. John didn’t think he’d seen anything more beautiful in his life, and Sherlock cried out again, his fingers digging into John’s shoulder. Brief, intense fragments of feeling sparked through him, so frightening clear they were almost like thoughts:
You don’t try to prove yourself to me. You don’t resent me for who I am. I want you, for being who you are.
“Yes?” John asked, almost believing as he tightened his hand in Sherlock’s hair.
Assent fired through John with punishing force, feeding back into Sherlock, catapulting him over the abyss. John had to hold him tightly to keep him from flying to pieces, soothingly him wordlessly as he came back to Earth. And the emotional rush that filled them both, when Sherlock opened his eyes, was all either needed to say.
Author: jaune_chat
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 2,076
Spoilers: none
Warnings: slash, feelings, empathic connection
Disclaimer: Sherlock isn’t mine.
A/N: Written for the Five Acts Meme, for the kink: telepathic or emotional bonds enhancing feelings and/or sex.
Summary: John finds his unique bond with Sherlock has some unintended consequences.
Living with Sherlock was an exercise in patience. His hours were strange, he did disgusting experiments in the kitchen, and he frequently relieved his boredom by doing things that were distracting at best (a dissonant violin solo at three a.m.) or dangerous at worst (shooting the wall with John’s gun). But there were compensations, there were reasons to stay; God knows there were reasons to stay or John might have tried something drastic.
He admired Sherlock. He admired his mind, his frankly dizzying intellect, his self-confidence, and guiltily even admired the way he could gleefully offend everyone around him and still keep them close. He didn’t get resentful when Sherlock figured out the “obvious” and left everyone around him begging for answers.
But sometimes John wondered why Sherlock hadn’t died years ago, from offending the wrong person, from skipping one too many meals, from having everyone throw him out for living habits so irritating you’d have to be a saint to forgive him. And even John had his limits.
It was the violin this time, a rapid-fire torturing of the strings that set John’s nerves to fraying and spikes of pain through his brain. Dragging himself out to the front room to shout at Sherlock would just involve getting into a long argument, which was probably what Sherlock wanted more than playing his violin. All John could do was lie in bed and think his complaints as loudly as he could in the futile hope Sherlock would stop soon.
Just stop it. Sherlock, stop it. Damn you, I have work in the morning and my head is possibly going to explode, and is there any quiet way on God’s green earth that you can think at this hour of the morning?
The screeching stopped suddenly, as if a switch had been turned off. A moment later John could hear Sherlock stomping to the bathroom, and finally back to his bedroom.
Just. Go. To. Bed. John thought firmly, praying for a miracle.
The flat dropped into silence for the rest of the night.
-----
John thought it was a coincidence. Sherlock must have simply found what he was looking for and had thrown himself into bed to think about it. Most likely he genuinely exhausted himself and had gone to sulk about have to sleep and then, predictably, fell asleep. Once in a dozen times of John wishing for peace it was bound to happen. Law of averages.
When it happened again the next night, and again for three more days in a row, John started getting suspicious.
At week’s end, on duty at the clinic, John had tried to put it out of his mind. But by two in the afternoon, a crushing weight of ennui descended upon him. And that simply didn’t make any sense. Tending to sprained ankles and ulcers might not be the most stimulating thing that he did, but John had been fine with it until now.
Then his phone had beeped.
Bored. Pick up package from Molly at Burt’s on way home. SH
Sherlock hadn’t had a case in days. Of course he was bored and wanting John to illegally transport human remains for his experiments. John stopped himself in mid-thought. Sherlock was bored. Then he shook his head. Nonsense.
-----
Lestrade opened the door to the flat, revealing the sprawled body of his puzzling murder victim.
“I can give you ten minutes before Anderson starts screaming bloody murder.”
Sherlock barely nodded in acknowledgement, leaving John to do such niceties as tendering polite thanks. Sherlock was more animated than he’d been in a week, stalking around the corpse, touching clothing here, jewelry there, lifting a hand to inspect the fingernails. Enthusiasm filled John as he crouched down beside Sherlock to determine what he could of the woman’s death. This was a bit of a guilty pleasure; the woman being dead was horrible of course, but being able to solve the crime alongside his friend, one of the strangest, greatest minds in the world, gave him purpose.
“Shot in the back, small caliber weapon. Probably a .22. She’s only a few hours dead and…” John gently ran his fingers over the material of the woman’s coat near the entry wound and felt faint grit. “Very close range.”
Sherlock got the “A-ha!” expression on his face, the one that meant John had just given him a vital clue, and John suddenly felt a powerful rush of triumph all out of proportion to what had just happened. The last time he’d felt anything that powerful he’d been in a field hospital in Afghanistan, drugged out of his mind to stop the pain.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock said, standing and beckoning Lestrade from his place against the wall. John listened with half an ear as Sherlock rattled off everything Lestrade needed to know to catch the killer. Half an ear because the rush kept coming, sweeping through him and leaving him feeling almost half-drunk by the time Sherlock stopped talking.
Part of John’s mind was desperately saying, “Nonsense!” The rest of him suddenly understood why Sherlock dreaded boredom and looked forward to new cases with unholy enthusiasm. Why Donovan had warned John that one day Sherlock would be responsible for the very murders he now helped solve. If that rush was what he felt every time he was able to use his mind against a new challenge, it had to be as addicting as any drug.
The rush finally faded into a kind of afterglow as they climbed into a cab to go back home, for which John was grateful. It had been having an embarrassing effect on him.
“You haven’t said a word,” Sherlock said mildly.
John looked up. It wasn’t like Sherlock to state the blindingly obvious. A curl of heat licked his belly, and John struggled to find words that didn’t make him look delusional.
“Nothing to say, I suppose.”
Sherlock reached over and touched the side of John’s face with the back of his hand. The rush was back, but more focused. Deliberate, with intent. No words, but feelings. Want. Desire. The phantom feel of lips against his. Warmth, and a crushing closeness that-.
John’s eyes snapped open as Sherlock withdrew his hand. He could feel the glowing heat of a fierce blush in his face, and he was breathing as if he’d just finished a cross-city sprint. And to his surprise, Sherlock looked more than a little stunned as well.
“Ah, it does go both ways.”
John snapped his mouth shut, wondering what Sherlock had felt from him. All of that admiration, frustration, innuendo, and exasperation he’d felt over the past year? Half-acknowledged idle fantasies? Something more? Surely not.
Please not.
Sherlock cocked his head. “Why on Earth are you afraid?”
“I’m not-.” John stopped as a surge of indulgent amusement swept through him, thawing his fear. “Perhaps I am.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Sherlock said, turning away as the cab pulled up to Baker Street. John paid and followed Sherlock up, berating himself for the pure, utter, ridiculousness of the situation. Right up until they were inside their flat. Then Sherlock shut the door behind them and turned to face John. His cheeks still had a faint blush, and that perversely made John feel better.
“Do stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Sherlock said, divesting himself of his coat and muffler. “It’s very distracting.”
“Distracting,” John repeated, not quite certain how to get through to Sherlock that this was not normal.
“Of course it’s not normal,” Sherlock said sharply. “And no, I’m not reading your mind, it was just an obvious deduction from your expression.”
John felt behind him for the wood of the door, uncertain if should try to get to his own room, or run out of the flat entirely. That would solve the problem, at least temporarily.
Sherlock looked him over, slowly, and John could feel a rapidly-building tension that was not his, a flush of heat and want directed at him.
At him.
So when Sherlock closed the gap and kissed him, John abandoned every thought of moving. The phantom feelings from the cab mixed and overwhelmed with the real thing, the sudden and overwhelming wave of want, want, want pouring into John with every one of Sherlock’s panting breaths. Their lips moved together, John recalled that he had arms, and a brief pleased shock rocked them both when he pulled Sherlock closer.
There wasn’t any need to ask, Is this ok? Do you want this?. Because John could feel the desire and urgency thrilling through him, rising or falling with everything he did. Sherlock was fine with being held tightly, but a brief flash of warmth, an almost-clear vision of skin, and clothes were being flung around the room.
Coming up for air, John felt Sherlock shift in his grip, sliding low, desire centering on hard flesh and warm, sucking moist heat.
“Sherlock…” John’s head thunked back against the door as Sherlock took him into his mouth, and ran his hand through Sherlock’s curls. He was coming apart at the seams, every vague urge for harder or softer, wetter or deeper, a bit farther, touch me there, right there, please happening at the speed of thought. Slick fingers teased the entrance to his body while Sherlock’s tongue did obscene things to his cock, and John had to pinch himself once to make sure he was still awake.
He was. He was awake, and Sherlock was here, on his knees for him. Because he wanted him. John could feel the urgency in Sherlock’s body like it was his own, the pleasure burning through both of them.
He wants me. Dear God, he actually wants me.
Sherlock actually hummed deep in his throat, and John choked off a gasp.
He could have anyone if he put his mind to it and he picked me. Why?
His fingers pushed deeper into John’s body in response to a wordless plea for more, and John felt his orgasm building, climbing higher atop the pleasure Sherlock was feeling from tormenting John’s body.
What am I to him? He drives me insane.
Sherlock moaned, and pressed in with a third finger, opening his eyes and staring right up at John. There was a silent burst of light across John’s eyes as he came, giving up every bit of control, every ounce of dignity as Sherlock had to hold him up against his knees collapsing. Breathing hard, Sherlock let him down easily to kneel bonelessly on the floor, his own cock hard and twitching slightly as he smiled at his handiwork. One Army doctor, thoroughly wrecked.
I think I love you. And I don’t know when that happened. Or why. John’s thought was one that only could have come in the vulnerable post-orgasmic haze, but the protective rush that filled him was familiar as it was strong. And Sherlock actually cried out softly at the force of it.
“Sherlock?” John asked softly.
“Don’t stop,” Sherlock demanded, reaching out again to pull John close. Curiosity, need, and desire filled him, to test the limits of what was going on. To make an experiment out of emotion, sex, and…
John’s eyes widened, and he let every feeling he’d been keeping under wraps come out in full force. Admiration stroked down the length of Sherlock’s body, desire teased him and made him squirm, repressed lust filled him and enveloped him, making him cry out. Respect caressed his brow, and the delicate, fragile love settled with warmth over Sherlock’s heart.
Every swell of feeling seemed to rock Sherlock farther back into John’s arms, until he was sprawled in them, hips thrusting up against an invisible touch. John didn’t think he’d seen anything more beautiful in his life, and Sherlock cried out again, his fingers digging into John’s shoulder. Brief, intense fragments of feeling sparked through him, so frightening clear they were almost like thoughts:
You don’t try to prove yourself to me. You don’t resent me for who I am. I want you, for being who you are.
“Yes?” John asked, almost believing as he tightened his hand in Sherlock’s hair.
Assent fired through John with punishing force, feeding back into Sherlock, catapulting him over the abyss. John had to hold him tightly to keep him from flying to pieces, soothingly him wordlessly as he came back to Earth. And the emotional rush that filled them both, when Sherlock opened his eyes, was all either needed to say.