The Raven (NC-17)
Sherlock sat curled up on the couch by the fire, in his hand was a book that may have been handsome once, but was no falling apart, pages yellow, stained and falling out. John was lying back on the couch reading a medical journal when he glanced over and saw this.
"What're you reading Sherlock?"
"Poems," Sherlock said without looking up. John pushed himself into sitting position and watched Sherlock for a little longer.
"I can't concentrate with you watching me like that." Sherlock grumbled, shocking John out of his daze.
"Like what?" he asked.
"Like you want to kiss me for a very long time."
They were silent after that, John instead staring at the book shelf. The rest of Sherlock's books were in perfect condition - he may be messy but he wasn't careless.
"What gave you that book?" John asked after some time.
"Mother," Sherlock said absent-mindedly again.
"Looks well used."
"I got it when I was six. It had my favourite poem in it, she brought it home one day."
John nodded even though Sherlock wasn't watching him and lay back on the lounge, covering his eyes with his arm.
"Read it to me." He said after another gap.
"Read what?"
"Read your favourite poem to me."
Sherlock flicked back a few pages and began.
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow…"
It was at that point of the poem that John stopped listening to the words and just fell into the tones and rhythm of Sherlock voice. 'The Raven' suited him well; it was very melodic and dark at the same time.
" This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!"
But the voice was getting closer. Even John in his dreamlike state could tell that. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock prowling towards him, speaking the poem from memory. He stood over John and continued to recite:
" This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!"
After this verse he fluidly laid over John, his mouth on his neck and whispered the last verses, finishing with:
"And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!"
And with that he pressed his face into John's neck and breathed in deeply. The poem must have brought forth emotions locked up inside Sherlock. John just loved it when that happens.
They lay there for a very long time, and John could feel Sherlock's breathing evening out against his neck, and his body slacken, and he was relieved that Sherlock was finally getting some rest. Not that it would last.
And as though Sherlock had read his mind, he woke, pressed his lips to John's neck and whispered, "I love you, John."
John smiled and laid his head down to rest his eyes, but his hopes for a quiet night were utterly obliterated when Sherlock brushed his hand over John's lower stomach. Electricity, lying just below the surface for hours, now shocked John's entire body as Sherlock pulled him into a slow and frankly juicy kiss. Sherlock ran his hands up John's torso slowly and pushed his chest against John's, still kissing him.
It was warm in the room, near the crackling fire that was their only source of light, and Sherlock slowly took off John's jumper, not wanting to rush anything on this perfect night. He laid his cheek against John's warm chest as John undid Sherlock's buttons in a way that would have been awkward in any other situation.
When Sherlock undid John's belt and pushed down his pants, their pace didn't speed up any. Sherlock, after undoing his own pants, slid their erections together slowly, kissing John indulgently again.
Pre-come began the slick down their lengths and Sherlock scooped some up on his fingers and began to gently press into John.
John turned his head to the side, concentrating on the clock on the wall so as not to 'prematurely ejaculate' from the pure sensuality of it all. It took Sherlock exactly twelve minutes to decide John was properly prepared, a record for both time and painlessness.
When Sherlock pushed in, John noticed Sherlock's cheeks shining. This happened sometimes, John theorised that Sherlock was so unused to emotion that when he experienced some so strong his body needed a way to rid himself of the overwhelming onslaught. The first time it had happen had been their 'first time' and John had freaked out until Sherlock's shuddering whispers of inaudible "I love you, John"s made it obvious that he wasn't upset.
That was another thing that had surprised John. Sherlock was been more than ready to tell John he loved him. Every single day. John supposed it was novelty for him, that he'd never been able to say it to anyone (save his mother) without getting odd looks.
He kissed the tears of Sherlock's face as he began to thrust, and planted kisses all over his face before pulling it next to his, resting his cheek against it.
They were both close by now and the speed began to climb, and John found himself blacking out.
When he came to, Sherlock was quietly sobbing into his shoulder.
"I don't know how I'd ever live without, John."
John petted his hair. "You won't ever have to."
And many, many years later, Sherlock died a split second before John, as of course it was John's lap he was curled up in reading book of poetry when rain of bullets began.
"What're you reading Sherlock?"
"Poems," Sherlock said without looking up. John pushed himself into sitting position and watched Sherlock for a little longer.
"I can't concentrate with you watching me like that." Sherlock grumbled, shocking John out of his daze.
"Like what?" he asked.
"Like you want to kiss me for a very long time."
They were silent after that, John instead staring at the book shelf. The rest of Sherlock's books were in perfect condition - he may be messy but he wasn't careless.
"What gave you that book?" John asked after some time.
"Mother," Sherlock said absent-mindedly again.
"Looks well used."
"I got it when I was six. It had my favourite poem in it, she brought it home one day."
John nodded even though Sherlock wasn't watching him and lay back on the lounge, covering his eyes with his arm.
"Read it to me." He said after another gap.
"Read what?"
"Read your favourite poem to me."
Sherlock flicked back a few pages and began.
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;- vainly I had sought to borrow…"
It was at that point of the poem that John stopped listening to the words and just fell into the tones and rhythm of Sherlock voice. 'The Raven' suited him well; it was very melodic and dark at the same time.
" This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!"
But the voice was getting closer. Even John in his dreamlike state could tell that. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock prowling towards him, speaking the poem from memory. He stood over John and continued to recite:
" This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!"
After this verse he fluidly laid over John, his mouth on his neck and whispered the last verses, finishing with:
"And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the
floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted- nevermore!"
And with that he pressed his face into John's neck and breathed in deeply. The poem must have brought forth emotions locked up inside Sherlock. John just loved it when that happens.
They lay there for a very long time, and John could feel Sherlock's breathing evening out against his neck, and his body slacken, and he was relieved that Sherlock was finally getting some rest. Not that it would last.
And as though Sherlock had read his mind, he woke, pressed his lips to John's neck and whispered, "I love you, John."
John smiled and laid his head down to rest his eyes, but his hopes for a quiet night were utterly obliterated when Sherlock brushed his hand over John's lower stomach. Electricity, lying just below the surface for hours, now shocked John's entire body as Sherlock pulled him into a slow and frankly juicy kiss. Sherlock ran his hands up John's torso slowly and pushed his chest against John's, still kissing him.
It was warm in the room, near the crackling fire that was their only source of light, and Sherlock slowly took off John's jumper, not wanting to rush anything on this perfect night. He laid his cheek against John's warm chest as John undid Sherlock's buttons in a way that would have been awkward in any other situation.
When Sherlock undid John's belt and pushed down his pants, their pace didn't speed up any. Sherlock, after undoing his own pants, slid their erections together slowly, kissing John indulgently again.
Pre-come began the slick down their lengths and Sherlock scooped some up on his fingers and began to gently press into John.
John turned his head to the side, concentrating on the clock on the wall so as not to 'prematurely ejaculate' from the pure sensuality of it all. It took Sherlock exactly twelve minutes to decide John was properly prepared, a record for both time and painlessness.
When Sherlock pushed in, John noticed Sherlock's cheeks shining. This happened sometimes, John theorised that Sherlock was so unused to emotion that when he experienced some so strong his body needed a way to rid himself of the overwhelming onslaught. The first time it had happen had been their 'first time' and John had freaked out until Sherlock's shuddering whispers of inaudible "I love you, John"s made it obvious that he wasn't upset.
That was another thing that had surprised John. Sherlock was been more than ready to tell John he loved him. Every single day. John supposed it was novelty for him, that he'd never been able to say it to anyone (save his mother) without getting odd looks.
He kissed the tears of Sherlock's face as he began to thrust, and planted kisses all over his face before pulling it next to his, resting his cheek against it.
They were both close by now and the speed began to climb, and John found himself blacking out.
When he came to, Sherlock was quietly sobbing into his shoulder.
"I don't know how I'd ever live without, John."
John petted his hair. "You won't ever have to."
And many, many years later, Sherlock died a split second before John, as of course it was John's lap he was curled up in reading book of poetry when rain of bullets began.