Sherlock Fanfiction: Normal Needs
Title: Normal Needs
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary: slash, (post TGG), S/J, SPOILERS, The end of a case leaves John shaken and needing something he doesn’t know he needed.
Rating: T
Warnings: Spoilers some slash slight angst hurt/comfort.
Pairings: SherlockxJohn
Word Count: 1,679
Author's Note: Well, my first Sherlock fanfic. LOL. Sorry, but this has become my new addiction, but it will never be able to replace Merlin in my heart, so don’t you guys start worrying that I’ll forget about all my other stories. Anyways, this came after I finished watching The Great Game and nearly screamed at the computer when they ended it on the biggest cliffhanger I’ve ever seen (head to desk). So this is what my twisted mind wanted to happen afterwards. Enjoy.
xXx
He felt the water, his mind registering its presence on his skin as it ran down in streams over pale shoulders. Yet he couldn’t feel it, the scalding heat, the way it hugged each curve and dip of his body like a second skin.
No, he couldn’t feel it. All he could feel was the heavy weight of the straps, the wires sliding along skin, sweat pouring down his back from fear and the heavy jacket. His heart kept beating at the rapid pace it had kept up through the whole ordeal, his mind tricked by the experience and playing tricks on his body, making it think he was still there, still by the pool, the heavy scent of chlorine everywhere.
He’d been so stupid, should have realized that Moriarty would eventually come after one of them. He’d been lucky that he hadn’t been at Sarah’s flat when they’d grabbed him. He didn’t think their friendship, tentative relationship, could have survived another kidnapping, another life threatening situation like that.
It seemed he would have to stop this relationship before it got any bigger. It was too dangerous with Moriarty after them. He wouldn’t be able to bare it if she was killed because of him. He had blood on his hands, but her blood would be too much to take.
He leaned against the tile of the wall, letting the cold seep into his arms and forehead, a sharp contrast to the heat of the water. He was shaking; he could feel it, adrenalin still skating through his veins, hot and sweet, so addictive. Every time he felt this, he could understand why Sherlock craved this, sought it with such single-mindedness, no matter the threat to his life.
A shiver traveled up his spine. His mind was spinning in circles, reliving, over and over, tonight, or was it last night. He couldn’t be sure if morning had come yet, his mind still addled by the adrenalin and explosion that had ripped through the pool and tile, throwing them yards away with a casual flick of its wrist.
He was so deep in his thoughts; he didn’t hear the door open, no light coming in from the darkened hallway into the darkened bathroom. Nor did he hear the shower door open, the hinges silent with oil and water. He did notice when lean pale arms wrapped around him from behind, encircling his waist and tightening their hold, drawing him back into a lean chest.
“Sherlock?” He questioned, unsure of what to say or whether he really wanted to move or not.
“Shh, John.” He gentled, soft hands turning him around till he was pressed up against him, head resting in the crock of his neck and shoulder. His hands continued to moved, running up and down his back, soothing, seeming to seep heat into him where the water hadn’t. He shivered and his gut clenched and then he was grasping desperately at his muscled back, gripping it hard as he shook, his breath coming in gasped pants.
Sherlock just held him, the only thing keeping him in the here and now as he broke down, the stress and shock finally catching him up and through it all, he said nothing.
Slowly, he came back, breath and heart slowing. He felt warmth encompassing him, holding him as water that had turned cool now that most of the heat had been used up slide around him. He opened an eye a crack to keep from being blinded by the water. He was in the bottom of the shower, Sherlock’s long limbs wrapped around him, cradling his stocky frame in his lap as he held the man.
“Better?” He asked softly, pale eyes staring down at him; unembarrassed by the situation they were in, both naked in a shower. He’d showered with other men before, there weren’t many places to shower when in the desert and water had been rationed, so they had been forced to make due. It was something altogether new to be held by a naked man in a shower though.
Heat washed up his neck and onto his face, but he nodded to his question. “Good.” He said lowly, voice rumbling from his chest into John where he was pressed against him. He had no warning as Sherlock bent down, catching his lips in a searing kiss, tongue forcing his lips apart to seek the moist warmth inside.
He held on to his shoulders desperately, trying to keep from losing himself again as Sherlock pressed deeper, arms steel bands around his torso, long fingers threaded through sandy blonde locks, holding his head in place. A gasp escaped when he pulled away, pulling in unsteady breaths through reddened lips as he continued further down, lips ghosting along lightly tanned flesh, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
“Sher-Sherlock…wait…hang on…Sherlock!” He yelled, trying to keep his insides from melting as he licked the broad of his tongue across a pink nipple. He looked up and John had to swallow at the sight of his eyes, only a ring of pale iris visible around his blown pupils. He looked annoyed at being disrupted. “Not here.” He answered weakly.
He seemed to accept his suggestion because a second later, he was being pulled to his feet, the water turned off and a hand like a vice around his arm, pulling him along down the hall to his room.
He’d never been inside Sherlock’s room before, never had a need. It was surprising clean, or that was what the brief glance he had told him before he was being spun around and backed up to the double bed, the sheets an untidy, rumpled mess beneath him as he landed on his back, Sherlock crawling over him with a predatory grace that had his mouth going dry and certain areas sitting up and taking notice.
One look up at him and he gave up any thought of trying to fight this. Sherlock was an unstoppable force when he wanted to be and right now, all that intellect, all his focus was on him and him alone. It should have been unnerving, even frightening, except as those eyes swept over him, all he could feel was warmth spreading through him.
He’d always wondered what it would be like to be on the other end of that focus, to be one of the many corpses that so fascinated him, though preferably not an actual corpse. It was thrilling and addictive. He’d known from the first time he met him in the lab, that it would be like this, to be the center of his attention, for no matter how long.
And it was probably only going to be for a little while. He’d seen the way Sherlock was with new things. They kept his attention for only as long as it took for him to figure it out and then it was thrown into the unimportant, ‘dull’ category along with everything else that couldn’t keep his interest or couldn’t keep up with his thinking.
So he wasn’t deluding himself, wasn’t hoping for more. He knew that most likely, this was all he would get of the great Consulting Detective. So he savored it, cherished it, taking all he could get before it ended and when it did, if at the end, he called out Sherlock’s name, then at least Sherlock knew that he also had John’s full attention, too.
~
Sunlight slowly crept up into the sky, though only a sliver made its way through the heavy curtains on the sole window of his room. Sherlock sat up, back against his headboard as he watched the light change, growing brighter.
John lay beside him, still fast asleep after the long, stressful day yesterday and even longer night. His breathing was deep and even, eyes shifting behind his eyes in REM sleep as he dreamed.
He sat there watching him, eyes tracing over his body, picking out old scars and new ones, marks left over from last night, the only physical evidence of what had happened.
He felt dread as he realized what he had done. Not only had he allowed John to get so far under his skin like no one else had, but he’d acted on it, letting his heart, his John take root inside. John was important now, something he could never give up willingly or lose and now Moriarty could have an even bigger hold over him if he wanted to. He’d just signed his own death warrant and John’s, all because he had wanted to comfort the man who had been breaking down inside.
He’d seen the look in his eyes as they took a cab home, the fragile hold he had on himself. He knew the moment that John had shut the bathroom door, that he was about to break unless he did something to help him. He needed someone there, to keep him grounded while he broke down and rebuilt himself.
Except, he hadn’t been expecting the look in his eyes when they had opened, the slightly blown pupils that could just be seen in the dark of the bathroom, the only source of light coming from outside the small bathroom window.
He hadn’t been able to hold himself back, the needs, and the want he had been ignoring since John Watson had first limped into his life; all his restraint had been blown away, broken by one man.
John shifted beside him, expression turning into frown at whatever it was he dreamed about. “Shh, John.” The man quieted under his hand as he carded it through his hair, leaning into the touch unconsciously.
Sighing in defeat, he shifted around, lying back down. He could figure out what to do later. For now, he needed some sleep. Even his body had limits to how much stress it could take before it stopped functioning properly. Sighing again, he wrapped his arms around John, pulling him closer, and let sleep pull him under, following the demands of the normal needs of his body for once.
End.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary: slash, (post TGG), S/J, SPOILERS, The end of a case leaves John shaken and needing something he doesn’t know he needed.
Rating: T
Warnings: Spoilers some slash slight angst hurt/comfort.
Pairings: SherlockxJohn
Word Count: 1,679
Author's Note: Well, my first Sherlock fanfic. LOL. Sorry, but this has become my new addiction, but it will never be able to replace Merlin in my heart, so don’t you guys start worrying that I’ll forget about all my other stories. Anyways, this came after I finished watching The Great Game and nearly screamed at the computer when they ended it on the biggest cliffhanger I’ve ever seen (head to desk). So this is what my twisted mind wanted to happen afterwards. Enjoy.
xXx
He felt the water, his mind registering its presence on his skin as it ran down in streams over pale shoulders. Yet he couldn’t feel it, the scalding heat, the way it hugged each curve and dip of his body like a second skin.
No, he couldn’t feel it. All he could feel was the heavy weight of the straps, the wires sliding along skin, sweat pouring down his back from fear and the heavy jacket. His heart kept beating at the rapid pace it had kept up through the whole ordeal, his mind tricked by the experience and playing tricks on his body, making it think he was still there, still by the pool, the heavy scent of chlorine everywhere.
He’d been so stupid, should have realized that Moriarty would eventually come after one of them. He’d been lucky that he hadn’t been at Sarah’s flat when they’d grabbed him. He didn’t think their friendship, tentative relationship, could have survived another kidnapping, another life threatening situation like that.
It seemed he would have to stop this relationship before it got any bigger. It was too dangerous with Moriarty after them. He wouldn’t be able to bare it if she was killed because of him. He had blood on his hands, but her blood would be too much to take.
He leaned against the tile of the wall, letting the cold seep into his arms and forehead, a sharp contrast to the heat of the water. He was shaking; he could feel it, adrenalin still skating through his veins, hot and sweet, so addictive. Every time he felt this, he could understand why Sherlock craved this, sought it with such single-mindedness, no matter the threat to his life.
A shiver traveled up his spine. His mind was spinning in circles, reliving, over and over, tonight, or was it last night. He couldn’t be sure if morning had come yet, his mind still addled by the adrenalin and explosion that had ripped through the pool and tile, throwing them yards away with a casual flick of its wrist.
He was so deep in his thoughts; he didn’t hear the door open, no light coming in from the darkened hallway into the darkened bathroom. Nor did he hear the shower door open, the hinges silent with oil and water. He did notice when lean pale arms wrapped around him from behind, encircling his waist and tightening their hold, drawing him back into a lean chest.
“Sherlock?” He questioned, unsure of what to say or whether he really wanted to move or not.
“Shh, John.” He gentled, soft hands turning him around till he was pressed up against him, head resting in the crock of his neck and shoulder. His hands continued to moved, running up and down his back, soothing, seeming to seep heat into him where the water hadn’t. He shivered and his gut clenched and then he was grasping desperately at his muscled back, gripping it hard as he shook, his breath coming in gasped pants.
Sherlock just held him, the only thing keeping him in the here and now as he broke down, the stress and shock finally catching him up and through it all, he said nothing.
Slowly, he came back, breath and heart slowing. He felt warmth encompassing him, holding him as water that had turned cool now that most of the heat had been used up slide around him. He opened an eye a crack to keep from being blinded by the water. He was in the bottom of the shower, Sherlock’s long limbs wrapped around him, cradling his stocky frame in his lap as he held the man.
“Better?” He asked softly, pale eyes staring down at him; unembarrassed by the situation they were in, both naked in a shower. He’d showered with other men before, there weren’t many places to shower when in the desert and water had been rationed, so they had been forced to make due. It was something altogether new to be held by a naked man in a shower though.
Heat washed up his neck and onto his face, but he nodded to his question. “Good.” He said lowly, voice rumbling from his chest into John where he was pressed against him. He had no warning as Sherlock bent down, catching his lips in a searing kiss, tongue forcing his lips apart to seek the moist warmth inside.
He held on to his shoulders desperately, trying to keep from losing himself again as Sherlock pressed deeper, arms steel bands around his torso, long fingers threaded through sandy blonde locks, holding his head in place. A gasp escaped when he pulled away, pulling in unsteady breaths through reddened lips as he continued further down, lips ghosting along lightly tanned flesh, leaving a trail of fire in his wake.
“Sher-Sherlock…wait…hang on…Sherlock!” He yelled, trying to keep his insides from melting as he licked the broad of his tongue across a pink nipple. He looked up and John had to swallow at the sight of his eyes, only a ring of pale iris visible around his blown pupils. He looked annoyed at being disrupted. “Not here.” He answered weakly.
He seemed to accept his suggestion because a second later, he was being pulled to his feet, the water turned off and a hand like a vice around his arm, pulling him along down the hall to his room.
He’d never been inside Sherlock’s room before, never had a need. It was surprising clean, or that was what the brief glance he had told him before he was being spun around and backed up to the double bed, the sheets an untidy, rumpled mess beneath him as he landed on his back, Sherlock crawling over him with a predatory grace that had his mouth going dry and certain areas sitting up and taking notice.
One look up at him and he gave up any thought of trying to fight this. Sherlock was an unstoppable force when he wanted to be and right now, all that intellect, all his focus was on him and him alone. It should have been unnerving, even frightening, except as those eyes swept over him, all he could feel was warmth spreading through him.
He’d always wondered what it would be like to be on the other end of that focus, to be one of the many corpses that so fascinated him, though preferably not an actual corpse. It was thrilling and addictive. He’d known from the first time he met him in the lab, that it would be like this, to be the center of his attention, for no matter how long.
And it was probably only going to be for a little while. He’d seen the way Sherlock was with new things. They kept his attention for only as long as it took for him to figure it out and then it was thrown into the unimportant, ‘dull’ category along with everything else that couldn’t keep his interest or couldn’t keep up with his thinking.
So he wasn’t deluding himself, wasn’t hoping for more. He knew that most likely, this was all he would get of the great Consulting Detective. So he savored it, cherished it, taking all he could get before it ended and when it did, if at the end, he called out Sherlock’s name, then at least Sherlock knew that he also had John’s full attention, too.
~
Sunlight slowly crept up into the sky, though only a sliver made its way through the heavy curtains on the sole window of his room. Sherlock sat up, back against his headboard as he watched the light change, growing brighter.
John lay beside him, still fast asleep after the long, stressful day yesterday and even longer night. His breathing was deep and even, eyes shifting behind his eyes in REM sleep as he dreamed.
He sat there watching him, eyes tracing over his body, picking out old scars and new ones, marks left over from last night, the only physical evidence of what had happened.
He felt dread as he realized what he had done. Not only had he allowed John to get so far under his skin like no one else had, but he’d acted on it, letting his heart, his John take root inside. John was important now, something he could never give up willingly or lose and now Moriarty could have an even bigger hold over him if he wanted to. He’d just signed his own death warrant and John’s, all because he had wanted to comfort the man who had been breaking down inside.
He’d seen the look in his eyes as they took a cab home, the fragile hold he had on himself. He knew the moment that John had shut the bathroom door, that he was about to break unless he did something to help him. He needed someone there, to keep him grounded while he broke down and rebuilt himself.
Except, he hadn’t been expecting the look in his eyes when they had opened, the slightly blown pupils that could just be seen in the dark of the bathroom, the only source of light coming from outside the small bathroom window.
He hadn’t been able to hold himself back, the needs, and the want he had been ignoring since John Watson had first limped into his life; all his restraint had been blown away, broken by one man.
John shifted beside him, expression turning into frown at whatever it was he dreamed about. “Shh, John.” The man quieted under his hand as he carded it through his hair, leaning into the touch unconsciously.
Sighing in defeat, he shifted around, lying back down. He could figure out what to do later. For now, he needed some sleep. Even his body had limits to how much stress it could take before it stopped functioning properly. Sighing again, he wrapped his arms around John, pulling him closer, and let sleep pull him under, following the demands of the normal needs of his body for once.
End.