Fic: Without Words (2/2)
Title: Without Words (2/2)
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 2,872
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, violence, vague sexy times
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: All of London is quiet thanks to a weapon that steals voices.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: To no one's surprise, a Prompt on Sherlock BBC Kink Meme. Prompt was: Because it is my favorite episode of Buffy EVER ('Hush') - Sherlock and Co. lose the ability to speak. What happens?
The ride to the agricultural factory is time-consuming and John doesn't even want to think of how much it costs in cab fare. The cabbie certainly looks happy when Sherlock pays him and, even more so, when he is informed that his services are still needed and that he should wait in the vicinity for at least an hour.
John briefly wonders if the man might get in trouble for taking the vehicle so far from the city but, if he is concerned, he doesn't show it - instead more occupied with counting the money Sherlock gave him.
John wonders about the money as well and, before he can even text a question, his mobile beeps.
Anderson's wallet. - SH
John scoffs.
Stole his wallet? JW
Borrowed. - SH
Nicked - JW
Had it coming. - SH
John lets the issue drop because they're getting closer to the factory and it's best if he stays alert. They quietly creep inside and Sherlock does his best to motion that they should split up. John's against the idea, shaking his head, but Sherlock's motions are insistent and really, John knows they would cover more ground separate than together.
But there is still this niggling feeling from earlier, worrying him. If Sherlock gets into trouble (which he almost always does) he can't call out for assistance. John doesn't like the thought, but there is not much else he can do, so, begrudgingly, he nods his head and they part ways.
John's gun is tucked away, but he knows he can grab it in an instant if need be. So far he's seen no one nor anything that could be considered a potential threat. In fact, so far nothing has looked the least bit out of the ordinary. True, he's never been in an agricultural factory before, but nothing seems overtly suspicious so far.
Well, past his own breaking and entering.
Sometimes he wonders how his life has gotten to this point - this point where breaking the law is as normal as breathing. Though Sherlock always insists to him it's not breaking the law - merely bending it. And then something along the lines of how it's 'for the greater good' to which John starts quoting from 'Hot Fuzz' and Sherlock gives him exasperated looks of annoyance because films are so mundane.
John is still determined to get him to watch that movie someday.
John's just about to give up and go look for Sherlock when he sees something that makes his blood run cold. Earlier he may have misidentified the sound weapon as a bomb but what's before him now is most definitely a bomb. A bomb with a ticking clock.
Fifteen minutes.
Christ.
Only fifteen...
He gets to his feet and runs, runs and runs because he's more than a little panicked. He has no idea how large the blast radius will be, no idea if he can find Sherlock in time, no idea if...
He shouts. He knows no one can hear him, but he shouts anyway, shouts and yells because god damn it, there's not enough time. His heart is racing and his blood has mutated into ice water. He feels like if he was able to make sound he'd be hoarse by now.
Instead his throat just aches. Aches and aches but no sound - fuck - no sound.
He's never been so angry and scared and anxious in his entire life - all three emotions clawing at themselves, at him - he's being torn to shreds. He knows his time is almost up - knows it has to be - and he still hasn't seen Sherlock. Not even a flicker and he stops, presses a hand to his forehead, tries to focus.
He's near an exit, door thrown wide open, and he could just take it, he could go outside, he could escape. But Sherlock...
The choice is taken away from him.
The explosion is horrendously loud.
Stars burst behind John's eyes and suddenly he's flying. Flying.
His whole body aches and it a takes him a moment to orient himself, dizziness coursing through him. Cold, wet grass is beneath him and he sits up, nausea making his stomach lurch and for a moment he's positive he's going to vomit.
The moment passes though (thankfully vomit free) and he blinks rapidly, trying to center himself, trying to get a handle on what has just happened. The factory is in flames - a ball of smoke and destruction. The force of the explosion literally tossed him out the open entrance and a small part of him feels like he's the luckiest bastard that's ever lived.
The rest of him...
He screams Sherlock's name.
Screams it.
Were it audible, it might have been marked as blood chilling. It would be nothing in comparison to his face, which is heartbreaking. He looks at the inferno and everything is silence.
Absolutely everything.
The whole world is still.
The night sky black and starless.
Then he hears a sharp click.
One so recognizable that instinct immediately takes over and he turns, rises, gun in hand and there, in front of him, is Sherlock. He almost lowers the gun. Almost. Behind Sherlock is the man who made the click, a blonde, nasty looking fellow with a swallow complexion and beady eyes. As well as a rather nasty looking pistol.
Everything falls into place and suddenly John understands why the door was open in the first place. For a hysterical moment he wants to laugh. For once, he's thankful that Sherlock is virtually always the quintessential damsel in distress.
Not that he hasn't had Sherlock save him by the skin of his teeth before but, truthfully the odds are stacked in Sherlock's favor to be the one in need of a hand, or in this case, a gun.
The blonde man signals to John to lower his weapon.
John doesn't.
The blonde man points his gun at Sherlock.
Sherlock looks at John.
John looks at Sherlock.
Their eyes are locked.
There are no words, but no words are needed, not for this.
They never are.
Everything happens in an instant.
Sherlock moves, the blonde man goes to pull the trigger but John is faster, the bullet from his gun striking the blonde man between the eyes. It takes only seconds.
Sherlock gets to his feet, brushes himself off. John lowers his weapon, begins to realize that his limbs feel heavy, stiff. Silence settles over them once more, pure as snow.
*
They're not at the scene for very long.
One message to Mycroft and everything is wrapped up quickly.
At least for them.
Mycroft is disapproving as a whole, but, there is obviously some appreciation behind his actions and texts. The fact that John murdered the gunman is seamlessly swept under the rug. Mycroft remarking dryly that, being a thief, a traitor, and a terrorist the man could consider not being taken alive as a blessing.
The better news comes from Mycroft's revelation that the weapon is soon to be reversed. But not tonight, he says, not tonight, and as they enter the flat, the door shuts behind them with an overly audible click.
Sherlock raises his mobile, about to text him something, but John slaps the device out of his hand. Sherlock blinks and John just glares at him, jabs a finger at him, and he wishes he could speak.
He wishes he could express everything he is feeling through words instead of texts and facial expressions and actions because he is so, so...
There are too many emotions rolling around inside of him. All of them deep and sharp. He can't even pick out which one he feels the most. Adrenaline still thrums through his veins, his whole body singing with energy, and that niggling feeling from before is back, stronger than ever, highlighting how tonight is different.
And it's not just different because they can't speak.
He had thought Sherlock had died tonight.
It's not the first time he's had that thought, but somehow, tonight, it felt more sincere. Poignant and rough and all encompassing. Sherlock swallowed in an bright, burst of fire. Dead in a instant.
But he's not dead. He's alive and real and right in front of him and half of John is furious and the other half of him is so relieved that he feels breathless. He shoves Sherlock against the nearest wall and hugs him.
Sherlock's arms are stiff at his sides, whole body rigid, and John understands, he doesn't expect him to hug back. This whole thing is probably incredibly awkward for the world's only consulting detective. And that's okay. It's fine. John doesn't care if the man feels out of place, he just cares that the man is there.
They've never hugged before and John is quite positive later he will feel like the world's largest ass, but as of right now, he feels fantastic. He buries his face into Sherlock's shoulder, into his chest, breathes him in and feels alive.
Better, he feels Sherlock's alive, and, for a man who claims to have no heart, John can feel it beating wildly against his ribcage. A terrifyingly beautiful hummingbird of force. And John kisses him right above his heart, right at his shoulder, base of his neck, just lips pressing to cloth and it's all unconsciously done. It comes as naturally to him as the hug first did and he's about to draw away when Sherlock's arms finally work, hands rising up lightening quick to cup his face, kissing him on the mouth.
John gasps, pulls away, the sound of their lips breaking away from one another wet.
Sherlock looks at him and swallows thickly.
John blinks, blinks again, tries to absorb the fact that their lips just touched. That they kissed. That Sherlock kissed him and Sherlock's eyes, normally so cold and so aloof are warm and wild but only for a split second, so instantaneous John wonders if it happened at all.
Sherlock's eyes are as they should be now, a normal, cold mask of indifference as his hands lower and he glances down and away and his lips form words and John can't possibly believe they might be 'sorry'.
He licks his lips and can hear his heart beat in his ears. There's still time. Time to brush this off and time to pretend it never happened and time to act as if it was just a silly moment of indiscretion. There is time.
Their breathing is deafening and with each passing moment, John knows Sherlock can pull away, he knows that, somehow, the choice, the decision, is all up to him and that whatever he chooses, the other will follow his lead.
His eyes shut and Sherlock breathes out, goes to move away. John catches his arm. Stops him. Holds him. He opens his eyes. He looks at Sherlock, then, slowly, feels his head titling back, tipping to one side as he moves forward, kisses him once. Twice. Soft, gentle, unsure.
Sherlock's eyes don't close and neither do John's. They watch one another, measuring, testing, wary of each other and what this is. John draws back and, suddenly, the strangest thing happens.
He smiles.
He can feel it on his face, this small, happy smile that he can't seem to make go away and really doesn't want to and he feels Sherlock relax in front of him and then he's carding his fingers through the other man's curls, kissing him more passionately, mouths opening, tongues meeting and Sherlock kisses cautiously as if he's never done it before or as if he's relearning how and the innocent clumsiness of it makes John's heart squeeze.
Sherlock's deft fingers have slipped between them, finding John's collar, tugging on it, drawing him closer before traveling downwards, finding the buttons of his shirt, stumbling over them and one another and John's own fingers rise up, finding Sherlock's, holding them and he can feel them, cold and trembling, against his own. He squeezes them and really, they don't have to do this tonight.
A little at a time is a good thing.
But he can't say this, can only show it, as he draws Sherlock's fingers away, pulls back from their kisses, looks at him and he can tell the other man is wanting. John ignores the stab of sympathy, knowing Sherlock would hate him for it, but it is plainly obvious how much the other man craves more.
Or maybe he's lying to himself about how much he craves himself as Sherlock suddenly pushes him, pushes him until his back meets the door and Sherlock's mouth latches on to his neck, sucking and biting and, okay, John was definitely lying about how they don't have to do this tonight.
Because apparently everything up until this point has been some sort of elaborate foreplay. Their entire relationship - the banter, the fights, the running around - has all led to this moment. The kisses have gone from sweet and gentle to hot and ravenous and John's starting to think Sherlock might just take him right there against the door if he doesn't relocate them somewhere more appropriate.
He shoves and tugs and manages to work them up the stairs, manages to work them into the first bedroom available and of course it's Sherlock's, so he's tripping while they move, knocking over god only knows what, until thank god, they reach the bed which is (gloriously) big and empty and perfect for them to fall upon in a massive heap of fervor and limbs.
And John feels as if every other sense he has is now supernaturally heightened. He's marveling over the feel of Sherlock's exposed skin, reveling in the taste of him, captured by the scent of him, and it would be something of a sensory overload if it wasn't for the reigning silence.
More than ever John wishes he could hear Sherlock - their breathing is discernible, rushed and heavy and intoxicatingly arousing - but he wants to hear more, wants to hear deep whimpers and groans and filthy, filthy words. Most of all he wants to hear his name.
Clothing is a thing of the past and their hands are all over one another and Sherlock's elbow juts the wrong way, catching John's chin and there's choked gasp, the funniest look on his face and John laughs soundlessly, kisses him, reassures him, keeps touching him because it's comforting to know he's not the only one making it up as he goes.
Then it gets to that point - that point where it doesn't really matter that neither of them really knows what they're doing because they're too worked up, too pushed to the edge, and John's almost embarrassed by how easy this is going to be for him.
His only consolation is the fact that for Sherlock it will be even easier because the other man is undulating against him, obviously close, obviously only one or two strokes from there and John's face buries against his throat, mouth moving even though he can't be heard, speaking to him, talking against his flesh, urging him on.
Then, like a gunshot, like breaking glass, the world explodes. A sound, a word, a name rings through the air, clear, and deep and heartfelt.
"John!"
John comes the instant he hears it, the sound of his own groan, his own voice, rough and desperate to his own ears. Everything seems almost thunderous now. John clears his throat, speaks tentatively, worrying that he imagined hearing Sherlock talk, "We can..."
He drops off. Partially because he's breathless and partially because he's immersing himself in the discovery that he can speak again. Sherlock replies, voice dry even when panting, "Mycroft was off on the timetable. No surprise there."
"So...weapon reversed then?"
"You can hear me, what do you think?"
"I think it's funny that it happened right when you climaxed."
"Why do I get the impression that you are somehow trying to take credit for this?"
"Well, I am a pretty fantastic lover."
"You're lovemaking skills did not reverse what happened. However, I will concede that I was more than pleased with them."
"Mmm, I got that." John returns.
Sherlock sighs, "I imagine we will now have to have a long, drawn out, entirely unnecessary and tedious discussion of this event and its' ramifications."
John yawns, "Yes. Probably. But not tonight."
"No?"
"No. Should still be able to talk tomorrow, yes?"
Sherlock nods and John smiles sleepily, eyelids heavy, "Can discuss it then."
"John..."
"Shh."
"We can finally verbalize ourselves again and you shush me?"
"Love the sound of your voice, if that helps," John says softly, "But, been a long night - what with the gunman and the bomb and the sex - little tired."
Sherlock mutters several things under his breath and John, his face still pressed against Sherlock's throat, laughs and rises, kisses him, and then settles back in, "Good night."
Sherlock opens his mouth, thinks to say something, but stops. Instead he raises a hand up, runs it through John's hair and sighs, kissing his forehead, knowing that while they can speak again, some things are better without words.
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 2,872
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, violence, vague sexy times
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: All of London is quiet thanks to a weapon that steals voices.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: To no one's surprise, a Prompt on Sherlock BBC Kink Meme. Prompt was: Because it is my favorite episode of Buffy EVER ('Hush') - Sherlock and Co. lose the ability to speak. What happens?
The ride to the agricultural factory is time-consuming and John doesn't even want to think of how much it costs in cab fare. The cabbie certainly looks happy when Sherlock pays him and, even more so, when he is informed that his services are still needed and that he should wait in the vicinity for at least an hour.
John briefly wonders if the man might get in trouble for taking the vehicle so far from the city but, if he is concerned, he doesn't show it - instead more occupied with counting the money Sherlock gave him.
John wonders about the money as well and, before he can even text a question, his mobile beeps.
Anderson's wallet. - SH
John scoffs.
Stole his wallet? JW
Borrowed. - SH
Nicked - JW
Had it coming. - SH
John lets the issue drop because they're getting closer to the factory and it's best if he stays alert. They quietly creep inside and Sherlock does his best to motion that they should split up. John's against the idea, shaking his head, but Sherlock's motions are insistent and really, John knows they would cover more ground separate than together.
But there is still this niggling feeling from earlier, worrying him. If Sherlock gets into trouble (which he almost always does) he can't call out for assistance. John doesn't like the thought, but there is not much else he can do, so, begrudgingly, he nods his head and they part ways.
John's gun is tucked away, but he knows he can grab it in an instant if need be. So far he's seen no one nor anything that could be considered a potential threat. In fact, so far nothing has looked the least bit out of the ordinary. True, he's never been in an agricultural factory before, but nothing seems overtly suspicious so far.
Well, past his own breaking and entering.
Sometimes he wonders how his life has gotten to this point - this point where breaking the law is as normal as breathing. Though Sherlock always insists to him it's not breaking the law - merely bending it. And then something along the lines of how it's 'for the greater good' to which John starts quoting from 'Hot Fuzz' and Sherlock gives him exasperated looks of annoyance because films are so mundane.
John is still determined to get him to watch that movie someday.
John's just about to give up and go look for Sherlock when he sees something that makes his blood run cold. Earlier he may have misidentified the sound weapon as a bomb but what's before him now is most definitely a bomb. A bomb with a ticking clock.
Fifteen minutes.
Christ.
Only fifteen...
He gets to his feet and runs, runs and runs because he's more than a little panicked. He has no idea how large the blast radius will be, no idea if he can find Sherlock in time, no idea if...
He shouts. He knows no one can hear him, but he shouts anyway, shouts and yells because god damn it, there's not enough time. His heart is racing and his blood has mutated into ice water. He feels like if he was able to make sound he'd be hoarse by now.
Instead his throat just aches. Aches and aches but no sound - fuck - no sound.
He's never been so angry and scared and anxious in his entire life - all three emotions clawing at themselves, at him - he's being torn to shreds. He knows his time is almost up - knows it has to be - and he still hasn't seen Sherlock. Not even a flicker and he stops, presses a hand to his forehead, tries to focus.
He's near an exit, door thrown wide open, and he could just take it, he could go outside, he could escape. But Sherlock...
The choice is taken away from him.
The explosion is horrendously loud.
Stars burst behind John's eyes and suddenly he's flying. Flying.
His whole body aches and it a takes him a moment to orient himself, dizziness coursing through him. Cold, wet grass is beneath him and he sits up, nausea making his stomach lurch and for a moment he's positive he's going to vomit.
The moment passes though (thankfully vomit free) and he blinks rapidly, trying to center himself, trying to get a handle on what has just happened. The factory is in flames - a ball of smoke and destruction. The force of the explosion literally tossed him out the open entrance and a small part of him feels like he's the luckiest bastard that's ever lived.
The rest of him...
He screams Sherlock's name.
Screams it.
Were it audible, it might have been marked as blood chilling. It would be nothing in comparison to his face, which is heartbreaking. He looks at the inferno and everything is silence.
Absolutely everything.
The whole world is still.
The night sky black and starless.
Then he hears a sharp click.
One so recognizable that instinct immediately takes over and he turns, rises, gun in hand and there, in front of him, is Sherlock. He almost lowers the gun. Almost. Behind Sherlock is the man who made the click, a blonde, nasty looking fellow with a swallow complexion and beady eyes. As well as a rather nasty looking pistol.
Everything falls into place and suddenly John understands why the door was open in the first place. For a hysterical moment he wants to laugh. For once, he's thankful that Sherlock is virtually always the quintessential damsel in distress.
Not that he hasn't had Sherlock save him by the skin of his teeth before but, truthfully the odds are stacked in Sherlock's favor to be the one in need of a hand, or in this case, a gun.
The blonde man signals to John to lower his weapon.
John doesn't.
The blonde man points his gun at Sherlock.
Sherlock looks at John.
John looks at Sherlock.
Their eyes are locked.
There are no words, but no words are needed, not for this.
They never are.
Everything happens in an instant.
Sherlock moves, the blonde man goes to pull the trigger but John is faster, the bullet from his gun striking the blonde man between the eyes. It takes only seconds.
Sherlock gets to his feet, brushes himself off. John lowers his weapon, begins to realize that his limbs feel heavy, stiff. Silence settles over them once more, pure as snow.
*
They're not at the scene for very long.
One message to Mycroft and everything is wrapped up quickly.
At least for them.
Mycroft is disapproving as a whole, but, there is obviously some appreciation behind his actions and texts. The fact that John murdered the gunman is seamlessly swept under the rug. Mycroft remarking dryly that, being a thief, a traitor, and a terrorist the man could consider not being taken alive as a blessing.
The better news comes from Mycroft's revelation that the weapon is soon to be reversed. But not tonight, he says, not tonight, and as they enter the flat, the door shuts behind them with an overly audible click.
Sherlock raises his mobile, about to text him something, but John slaps the device out of his hand. Sherlock blinks and John just glares at him, jabs a finger at him, and he wishes he could speak.
He wishes he could express everything he is feeling through words instead of texts and facial expressions and actions because he is so, so...
There are too many emotions rolling around inside of him. All of them deep and sharp. He can't even pick out which one he feels the most. Adrenaline still thrums through his veins, his whole body singing with energy, and that niggling feeling from before is back, stronger than ever, highlighting how tonight is different.
And it's not just different because they can't speak.
He had thought Sherlock had died tonight.
It's not the first time he's had that thought, but somehow, tonight, it felt more sincere. Poignant and rough and all encompassing. Sherlock swallowed in an bright, burst of fire. Dead in a instant.
But he's not dead. He's alive and real and right in front of him and half of John is furious and the other half of him is so relieved that he feels breathless. He shoves Sherlock against the nearest wall and hugs him.
Sherlock's arms are stiff at his sides, whole body rigid, and John understands, he doesn't expect him to hug back. This whole thing is probably incredibly awkward for the world's only consulting detective. And that's okay. It's fine. John doesn't care if the man feels out of place, he just cares that the man is there.
They've never hugged before and John is quite positive later he will feel like the world's largest ass, but as of right now, he feels fantastic. He buries his face into Sherlock's shoulder, into his chest, breathes him in and feels alive.
Better, he feels Sherlock's alive, and, for a man who claims to have no heart, John can feel it beating wildly against his ribcage. A terrifyingly beautiful hummingbird of force. And John kisses him right above his heart, right at his shoulder, base of his neck, just lips pressing to cloth and it's all unconsciously done. It comes as naturally to him as the hug first did and he's about to draw away when Sherlock's arms finally work, hands rising up lightening quick to cup his face, kissing him on the mouth.
John gasps, pulls away, the sound of their lips breaking away from one another wet.
Sherlock looks at him and swallows thickly.
John blinks, blinks again, tries to absorb the fact that their lips just touched. That they kissed. That Sherlock kissed him and Sherlock's eyes, normally so cold and so aloof are warm and wild but only for a split second, so instantaneous John wonders if it happened at all.
Sherlock's eyes are as they should be now, a normal, cold mask of indifference as his hands lower and he glances down and away and his lips form words and John can't possibly believe they might be 'sorry'.
He licks his lips and can hear his heart beat in his ears. There's still time. Time to brush this off and time to pretend it never happened and time to act as if it was just a silly moment of indiscretion. There is time.
Their breathing is deafening and with each passing moment, John knows Sherlock can pull away, he knows that, somehow, the choice, the decision, is all up to him and that whatever he chooses, the other will follow his lead.
His eyes shut and Sherlock breathes out, goes to move away. John catches his arm. Stops him. Holds him. He opens his eyes. He looks at Sherlock, then, slowly, feels his head titling back, tipping to one side as he moves forward, kisses him once. Twice. Soft, gentle, unsure.
Sherlock's eyes don't close and neither do John's. They watch one another, measuring, testing, wary of each other and what this is. John draws back and, suddenly, the strangest thing happens.
He smiles.
He can feel it on his face, this small, happy smile that he can't seem to make go away and really doesn't want to and he feels Sherlock relax in front of him and then he's carding his fingers through the other man's curls, kissing him more passionately, mouths opening, tongues meeting and Sherlock kisses cautiously as if he's never done it before or as if he's relearning how and the innocent clumsiness of it makes John's heart squeeze.
Sherlock's deft fingers have slipped between them, finding John's collar, tugging on it, drawing him closer before traveling downwards, finding the buttons of his shirt, stumbling over them and one another and John's own fingers rise up, finding Sherlock's, holding them and he can feel them, cold and trembling, against his own. He squeezes them and really, they don't have to do this tonight.
A little at a time is a good thing.
But he can't say this, can only show it, as he draws Sherlock's fingers away, pulls back from their kisses, looks at him and he can tell the other man is wanting. John ignores the stab of sympathy, knowing Sherlock would hate him for it, but it is plainly obvious how much the other man craves more.
Or maybe he's lying to himself about how much he craves himself as Sherlock suddenly pushes him, pushes him until his back meets the door and Sherlock's mouth latches on to his neck, sucking and biting and, okay, John was definitely lying about how they don't have to do this tonight.
Because apparently everything up until this point has been some sort of elaborate foreplay. Their entire relationship - the banter, the fights, the running around - has all led to this moment. The kisses have gone from sweet and gentle to hot and ravenous and John's starting to think Sherlock might just take him right there against the door if he doesn't relocate them somewhere more appropriate.
He shoves and tugs and manages to work them up the stairs, manages to work them into the first bedroom available and of course it's Sherlock's, so he's tripping while they move, knocking over god only knows what, until thank god, they reach the bed which is (gloriously) big and empty and perfect for them to fall upon in a massive heap of fervor and limbs.
And John feels as if every other sense he has is now supernaturally heightened. He's marveling over the feel of Sherlock's exposed skin, reveling in the taste of him, captured by the scent of him, and it would be something of a sensory overload if it wasn't for the reigning silence.
More than ever John wishes he could hear Sherlock - their breathing is discernible, rushed and heavy and intoxicatingly arousing - but he wants to hear more, wants to hear deep whimpers and groans and filthy, filthy words. Most of all he wants to hear his name.
Clothing is a thing of the past and their hands are all over one another and Sherlock's elbow juts the wrong way, catching John's chin and there's choked gasp, the funniest look on his face and John laughs soundlessly, kisses him, reassures him, keeps touching him because it's comforting to know he's not the only one making it up as he goes.
Then it gets to that point - that point where it doesn't really matter that neither of them really knows what they're doing because they're too worked up, too pushed to the edge, and John's almost embarrassed by how easy this is going to be for him.
His only consolation is the fact that for Sherlock it will be even easier because the other man is undulating against him, obviously close, obviously only one or two strokes from there and John's face buries against his throat, mouth moving even though he can't be heard, speaking to him, talking against his flesh, urging him on.
Then, like a gunshot, like breaking glass, the world explodes. A sound, a word, a name rings through the air, clear, and deep and heartfelt.
"John!"
John comes the instant he hears it, the sound of his own groan, his own voice, rough and desperate to his own ears. Everything seems almost thunderous now. John clears his throat, speaks tentatively, worrying that he imagined hearing Sherlock talk, "We can..."
He drops off. Partially because he's breathless and partially because he's immersing himself in the discovery that he can speak again. Sherlock replies, voice dry even when panting, "Mycroft was off on the timetable. No surprise there."
"So...weapon reversed then?"
"You can hear me, what do you think?"
"I think it's funny that it happened right when you climaxed."
"Why do I get the impression that you are somehow trying to take credit for this?"
"Well, I am a pretty fantastic lover."
"You're lovemaking skills did not reverse what happened. However, I will concede that I was more than pleased with them."
"Mmm, I got that." John returns.
Sherlock sighs, "I imagine we will now have to have a long, drawn out, entirely unnecessary and tedious discussion of this event and its' ramifications."
John yawns, "Yes. Probably. But not tonight."
"No?"
"No. Should still be able to talk tomorrow, yes?"
Sherlock nods and John smiles sleepily, eyelids heavy, "Can discuss it then."
"John..."
"Shh."
"We can finally verbalize ourselves again and you shush me?"
"Love the sound of your voice, if that helps," John says softly, "But, been a long night - what with the gunman and the bomb and the sex - little tired."
Sherlock mutters several things under his breath and John, his face still pressed against Sherlock's throat, laughs and rises, kisses him, and then settles back in, "Good night."
Sherlock opens his mouth, thinks to say something, but stops. Instead he raises a hand up, runs it through John's hair and sighs, kissing his forehead, knowing that while they can speak again, some things are better without words.