Opus 221B - Part Four
Title: Opus 221B
Author: shao_fu
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word count: 2491this part
Disclaimer: Don't own them, no harm intended, no profit made etc.
Warnings: Explicit m/m sex; angst; h/c
Spoilers: Through end of Season 1
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is brilliant but lonely. John Watson finds himself alone and short of cash. Can they solve each other’s problems?
Notes: This story covers the events of season 1 and progresses beyond that. I will, no doubt, be proved wrong about the outcome of the cliffhanger when season 2 finally airs but, for now, this is my version. Although it can be read as a stand-alone, it seems to have turned into a prequel to A Man Does What He Must in its examination of the curious relationship between Sherlock and John, which created some interest.
Many thanks to the lovely sharpiesgal for the beta and the usual cheering on!
Fourth Movement: Con Somma Passione
John was released from hospital three days later, ten days since Moriarty had faced off with Sherlock. He still had blanks in his memory but had pieced together what had happened from what others told him. Despite appearing to be in a slightly safer position than either Sherlock or Moriarty, John had suffered the most physical damage. There had been no trace of Moriarty at the scene although no-one could surmise how he had escaped without injury. Sherlock had suffered a shockwave concussion and been knocked into the pool, which had saved his life, although he had very nearly drowned. He had been confined to a hospital bed for a couple of days of monitoring and recuperation but was essentially unhurt. John had been buried under falling rubble and suffered a severe concussion and a couple of cracked ribs on his left side, as well as aggravating his injured shoulder.
Sherlock had not visited him again and John was dubious about returning to Baker Street. Sarah came to collect him and he almost asked if he could stay with her. He didn’t want to impose, however, and decided to make a decision after he had spoken to Sherlock. He found it hard to reconcile Sherlock’s obvious concern when he first regained consciousness and his subsequent absence. He had vague memories of Sherlock pleading with him when he had effectively withdrawn from the reality of Sherlock’s death. Why then had he not visited once he was conscious and functioning again? John knew he had asked Sherlock to leave him alone but he had only meant at that particular time. He had been so emotionally overwhelmed by his discovery that Sherlock was alive and well that he had not been able to control himself and he had not wanted Sherlock to witness his incipient breakdown. Surely Sherlock had not interpreted his request as meaning something more permanent? Only Sherlock could answer this, if John could persuade him to discuss something as distasteful as his feelings. He was doubtful he could; Sherlock hated to admit to any emotion and John was not prepared to listen to cold, ruthless logic when in his heart he knew better.
Sarah wanted to come with him up to the flat but he persuaded her to go home and made his way upstairs on his own. The flat felt empty and John was devastated Sherlock hadn’t even made the effort to be at home when he returned. It was remarkably tidy, however, as if Sherlock had tried to prepare for his return but John wondered if the cleanliness was more Mrs. Hudson’s doing. He doubted Sherlock had changed that much, if at all. With great trepidation, he opened the refrigerator but it contained no human body parts, just some fresh milk. John made himself a cup of tea and collapsed into his favourite armchair and sat staring into space. This was not at all what he had anticipated. An hour or so ticked by and still no Sherlock. John gave up and, weary beyond belief, made his way upstairs to his bedroom. Perhaps, if he took a nap, Sherlock would have returned by the time he awoke. When he opened his bedroom door, he was greeted by a strange but welcome sight.
Sherlock was curled up in fetal position on his bed, his long length compressed into a tiny ball. The sight of his naked feet, so white and vulnerable, made John’s heart ache. He was asleep, and John could see how exhausted he was. The dark smudges under his eyes told their own tale and John sighed, a combination of frustration and affection. He perched on the side of the bed and, unable to resist temptation, gently brushed the wayward curls from Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock did not stir and, on impulse, John leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips. He felt the flutter of Sherlock’s eyelashes against his cheek and eased back to find Sherlock looking at him.
“Hello, Goldilocks,” John said with a smile. Sherlock frowned and then his eyes twinkled.
“Most amusing, John,” he said softly, his deep voice making John quiver. “I apologise for not being downstairs when you arrived.”
“It’s alright, I understand: you obviously needed the sleep. I was about to take a nap myself.” Sherlock looked steadily at him and then slid sideways, making just enough room for John to squeeze onto the bed beside him. John pursed his lips, debating if it was a good idea, but the tacit invitation was too much to resist. He managed to ease out of his cardigan but left his other clothes on and stretched out beside Sherlock rather tentatively. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist.
“This is not inconveniencing your injuries, is it?” he asked.
“No, it’s good,” John murmured, revelling in the feeling of Sherlock’s nearness, his heart stuttering when he felt Sherlock’s lips press lightly against the nape of his neck.
“Sleep, John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled softly. “You need to rest.” John sighed and allowed himself to relax into Sherlock’s embrace and he soon drifted off to sleep.
~
John awoke alone, the side of the bed Sherlock had occupied empty and cold. It was dark and John fumbled for the bedside lamp and looked at his watch. It was after seven in the evening and he realised he was starving. After having a quick wash and brushing his teeth, he replaced his cardigan and ventured downstairs only to find that, once again, he was alone. Another quick check of the fridge confirmed there was no food in the house and he wearily reached for his jacket, the thought of having to do grocery shopping almost as depressing as knowing Sherlock had abandoned him yet again. As he was checking his pockets for cash and his house keys, he heard the outside door shut and Sherlock came bounding into the flat. The delicious scent of Chinese takeout preceded him into the room and John grinned in delight.
“Oh, wow, thanks, that’s absolutely great; I could kiss you!” he said without thinking, sniffing appreciatively as he sat down again. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe later,” he replied with a tiny smile, ‘but right now I imagine you’re hungry.”
“Starving!”
They fell to and soon only the detritus of the take out meal remained. John automatically rose to clear away the rubbish but Sherlock raised a hand.
“Sit still,” he commanded. “Please allow me.” John blinked but sank back into his chair, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. When Sherlock then proceeded to make him a cup of tea, John had had enough.
“Okay, who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?” he asked, only half joking. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and heaved a sigh.
“John, I’m trying,” he said.
“You can be very trying at times,” John riposted with a smile, “but I don’t need you to be something that you’re not. I’m sorry if I upset you at the hospital; perhaps you can accept that I was in extremis.”
“You did not ‘upset’ me. The circumstances that led to you being hospitalized did, however, cause me concern.”
“You underestimated Moriarty: is that what this is all about?” Sherlock steepled his fingers against his chin in his familiar gesture and gazed sombrely at John.
“I suppose in a way that is closer to the truth than you inferring that what you said to me caused me any personal discomfort. We suspected but did not know for certain that the bomber was Moriarty until we confronted him but yes, I did underestimate the mysterious bomber. Knowing now that he is Moriarty only compounds that error. I have not forgotten his threat as to the consequences if I didn’t stop investigating him and it is a matter of grave concern to me.”
“And waiting on me hand and foot is helping to allay this concern?” John looked as sceptical as he sounded.
“I am not waiting on you hand and foot, John; please don’t exaggerate. You have just been released from hospital after a prolonged stay and you are still physically weak and impaired by your injuries. It is only right that I should assist you in any way I can until you are completely well again.”
“So this has nothing to do with Moriarty?” John was trying to follow but was getting rather confused.
“Not directly, no, but I am taking his threat very seriously, just as I should.” John tried to remember the details but drew a blank.
“Forgive me, Sherlock, but I just don’t remember what he said. Are you saying he threatened me again in some way? I think strapping a bomb to my chest was enough of a threat, don’t you? I certainly felt threatened, believe me!” Sherlock’s expression changed slightly, just a miniscule relaxation of tension around his eyes and mouth. He smiled and said,
“You’re right; a vest filled with explosives is a very obvious and imminent threat but one that has been dealt with and will not be repeated. There is no further reason for you to concern yourself.” John grew even more puzzled.
“Well, I wasn’t concerned at all until you started treating me like spun glass. I’m obviously missing something here. What did Moriarty say exactly?”
“Nothing of importance,” Sherlock answered with a slight shrug. “Would you like more tea?” John knew he was not going to get anything further out of Sherlock and let the matter drop. He hoped his memory would return and he could discover why Sherlock was behaving so very oddly. Whatever Moriarty had said, Sherlock had quite obviously taken it to mean that John was in danger. In the meantime, he decided against more tea and chose to retire for the night. Sherlock followed him upstairs to his bedroom and, when John protested, merely said,
“You will require assistance undressing.”
This was indisputable but John really did not want Sherlock to get up close and personal with him. This kinder, gentler Sherlock was disconcerting but John still found the attention he was receiving to be gratifying and, unfortunately, extremely arousing. Being the object of Sherlock’s unrelenting focus was a huge turn-on and John’s dick was already showing signs of interest as Sherlock stripped him of his cardigan, shirt, shoes and socks. He could feel himself blushing as Sherlock undid his belt and unsnapped his trousers. He tried to take over, embarrassed and yet desperately wanting more, feebly pushing at Sherlock’s competent fingers.
“I can manage now,” he muttered but, to his mingled dismay and delight, Sherlock ignored him, merely continuing the process of undressing him. He tapped first one leg and then the other to get John to step out of his trousers and seemed to ignore the obvious tenting at the front of his boxers. Having put John’s clothes away, he turned back to him and said,
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” His voice had dropped an octave, making John shiver, and there was a decidedly mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Sherlock,” John pleaded, “I - um - I wish - I mean - it doesn’t seem fair . . .” His voice trailed away as he failed to explain his thoughts. Sherlock understood, of course, but chose not to respond. He straightened the coverlet on John’s bed where they had slept together and then turned it down and fluffed up the pillows.
“Time for bed,” he said and John groaned in frustration.
“Sherlock, please,” he begged.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said. “Get into bed, John; you should lie down.” John’s shoulders sagged in disappointment and he climbed into bed. Sherlock turned out the lights and left him alone and John gritted his teeth to stop himself from calling after him. Highly aroused, he threw back the covers Sherlock had tucked around him and wriggled out of his boxers. He fumbled in the bedside table for some lube and started to stroke his cock, seeking relief. Moments later, his bedroom door opened and he heard the whisper of Sherlock’s silk dressing gown. He froze, his hand still wrapped around his cock, as he felt Sherlock climb onto the bed beside him and John realised he was naked. Long legs straddled his and John moaned loudly as Sherlock’s left hand wrapped around John’s, guiding him into position. John almost lost his senses as he realised what was happening but he had enough presence of mind to say,
“Sherlock, you can’t possibly . . .” Sherlock made an impatient tutting sound.
“Really, John, do you imagine I am unprepared?” And then he was sinking slowly, with infinite control, onto John’s cock. He was tight but John could tell he was stretched and well lubed. The idea of Sherlock preparing himself so thoroughly to enable John to fuck him short-circuited John’s brain. His hands settled on Sherlock’s narrow hips and he raised his knees almost as a reflex to support him, and then he hung on desperately to his self-control, not daring to move until Sherlock was ready. Sherlock eased John into his body with carefully controlled rocking motions, but John could hear the tiny, gasping exhalations of breath. He wished he could see but Sherlock had chosen darkness and John could only accept his wishes. He reached up and curved his hand gently along Sherlock’s cheek and felt him smile.
“It’s been a while,” he murmured.
“Oh Christ,” John gasped, undone by Sherlock’s trust as much as by the tight heat gripping him so fiercely. His hand slid around the back of Sherlock’s neck and he tugged him gently downwards, desperate to kiss him. Sherlock obliged and, as he leaned forward, John slid completely home. The sensation pushed him over the edge and his mouth sought Sherlock’s with a desperation he could no longer restrain. It was only when Sherlock gentled him, framing his jaw with long, soothing fingers, that he calmed enough to realize this was their first real kiss with both of them conscious and participating. The thought was the coup de grace for his self-control and he cried Sherlock’s name as his orgasm overwhelmed him. Sherlock sighed softly and John felt him stiffen and come almost immediately afterwards, feeling the warm wetness on his stomach. He wanted to wrap Sherlock in his arms and hold him close but Sherlock eased away almost immediately. He disappeared but returned quickly with a warm washcloth and wiped John clean. John managed to grasp his wrist and tugged gently.
“Come back to bed, Sherlock,” he begged, wanting to enjoy the afterglow with him. Sherlock obliged but he seemed stiff and uncomfortable and John could tell he would have preferred not to linger, so he kissed the side of his neck, hugged him briefly and let him go. Even John could not quite wrap his head around the idea of cuddling Sherlock in a post-coital, blissed-out haze. He settled for hugging the pillow, Sherlock’s scent clinging to it and soothing him into an exhausted sleep.
Coda (part 5) Movement
Third Movement Movement
Author: shao_fu
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word count: 2491this part
Disclaimer: Don't own them, no harm intended, no profit made etc.
Warnings: Explicit m/m sex; angst; h/c
Spoilers: Through end of Season 1
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is brilliant but lonely. John Watson finds himself alone and short of cash. Can they solve each other’s problems?
Notes: This story covers the events of season 1 and progresses beyond that. I will, no doubt, be proved wrong about the outcome of the cliffhanger when season 2 finally airs but, for now, this is my version. Although it can be read as a stand-alone, it seems to have turned into a prequel to A Man Does What He Must in its examination of the curious relationship between Sherlock and John, which created some interest.
Many thanks to the lovely sharpiesgal for the beta and the usual cheering on!
Fourth Movement: Con Somma Passione
John was released from hospital three days later, ten days since Moriarty had faced off with Sherlock. He still had blanks in his memory but had pieced together what had happened from what others told him. Despite appearing to be in a slightly safer position than either Sherlock or Moriarty, John had suffered the most physical damage. There had been no trace of Moriarty at the scene although no-one could surmise how he had escaped without injury. Sherlock had suffered a shockwave concussion and been knocked into the pool, which had saved his life, although he had very nearly drowned. He had been confined to a hospital bed for a couple of days of monitoring and recuperation but was essentially unhurt. John had been buried under falling rubble and suffered a severe concussion and a couple of cracked ribs on his left side, as well as aggravating his injured shoulder.
Sherlock had not visited him again and John was dubious about returning to Baker Street. Sarah came to collect him and he almost asked if he could stay with her. He didn’t want to impose, however, and decided to make a decision after he had spoken to Sherlock. He found it hard to reconcile Sherlock’s obvious concern when he first regained consciousness and his subsequent absence. He had vague memories of Sherlock pleading with him when he had effectively withdrawn from the reality of Sherlock’s death. Why then had he not visited once he was conscious and functioning again? John knew he had asked Sherlock to leave him alone but he had only meant at that particular time. He had been so emotionally overwhelmed by his discovery that Sherlock was alive and well that he had not been able to control himself and he had not wanted Sherlock to witness his incipient breakdown. Surely Sherlock had not interpreted his request as meaning something more permanent? Only Sherlock could answer this, if John could persuade him to discuss something as distasteful as his feelings. He was doubtful he could; Sherlock hated to admit to any emotion and John was not prepared to listen to cold, ruthless logic when in his heart he knew better.
Sarah wanted to come with him up to the flat but he persuaded her to go home and made his way upstairs on his own. The flat felt empty and John was devastated Sherlock hadn’t even made the effort to be at home when he returned. It was remarkably tidy, however, as if Sherlock had tried to prepare for his return but John wondered if the cleanliness was more Mrs. Hudson’s doing. He doubted Sherlock had changed that much, if at all. With great trepidation, he opened the refrigerator but it contained no human body parts, just some fresh milk. John made himself a cup of tea and collapsed into his favourite armchair and sat staring into space. This was not at all what he had anticipated. An hour or so ticked by and still no Sherlock. John gave up and, weary beyond belief, made his way upstairs to his bedroom. Perhaps, if he took a nap, Sherlock would have returned by the time he awoke. When he opened his bedroom door, he was greeted by a strange but welcome sight.
Sherlock was curled up in fetal position on his bed, his long length compressed into a tiny ball. The sight of his naked feet, so white and vulnerable, made John’s heart ache. He was asleep, and John could see how exhausted he was. The dark smudges under his eyes told their own tale and John sighed, a combination of frustration and affection. He perched on the side of the bed and, unable to resist temptation, gently brushed the wayward curls from Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock did not stir and, on impulse, John leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his lips. He felt the flutter of Sherlock’s eyelashes against his cheek and eased back to find Sherlock looking at him.
“Hello, Goldilocks,” John said with a smile. Sherlock frowned and then his eyes twinkled.
“Most amusing, John,” he said softly, his deep voice making John quiver. “I apologise for not being downstairs when you arrived.”
“It’s alright, I understand: you obviously needed the sleep. I was about to take a nap myself.” Sherlock looked steadily at him and then slid sideways, making just enough room for John to squeeze onto the bed beside him. John pursed his lips, debating if it was a good idea, but the tacit invitation was too much to resist. He managed to ease out of his cardigan but left his other clothes on and stretched out beside Sherlock rather tentatively. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist.
“This is not inconveniencing your injuries, is it?” he asked.
“No, it’s good,” John murmured, revelling in the feeling of Sherlock’s nearness, his heart stuttering when he felt Sherlock’s lips press lightly against the nape of his neck.
“Sleep, John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbled softly. “You need to rest.” John sighed and allowed himself to relax into Sherlock’s embrace and he soon drifted off to sleep.
~
John awoke alone, the side of the bed Sherlock had occupied empty and cold. It was dark and John fumbled for the bedside lamp and looked at his watch. It was after seven in the evening and he realised he was starving. After having a quick wash and brushing his teeth, he replaced his cardigan and ventured downstairs only to find that, once again, he was alone. Another quick check of the fridge confirmed there was no food in the house and he wearily reached for his jacket, the thought of having to do grocery shopping almost as depressing as knowing Sherlock had abandoned him yet again. As he was checking his pockets for cash and his house keys, he heard the outside door shut and Sherlock came bounding into the flat. The delicious scent of Chinese takeout preceded him into the room and John grinned in delight.
“Oh, wow, thanks, that’s absolutely great; I could kiss you!” he said without thinking, sniffing appreciatively as he sat down again. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe later,” he replied with a tiny smile, ‘but right now I imagine you’re hungry.”
“Starving!”
They fell to and soon only the detritus of the take out meal remained. John automatically rose to clear away the rubbish but Sherlock raised a hand.
“Sit still,” he commanded. “Please allow me.” John blinked but sank back into his chair, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously. When Sherlock then proceeded to make him a cup of tea, John had had enough.
“Okay, who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?” he asked, only half joking. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and heaved a sigh.
“John, I’m trying,” he said.
“You can be very trying at times,” John riposted with a smile, “but I don’t need you to be something that you’re not. I’m sorry if I upset you at the hospital; perhaps you can accept that I was in extremis.”
“You did not ‘upset’ me. The circumstances that led to you being hospitalized did, however, cause me concern.”
“You underestimated Moriarty: is that what this is all about?” Sherlock steepled his fingers against his chin in his familiar gesture and gazed sombrely at John.
“I suppose in a way that is closer to the truth than you inferring that what you said to me caused me any personal discomfort. We suspected but did not know for certain that the bomber was Moriarty until we confronted him but yes, I did underestimate the mysterious bomber. Knowing now that he is Moriarty only compounds that error. I have not forgotten his threat as to the consequences if I didn’t stop investigating him and it is a matter of grave concern to me.”
“And waiting on me hand and foot is helping to allay this concern?” John looked as sceptical as he sounded.
“I am not waiting on you hand and foot, John; please don’t exaggerate. You have just been released from hospital after a prolonged stay and you are still physically weak and impaired by your injuries. It is only right that I should assist you in any way I can until you are completely well again.”
“So this has nothing to do with Moriarty?” John was trying to follow but was getting rather confused.
“Not directly, no, but I am taking his threat very seriously, just as I should.” John tried to remember the details but drew a blank.
“Forgive me, Sherlock, but I just don’t remember what he said. Are you saying he threatened me again in some way? I think strapping a bomb to my chest was enough of a threat, don’t you? I certainly felt threatened, believe me!” Sherlock’s expression changed slightly, just a miniscule relaxation of tension around his eyes and mouth. He smiled and said,
“You’re right; a vest filled with explosives is a very obvious and imminent threat but one that has been dealt with and will not be repeated. There is no further reason for you to concern yourself.” John grew even more puzzled.
“Well, I wasn’t concerned at all until you started treating me like spun glass. I’m obviously missing something here. What did Moriarty say exactly?”
“Nothing of importance,” Sherlock answered with a slight shrug. “Would you like more tea?” John knew he was not going to get anything further out of Sherlock and let the matter drop. He hoped his memory would return and he could discover why Sherlock was behaving so very oddly. Whatever Moriarty had said, Sherlock had quite obviously taken it to mean that John was in danger. In the meantime, he decided against more tea and chose to retire for the night. Sherlock followed him upstairs to his bedroom and, when John protested, merely said,
“You will require assistance undressing.”
This was indisputable but John really did not want Sherlock to get up close and personal with him. This kinder, gentler Sherlock was disconcerting but John still found the attention he was receiving to be gratifying and, unfortunately, extremely arousing. Being the object of Sherlock’s unrelenting focus was a huge turn-on and John’s dick was already showing signs of interest as Sherlock stripped him of his cardigan, shirt, shoes and socks. He could feel himself blushing as Sherlock undid his belt and unsnapped his trousers. He tried to take over, embarrassed and yet desperately wanting more, feebly pushing at Sherlock’s competent fingers.
“I can manage now,” he muttered but, to his mingled dismay and delight, Sherlock ignored him, merely continuing the process of undressing him. He tapped first one leg and then the other to get John to step out of his trousers and seemed to ignore the obvious tenting at the front of his boxers. Having put John’s clothes away, he turned back to him and said,
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” His voice had dropped an octave, making John shiver, and there was a decidedly mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Sherlock,” John pleaded, “I - um - I wish - I mean - it doesn’t seem fair . . .” His voice trailed away as he failed to explain his thoughts. Sherlock understood, of course, but chose not to respond. He straightened the coverlet on John’s bed where they had slept together and then turned it down and fluffed up the pillows.
“Time for bed,” he said and John groaned in frustration.
“Sherlock, please,” he begged.
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said. “Get into bed, John; you should lie down.” John’s shoulders sagged in disappointment and he climbed into bed. Sherlock turned out the lights and left him alone and John gritted his teeth to stop himself from calling after him. Highly aroused, he threw back the covers Sherlock had tucked around him and wriggled out of his boxers. He fumbled in the bedside table for some lube and started to stroke his cock, seeking relief. Moments later, his bedroom door opened and he heard the whisper of Sherlock’s silk dressing gown. He froze, his hand still wrapped around his cock, as he felt Sherlock climb onto the bed beside him and John realised he was naked. Long legs straddled his and John moaned loudly as Sherlock’s left hand wrapped around John’s, guiding him into position. John almost lost his senses as he realised what was happening but he had enough presence of mind to say,
“Sherlock, you can’t possibly . . .” Sherlock made an impatient tutting sound.
“Really, John, do you imagine I am unprepared?” And then he was sinking slowly, with infinite control, onto John’s cock. He was tight but John could tell he was stretched and well lubed. The idea of Sherlock preparing himself so thoroughly to enable John to fuck him short-circuited John’s brain. His hands settled on Sherlock’s narrow hips and he raised his knees almost as a reflex to support him, and then he hung on desperately to his self-control, not daring to move until Sherlock was ready. Sherlock eased John into his body with carefully controlled rocking motions, but John could hear the tiny, gasping exhalations of breath. He wished he could see but Sherlock had chosen darkness and John could only accept his wishes. He reached up and curved his hand gently along Sherlock’s cheek and felt him smile.
“It’s been a while,” he murmured.
“Oh Christ,” John gasped, undone by Sherlock’s trust as much as by the tight heat gripping him so fiercely. His hand slid around the back of Sherlock’s neck and he tugged him gently downwards, desperate to kiss him. Sherlock obliged and, as he leaned forward, John slid completely home. The sensation pushed him over the edge and his mouth sought Sherlock’s with a desperation he could no longer restrain. It was only when Sherlock gentled him, framing his jaw with long, soothing fingers, that he calmed enough to realize this was their first real kiss with both of them conscious and participating. The thought was the coup de grace for his self-control and he cried Sherlock’s name as his orgasm overwhelmed him. Sherlock sighed softly and John felt him stiffen and come almost immediately afterwards, feeling the warm wetness on his stomach. He wanted to wrap Sherlock in his arms and hold him close but Sherlock eased away almost immediately. He disappeared but returned quickly with a warm washcloth and wiped John clean. John managed to grasp his wrist and tugged gently.
“Come back to bed, Sherlock,” he begged, wanting to enjoy the afterglow with him. Sherlock obliged but he seemed stiff and uncomfortable and John could tell he would have preferred not to linger, so he kissed the side of his neck, hugged him briefly and let him go. Even John could not quite wrap his head around the idea of cuddling Sherlock in a post-coital, blissed-out haze. He settled for hugging the pillow, Sherlock’s scent clinging to it and soothing him into an exhausted sleep.
Coda (part 5) Movement
Third Movement Movement