Fic: (Meme Fill) Starved for Your Touch, Part 10 and 11
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Disclaimer: I don’t own them
Notes: Continuation of my fill for the
sherlockbbc_fic meme
Previous parts located here.
A/N: I will probably continue to write these in small chunks, just like I did for the meme.
FILL (10/?)
Day Six, leading into Day Seven
They sit that way for some time, with Sherlock folded into John’s arms, and eventually, Sherlock drifts downward until his head is resting in John’s lap.
John lifts his hand - he’ll never miss an opportunity to run his fingers through those black curls. He pushes down, dragging the tips of his fingers across Sherlock’s scalp, watching Sherlock’s eyes flutter and then close. Sherlock makes a noise, a quiet little humming sound, and John does it again. And again, repeating the motion until Sherlock is asleep, or halfway there.
When Sherlock pulls his legs up on the sofa and curls his body in tighter, John imagines he’s there to stay, so John takes his left hand (his right is still threaded through Sherlock’s hair) and traces over Sherlock’s cheekbone with his index finger. Then down the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. Across his forehead. The spot right between his eyes. John wants to touch Sherlock’s ears, and his jaw, and God, his lips, but John’ll deny himself that tonight; he’s got to save something for later.
Through it all, Sherlock remains still. There’s no hint of his usual restlessness, and John can’t help but feel grateful that Sherlock, who is always so guarded and aloof, trusts John with this part of himself.
FILL (11/?)
Day Seven
John leans his head back against the sofa. He presses the palm of his right hand against Sherlock’s upper arm, where the skin is slightly cold. Next time, he thinks, I’ll have a blanket. Time passes, and John hasn’t any idea how much. He’s content to stay like this until his own eyes start to close.
At that point, quietly, almost to himself, John says, “let’s go to bed.” John intends for them to both go to Sherlock’s bed, together. He doesn’t think Sherlock will agree, he’s not even sure if Sherlock heard him speak, but Sherlock nods in response.
John leads the way into Sherlock’s room (he has the larger bed). John still feels lethargic, in the good way that comes from a deep satisfied sort of contentment, and he has no desire to do anything but move slowly and deliberately. So he does just that, running his hands down Sherlock’s arms, palms warm against Sherlock’s cool skin.
Sherlock might be chilled, but John is going to warm him. He tugs at the hem of Sherlock’s shirt and pulls up. Sherlock goes with it, lifting his arms so John can remove it. He doubts Sherlock has pants on under his pajama bottoms, so he leaves those on. John sheds his own clothing quickly, leaving his pants on for now.
It’s obvious that Sherlock sleeps on the right side of the bed, so John goes to the center, holding onto Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock lies down beside him, on his back, and his movements have lost their usual fluidity and become far stiffer than John would like. Is he uncomfortable with the prospect of John sleeping next to him? Or does he think John has brought him to the bed for sex?
“I’m just touching,” John whispers. “That’s all.”
Sherlock relaxes, and John pulls him in closer, until their bare chests are pressed together. Sherlock shudders, and John understands that. This is intimate, far more so than anything they’ve done before, and John wants it unhurried. So when the day comes that they finally go beyond kissing, Sherlock will be ready. And John can’t think of any way to make someone (Sherlock) feel more cherished than lying together in bed, touching his bare skin with care.
First, John touches Sherlock’s collarbone. He wonders if Sherlock would want him to refer to it as the clavicle. John ducks his head to hide his smile. No medical terminology while they’re in bed.
He runs his fingertips down Sherlock’s collarbone. Presses the palm of his hand against Sherlock’s chest. Moves it to lie against the flat of his stomach. Then up again, cupping his hand around Sherlock’s shoulder.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks.
“Touching you,” John says. He’d love to have the light on, so he can see the gorgeous man he's lying with, but he’d rather keep things easy, and casual. He keeps his touches firm, trying to stay on the side of loving and appreciative, rather than sexual.
“Ah,” Sherlock says. “And is this pleasing to you?”
“Very. What about you? Do you want me to continue?”
“Please,” Sherlock says, and he’s quiet after that.
John moves his hand around to Sherlock’s back. Up to the nape of his neck, then rubs down past his shoulder blades to the small of his back. “Turn over,” John says, and Sherlock does so. John scoots back, still keeping space between them, careful not to make his arousal too obvious (though he’s certain that Sherlock is aware of it).
John’s just scraped his fingernails across Sherlock’s skin, barely scratching his back when Sherlock speaks. “This is surprisingly satisfying.”
John smiles. He was fairly certain that Sherlock was enjoying this, but hearing it, having that confirmation, is electrifying. “I agree.” John pushes on Sherlock’s head, tilting it forward so he can rake his fingernails over the base of Sherlock’s neck. This spot. He likes it. He pushes the curls upward. Little tendrils escape. “Perfect spot,” John murmurs.
“Mmm,” Sherlock says.
John presses his lips into Sherlock’s neck. With his left arm he finds Sherlock’s hand, and laces their fingers together. He won’t be able to sleep with his face buried in Sherlock’s neck like this, but it’s worth a few minutes here.
Sherlock has been completely pliant, but he tenses a little when he asks, “Was that customary?”
John turns his head toward the ceiling. “Which part?”
“The back scratching?”
John honestly has no idea where this question is going. “It can be.”
“You’ve done it before then?”
“Um.” Has he ever scratched anyone else’s back? He can’t remember doing it. He can't ever remember spending that kind of time. “Not deliberately. Massage, yes.”
“Why me then?”
So that’s it. Sherlock’s trying to collect data of some sort, trying to quantify what John’s doing with him. John’s mind is not clear enough to parse it all out this late at night, but he does know that what began as a way to improve Sherlock’s overall well being, via human contact (not that John would ever tell Sherlock that) has turned into something John craves as well. “I suppose I want to take my time with you. I like the way you feel,” John says, which is more than true.
Sherlock’s tension melts away and he’s boneless again, letting the weight of his body fall back against John. “And what exactly do I feel like?”
John can hear the amusement in Sherlock’s voice, which is nice. He much prefers that over tension. And this is an easy question, as there are plenty of words to describe Sherlock. “Strong. Brave. Powerful.”
Sherlock inhales, a deep unsteady breath, and rolls over. This time he’s the one who grabs John, wrapping his arms around John’s chest and holding on tightly.