Thanks for the clarification, I am on it! This is sort of a prologue; the rest might take a bit longer 'cause I want all the porn written before I start posting it. No one likes to be left hanging in the middle of porn. XD
***
"You really don't take very good care of yourself," John said.
It was morning. Sherlock had watched the sun come up. He had two patches on his arm and he was working on his third cup of coffee in the past hour.
"I take care of my mind, John. It's the mind that's important. The body is irrelevant. Transport."
"Mm," John said, into his tea. "All the same. You ought to get a check up."
"Why on Earth would I want to do that?"
"It'd make me feel better."
"And why would I want to make you feel better?"
"It'd keep me from binning that mold culture in the back of the fridge."
"I can grow more mold."
"Yeah. Or you could come down and meet me after work and I could check you over and it'd be done in fifteen minutes. Your mold would be safe. And the severed hand in the freezer. I know you've got a month left to go before it's got the amount of freezer burn you wanted for comparison to that Norwich case."
Sherlock was quiet a long time. He'd been working on that hand for six weeks already. He hadn't thought John knew it was in there. "Fifteen minutes?"
"Perhaps a bit more. Not a big chunk out of your evening though. We could get a pizza after."
"Very well."
"Good." John smiled. "That's good. Thanks for being so reasonable about it."
Sherlock watched John's mouth as that smile slid away too quickly. There had been something there, something he'd not had time to analyze. He was left with the unsettling impression of having witnessed an expression that didn't belong on John Watson's face at all. In its wake it left the equally unsettling thought that perhaps he didn't know John as entirely as he thought he did.
+
That evening stretched to twenty minutes, though only because Sherlock balked at disrobing entirely and putting on the ridiculous garment doctors handed out on such occasions.
"I might as well be naked," he said.
"If you'd rather," John said, smiling his little smile, utterly unperturbed.
Sherlock pressed his lips together. "You're buying the pizza."
"Of course."
"Fine." He wore the robe, gap in the front after some hesitation, to put something between the chilly exam table and his rear.
"Bit of a catch-22, isn't it, that thing," John said. He tugged Sherlock's arms loose from their crossed position over his chest and rested an immensely cold stethoscope over his nipple.
Sherlock sucked in air and absolutely did not make any sort of undignified noise whatsoever.
"Sorry, sorry." John patted his shoulder, bare where the gown had slipped. "I don't keep it on ice, I swear, just feels that way."
He laid it on Sherlock's chest, in a more practical position this time. He told Sherlock to breathe, and Sherlock did. He listened to Sherlock's chest, front and back, to his heart and lungs and pronounced them, "Decent enough for all the smoking you did."
Sherlock sat very still, lest he lose what little covering he had. He felt more exposed than the catch-22 gown could account for. It wasn't as if he'd never had an exam before. It must be John, he decided, John knowing him so intimately already and now learning his body as well.
Their intimacy accounted for John's hand on his thigh, too, as John tapped at his patellar tendon to test his reflexes. Surely he didn't touch his patients like that. Then again, Sherlock didn't have a lot of experience with the whole area of touching in general. Perhaps he was wrong.
John did buy him pizza afterwards, even let him--cheerfully--get anchovies on half. John hated anchovies.
Sherlock was left with three lingering sense memories that tried and failed to delete from his hard drive over the next few days: how hard his nipples had been for almost the entire exam after that brush with cold metal; the sight of John's hand on his thigh, three fingers entirely hidden under the robe; John's warm smile when it was all over, all pride and approval and things Sherlock shouldn't care about in the least.
Oh, dear Neptune...this is going to be so amazing, I can tell. I'll get you that cuppa, you rest your leg ...wait, sorry. Forget I said that. The pre-porn is making my brain fuzzy. ^^ I=SO EXCITED!!
cannot now shake the image of John writing this for Mrs Hudson, (not so) secret slasher, and it's making me lol forever. XD thanks, i'm really glad you're enjoying it so far!!
Fill: A Thorough Examination 2/?
anonymous
September 24 2010, 23:16:54 UTC
"Isn't this meant to be an annual ordeal?" Sherlock said, without looking up from his computer screen.
"Ye-es," John said. "For people who eat regular meals, sleep at night, aren't exposed to toxic chemicals on a near daily basis and refuse to wear gloves when handling them, don't chase lunatics across rooftops--"
"That was weeks ago! It's not a habit."
John sighed. "I worry about you, Sherlock. It's not as if I'm asking you to go to Bart's and let some stranger do it. It's just me. Fifteen minutes, once a month. Is that really too much to ask? I don't think I ask for much."
Sherlock was aware, distantly, that John asked for almost nothing from him and generally got less. He tried to focus on the article he was reading (on the timing of traffic lights; could be useful in a chase) but it was proving difficult.
"It's for your own good," John said, mild as ever.
"Oh, fine, as I can see you won't let it go."
"Yes, I think you'll find it's much easier to just give in."
John was smiling that smile again. Sherlock could hear it in his voice.
+
The second time was not much different from the first, except that John bought him Thai food afterward instead of pizza. Except that John soothed the cold touch of the stethoscope with his hand and Sherlock could feel it all through dinner, warmth on his chest, ring finger putting the faintest bit of extra pressure on the hard tip of his nipple, the ticklish trail of fingers all the way down to his hip. Where John's hand had stayed as Sherlock breathed in and out on command.
+
The third time, it was almost routine, until:
"Is that really necessary?" Sherlock shifted on the table. "I'm only thirty-four, surely--"
"It will take literally two minutes," John said. He rested his hands on his hips. "Look, I promise you it doesn't hurt, if that's what you're afraid of. I won't insist on it every month, but you do use your body a lot harder than the average thirty-four year old, and--"
"All right," Sherlock said, resistance crumbling abruptly. "All right. Tell me what to do."
"Good man. Hop down and turn around."
Sherlock did and then let John press him forward with a soft touch on the back of his neck until he was bent over the exam table. John squeezed lightly before he let go, and Sherlock shivered. It was the chill of the room, had to be. The gown barely covered the backs of his thighs now, and then John pushed it up to the middle of his back, and it covered nothing.
"I've done hundreds of these for the Army," John said. "Don't worry about a thing."
John's finger was warm and slick, unnaturally smooth from the latex glove, and Sherlock's breath hitched as it rubbed down between his cheeks and over clenched muscle.
"Ease up," John murmured. "Nothing to be afraid of." His free hand stroked down Sherlock's back and up again, rubbing along his spine. It made the gown ride up still more.
Sherlock gripped the edge of the table hard and made a conscious effort to relax. He couldn't hold back his gasp when John's finger slipped inside.
Fill: A Thorough Examination 3/?
anonymous
September 24 2010, 23:19:18 UTC
"Very good," John told him, and then there was a second finger pressing in beside the first, and-- Well. Sherlock hadn't read a lot on the subject of prostate exams and nothing recently. Perhaps the technique had changed.
He couldn't think or rationalize past that. The stretch of muscle was too intense, not quite pain, but a low grade burn that demanded his attention over and over. He shifted slightly to ease his bare feet on the cold tile and gasped again.
John chuckled. "Best not to move. It'll be over soon."
And John was reaching, pressing in, angling for something, and when he found it Sherlock felt his body squeeze down tight around John's fingers, impossible to control.
"Sorry," he said. It came out shaky, and he could feel his face heating up.
"Perfectly natural," John said.
It came just a shade to late for it to be true, and Sherlock pressed his forehead to the table. The paper covering rustled each time he moved, however minutely, and he couldn't quite keep still.
John's fingers twisted inside him, pressing, rubbing, lightly at first and then harder. It sent sparks down Sherlock's spine, and he felt his cock start to thicken. John was standing close behind him now, one warm thigh pressed to the back of Sherlock's, light wool against bare skin.
"Just a bit more," John said. "Don't think about it, that's my advice. What do you want for dinner this time? Anywhere you like."
This was surely, surely not the way it was meant to go. Not these short thrusts that had Sherlock's toes curling against the tile, that shook him and made his thoughts rattle around loose, that made him breathe too fast and bite his lip to stay quiet. He interpreted the growing tension and heat and sheer electricity in his body and calculated he was roughly sixty seconds away from the first non-solitary orgasm of his life.
"John," he said, and there no disguising how rough his voice was, or how low.
"All done," John said, and pulled his fingers gently out. "I'll just leave you to get dressed."
The sound of water running: John washing up in the small bathroom next door. Sherlock levered himself off the table and could do nothing but hold onto its edge for long minutes while his knees remembered they weren't made from jelly. He was so hard he ached, and John almost certainly knew that. He was a doctor, after all.
Getting back into his trousers was excruciating, but John was still in the bathroom, and Sherlock could hardly ask him to get out just so he could bring himself off. He was buttoning his shirt when John came back.
"It just takes some people that way," John said, kindly. "It's really nothing to be ashamed of. Where are we going for dinner then? You never said."
"Zora," Sherlock said. It was Japanese, which John wasn't fond of, and expensive.
John agreed at once, and, when they got there, didn't even protest when Sherlock ordered the octopus. Sherlock sat through dinner with a persistent ache in his balls and a determination to google prostate exams as soon as he got home.
Somehow, with one thing and another, he never did.
_____________
more probably on sunday, as tomorrow will be insane for me. captcha says: "octodermal romance" ...i don't know, but i feel like it's related.
Re: Fill: A Thorough Examination 3/? darthhellokittySeptember 25 2010, 00:48:26 UTC
Yes, Sherlock, you DEFINITELY deserve Japanese after that. DAMN! I'll bet John knew exactly how close he was, too.
I love the way the exams start out relatively normal, and escalate gradually - also the way the dinners get better. I can't wait to see where they go to dinner next. Paris?
Fill: A Thorough Examination 4/?
anonymous
September 25 2010, 12:58:08 UTC
John was the most contradictory person Sherlock had ever met; less iron fist in velvet glove and more unexpected granite center to a chocolate that by rights ought to have been strawberry creme. You'd never guess from the outside, and if you bit down too hard, you broke your teeth.
They'd stopped at Sainsbury's after the fourth check up (uneventful but for the way John was perfectly, carefully professional in every respect, but for the way John kept his hands strictly to himself, but for the way Sherlock felt afterwards, which was not relieved at all), and a woman in the produce section tried to pick Sherlock up over the aubergines.
John had wandered over, apple in each hand, looked her up and down, and said, "Leave off, he's out of your league."
Her cheeks had flushed pink and she'd mumbled something inaudible and gone off, holding onto an aubergine she probably didn't want.
"That was...not very nice," Sherlock had said, uncertain, because John was always nice, and Sherlock was a terrible judge of nice, and perhaps he had misunderstood?
John had shrugged and touched the small of Sherlock's back to guide him toward the cabbage. "It was true."
John had cooked for him that night, last night, a surprisingly good Chinese stir fry.
Sherlock hauled himself off the sofa and out of his thoughts and went to heat up the leftovers. John had made him promise to eat a decent lunch, and somehow Sherlock had agreed to John's definition of decent (includes vegetables and protein) as opposed to his own (includes caffeine).
Sherlock's life was awfully full of John recently. Sherlock's head was awfully full of John. Sherlock's arse had been awfully full of John. And he still hadn't checked on the authenticity of John's exam technique, which could only mean he didn't really want to know.
He decided, over rice and stir fry, that this must be one more thing that was wrong with him. John had figured it out, and that was why the fourth time had been so...impersonal. So he would carry on being impersonal, and there would be no further problems.
Sherlock nodded sharply and dumped the rest of his food in the bin, appetite gone.
Fill: A Thorough Examination 5a/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 01:03:30 UTC
Thanks for the encouragement, guys! I really appreciate it! :D
______
The fifth time, it was late. Sherlock stopped at John's office on the way home from a crime scene (world's most boring murder-suicide), and John was the only one there.
"Almost done," John said. "Just a bit of paperwork, be right with you." He handed Sherlock a cup of tea and sat at his desk, head bent down, light from his desk lamp splashed down his neck and shoulders in a warm haze.
Sherlock drank the tea and changed into the wretched little gown and thought about where he could get John to take him for dinner tonight. Five minutes passed. "Are you going to take all night?" he called.
"Not long now."
Ten minutes. Sherlock stretched out on the table. The room felt warmer than usual, and his eyelids were heavy. Odd. He'd slept last night, a solid four hours. He let them close.
Next: his arms were stretched tight over his head, both his feet were touching cold metal, and when he pried his eyes open he saw John fastening his left ankle to a metal stirrup with a leather strap.
He swallowed hard. "Something in the tea," he said.
"A mild sedative. Would you like some water?"
Sherlock nodded, cautious, certain this was not a good situation at all, and yet everything in John's stance and expression said this was...fine. Normal. John was Sherlock's touchstone for normality, for what was fine and what was not, for right and wrong. No one ever looked at John and said, "A bit not good."
"What is this?" Sherlock said.
John cupped the back of his head and tipped a glass to his lips. The water was cool and welcome, his mouth so dry it seemed to absorb it on contact.
"I thought it was time for a more in-depth examination," John said lightly.
He pulled up a wheeled tray filled with instruments. Sherlock recognized perhaps half of them. The speculum and the scalpel were the most worrying.
"In depth," he repeated.
"Mm." John unwound a length of gauze and wrapped it around Sherlock's eyes, round the back of his head, over his eyes, again and again until the world went from blurred to white to entirely black. "Just a few tests." He flipped the edges of Sherlock's gown open, baring him entirely.
"John..."
"A few questions first. You're not currently sexually active, correct?"
"That's-- Yes, that's correct."
"You never have been."
Five months of data rushed through Sherlock's head, bright and sharp and suddenly coalescing into quite a different picture than the one he'd had so firmly in mind since last time.
"You've spent all this time--
"Preparing you," John said.
"Manipulating me."
"It was easier than I thought it would be." He paused and laid a hand on Sherlock's thigh. "But this isn't really your area, is it?"
His hand left Sherlock's skin, and he made some adjustment--sound of metal on metal, in need of oil--and the stirrups moved out and away from each other, spreading Sherlock's legs wide.
"I must learn not to theorize ahead of data."
"There are a few other things you need to learn, too," John said.
"And you mean to teach me?"
"Of course. This is my area." He was standing between Sherlock's legs, hands resting lightly on Sherlock's knees. "And I am your doctor. Only a fool doesn't listen to his doctor, right?"
John's heat vanished from between his legs, and Sherlock heard footsteps, the shift of something not metal on something metal. What he felt was cold, and it took him a second to interpret it as the stethoscope, now pressed over his nipple and held there.
"The body's more than transport, Sherlock. You can make your voice do what you like, but I can hear your heart. Coming up on ninety beats per second. You do run fast, but that's excessive even for you."
There was a moment of silence, or a moment which neither of them tried to fill. Sherlock heard traffic outside, the faint sound of an ambulance siren, the wind-driven rain against the roof and the window.
"Well. Where were we? Oh, yeah. Never been sexually active. Correct?"
"John..."
"Sherlock. It's an important question. I need to know these things to determine your treatment."
Fill: A Thorough Examination 5b/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 01:04:58 UTC
"Treatment?" Sherlock was not used to confusion, and he was now as confused, as uncertain as he had even been in his life. It wasn't that he didn't understand what John meant to do (more or less, probably he lacked some detail, which his imagination was only too happy to supply). It was his own reaction that left him feeling desperately out of his depth.
John sighed, a disappointed sound, and he was certainly standing with his hands on his hips as he had before, a posture and expression to indicate that Sherlock was being unreasonable.
"Sherlock, I need to know. I realize it may be a bit embarrassing, but I am your doctor. You've got to trust me."
He did trust John. Even now. That was the hell of it. He didn't know how not to anymore.
"Correct," he said. It came out less firm than he'd meant it to, a quiet, choked word in a room full of silence.
He heard John's shaky sigh, and then nothing while he counted in his head, trying to keep calm. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three--
"That's good, Sherlock. Thanks." John's voice was perfectly steady again. He sounded quite himself, but for a certain deeper tone that had to do with tension held in the throat, usually caused by strong emotion, often a good indicator of dishonesty but also anger, fear, and arousal--
John's hand rested on Sherlock's lower stomach, an inch from his cock. Sherlock's train of thought derailed, a spectacular crash, broken tracks, fireball, no survivors.
"But you do masturbate?" John said. "No problems with achieving an erection or ejaculation?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"That's encouraging."
Sherlock almost laughed. John even sounded encouraging. He really was good at this. Had he done it before? Clearly he'd never been caught, and no wonder if he was this careful, this precise, this patient. Sherlock sifted through the last five months again. He needed more information.
"Sherlock." Sound of stretched latex snapping back into place; gloves. A tube uncapped. "Don't drift off, please. If this is going to work, I'll need your full attention, and I will have it."
Slick warmth between his spread cheeks, John's finger again, pressing in. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut behind in the blindfold.
"You have questions," John said.
He ought to have answers, but John did have his full attention now, and he couldn't make his brain work properly. One finger was quickly followed by a second, and they twisted together inside, curved up, and made him see stars as he closed his eyes still tighter. His cock was stiffening, and his breath was coming hard and ragged. Still, he needed to know.
"Who else?" he gasped. "Anyone?"
"Not this far. I've pulled the prostate exam bit a few times."
"Easy to--let people's embarrassment--" He was panting now. John's thrusts were much harder than last time, much more precisely judged, hitting home every time. He pulled against the straps at his ankles and shifted restlessly, paper rustling beneath him.
"Yes, quite. No one wants to think about it, let alone talk about it. Half a dozen Army boys with sexual identity crises. That's about the extent of it."
He pulled his fingers out, and Sherlock's body clenched on nothing. Sherlock turned his face toward his shoulder, searching for somewhere to hide.
"It's not the extent of what I've thought about, of course," John said. "I guess I was waiting for the right moment. Or the right person."
"And that person is me?"
"Seems that way, doesn't it? Relax now. Just a bit more lubricant and then we'll get on."
John pushed cool gel into him until Sherlock found himself trying to shift away. It was impossible, of course, and he was stuck with this feeling of being too wet, too slick, too open and exposed.
"Problem?" John said.
Sherlock dug his nails into his palms. "If I asked you to stop," he said, haltingly, forcing every word out. "Would you-- Is there any chance--"
"Sherlock."
He recognized the tone of John's voice. It was similar to the one he used himself when John was being unbearably dim. From John, it was much gentler, and Sherlock found himself indescribably grateful for that.
"No, I suppose not," he said. "Not having come this far."
***
"You really don't take very good care of yourself," John said.
It was morning. Sherlock had watched the sun come up. He had two patches on his arm and he was working on his third cup of coffee in the past hour.
"I take care of my mind, John. It's the mind that's important. The body is irrelevant. Transport."
"Mm," John said, into his tea. "All the same. You ought to get a check up."
"Why on Earth would I want to do that?"
"It'd make me feel better."
"And why would I want to make you feel better?"
"It'd keep me from binning that mold culture in the back of the fridge."
"I can grow more mold."
"Yeah. Or you could come down and meet me after work and I could check you over and it'd be done in fifteen minutes. Your mold would be safe. And the severed hand in the freezer. I know you've got a month left to go before it's got the amount of freezer burn you wanted for comparison to that Norwich case."
Sherlock was quiet a long time. He'd been working on that hand for six weeks already. He hadn't thought John knew it was in there. "Fifteen minutes?"
"Perhaps a bit more. Not a big chunk out of your evening though. We could get a pizza after."
"Very well."
"Good." John smiled. "That's good. Thanks for being so reasonable about it."
Sherlock watched John's mouth as that smile slid away too quickly. There had been something there, something he'd not had time to analyze. He was left with the unsettling impression of having witnessed an expression that didn't belong on John Watson's face at all. In its wake it left the equally unsettling thought that perhaps he didn't know John as entirely as he thought he did.
+
That evening stretched to twenty minutes, though only because Sherlock balked at disrobing entirely and putting on the ridiculous garment doctors handed out on such occasions.
"I might as well be naked," he said.
"If you'd rather," John said, smiling his little smile, utterly unperturbed.
Sherlock pressed his lips together. "You're buying the pizza."
"Of course."
"Fine." He wore the robe, gap in the front after some hesitation, to put something between the chilly exam table and his rear.
"Bit of a catch-22, isn't it, that thing," John said. He tugged Sherlock's arms loose from their crossed position over his chest and rested an immensely cold stethoscope over his nipple.
Sherlock sucked in air and absolutely did not make any sort of undignified noise whatsoever.
"Sorry, sorry." John patted his shoulder, bare where the gown had slipped. "I don't keep it on ice, I swear, just feels that way."
He laid it on Sherlock's chest, in a more practical position this time. He told Sherlock to breathe, and Sherlock did. He listened to Sherlock's chest, front and back, to his heart and lungs and pronounced them, "Decent enough for all the smoking you did."
Sherlock sat very still, lest he lose what little covering he had. He felt more exposed than the catch-22 gown could account for. It wasn't as if he'd never had an exam before. It must be John, he decided, John knowing him so intimately already and now learning his body as well.
Their intimacy accounted for John's hand on his thigh, too, as John tapped at his patellar tendon to test his reflexes. Surely he didn't touch his patients like that. Then again, Sherlock didn't have a lot of experience with the whole area of touching in general. Perhaps he was wrong.
John did buy him pizza afterwards, even let him--cheerfully--get anchovies on half. John hated anchovies.
Sherlock was left with three lingering sense memories that tried and failed to delete from his hard drive over the next few days: how hard his nipples had been for almost the entire exam after that brush with cold metal; the sight of John's hand on his thigh, three fingers entirely hidden under the robe; John's warm smile when it was all over, all pride and approval and things Sherlock shouldn't care about in the least.
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cannot now shake the image of John writing this for Mrs Hudson, (not so) secret slasher, and it's making me lol forever. XD thanks, i'm really glad you're enjoying it so far!!
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"Ye-es," John said. "For people who eat regular meals, sleep at night, aren't exposed to toxic chemicals on a near daily basis and refuse to wear gloves when handling them, don't chase lunatics across rooftops--"
"That was weeks ago! It's not a habit."
John sighed. "I worry about you, Sherlock. It's not as if I'm asking you to go to Bart's and let some stranger do it. It's just me. Fifteen minutes, once a month. Is that really too much to ask? I don't think I ask for much."
Sherlock was aware, distantly, that John asked for almost nothing from him and generally got less. He tried to focus on the article he was reading (on the timing of traffic lights; could be useful in a chase) but it was proving difficult.
"It's for your own good," John said, mild as ever.
"Oh, fine, as I can see you won't let it go."
"Yes, I think you'll find it's much easier to just give in."
John was smiling that smile again. Sherlock could hear it in his voice.
+
The second time was not much different from the first, except that John bought him Thai food afterward instead of pizza. Except that John soothed the cold touch of the stethoscope with his hand and Sherlock could feel it all through dinner, warmth on his chest, ring finger putting the faintest bit of extra pressure on the hard tip of his nipple, the ticklish trail of fingers all the way down to his hip. Where John's hand had stayed as Sherlock breathed in and out on command.
+
The third time, it was almost routine, until:
"Is that really necessary?" Sherlock shifted on the table. "I'm only thirty-four, surely--"
"It will take literally two minutes," John said. He rested his hands on his hips. "Look, I promise you it doesn't hurt, if that's what you're afraid of. I won't insist on it every month, but you do use your body a lot harder than the average thirty-four year old, and--"
"All right," Sherlock said, resistance crumbling abruptly. "All right. Tell me what to do."
"Good man. Hop down and turn around."
Sherlock did and then let John press him forward with a soft touch on the back of his neck until he was bent over the exam table. John squeezed lightly before he let go, and Sherlock shivered. It was the chill of the room, had to be. The gown barely covered the backs of his thighs now, and then John pushed it up to the middle of his back, and it covered nothing.
"I've done hundreds of these for the Army," John said. "Don't worry about a thing."
John's finger was warm and slick, unnaturally smooth from the latex glove, and Sherlock's breath hitched as it rubbed down between his cheeks and over clenched muscle.
"Ease up," John murmured. "Nothing to be afraid of." His free hand stroked down Sherlock's back and up again, rubbing along his spine. It made the gown ride up still more.
Sherlock gripped the edge of the table hard and made a conscious effort to relax. He couldn't hold back his gasp when John's finger slipped inside.
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He couldn't think or rationalize past that. The stretch of muscle was too intense, not quite pain, but a low grade burn that demanded his attention over and over. He shifted slightly to ease his bare feet on the cold tile and gasped again.
John chuckled. "Best not to move. It'll be over soon."
And John was reaching, pressing in, angling for something, and when he found it Sherlock felt his body squeeze down tight around John's fingers, impossible to control.
"Sorry," he said. It came out shaky, and he could feel his face heating up.
"Perfectly natural," John said.
It came just a shade to late for it to be true, and Sherlock pressed his forehead to the table. The paper covering rustled each time he moved, however minutely, and he couldn't quite keep still.
John's fingers twisted inside him, pressing, rubbing, lightly at first and then harder. It sent sparks down Sherlock's spine, and he felt his cock start to thicken. John was standing close behind him now, one warm thigh pressed to the back of Sherlock's, light wool against bare skin.
"Just a bit more," John said. "Don't think about it, that's my advice. What do you want for dinner this time? Anywhere you like."
This was surely, surely not the way it was meant to go. Not these short thrusts that had Sherlock's toes curling against the tile, that shook him and made his thoughts rattle around loose, that made him breathe too fast and bite his lip to stay quiet. He interpreted the growing tension and heat and sheer electricity in his body and calculated he was roughly sixty seconds away from the first non-solitary orgasm of his life.
"John," he said, and there no disguising how rough his voice was, or how low.
"All done," John said, and pulled his fingers gently out. "I'll just leave you to get dressed."
The sound of water running: John washing up in the small bathroom next door. Sherlock levered himself off the table and could do nothing but hold onto its edge for long minutes while his knees remembered they weren't made from jelly. He was so hard he ached, and John almost certainly knew that. He was a doctor, after all.
Getting back into his trousers was excruciating, but John was still in the bathroom, and Sherlock could hardly ask him to get out just so he could bring himself off. He was buttoning his shirt when John came back.
"It just takes some people that way," John said, kindly. "It's really nothing to be ashamed of. Where are we going for dinner then? You never said."
"Zora," Sherlock said. It was Japanese, which John wasn't fond of, and expensive.
John agreed at once, and, when they got there, didn't even protest when Sherlock ordered the octopus. Sherlock sat through dinner with a persistent ache in his balls and a determination to google prostate exams as soon as he got home.
Somehow, with one thing and another, he never did.
_____________
more probably on sunday, as tomorrow will be insane for me. captcha says: "octodermal romance" ...i don't know, but i feel like it's related.
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You write really quickly, and so torturously!!! AUGH!! I will have these images in my head until Sunday!! (thank you)
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I love the way the exams start out relatively normal, and escalate gradually - also the way the dinners get better. I can't wait to see where they go to dinner next. Paris?
Anon, you are SO GOOD TO US. Thank you.
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This is... guh. :D
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John was the most contradictory person Sherlock had ever met; less iron fist in velvet glove and more unexpected granite center to a chocolate that by rights ought to have been strawberry creme. You'd never guess from the outside, and if you bit down too hard, you broke your teeth.
They'd stopped at Sainsbury's after the fourth check up (uneventful but for the way John was perfectly, carefully professional in every respect, but for the way John kept his hands strictly to himself, but for the way Sherlock felt afterwards, which was not relieved at all), and a woman in the produce section tried to pick Sherlock up over the aubergines.
John had wandered over, apple in each hand, looked her up and down, and said, "Leave off, he's out of your league."
Her cheeks had flushed pink and she'd mumbled something inaudible and gone off, holding onto an aubergine she probably didn't want.
"That was...not very nice," Sherlock had said, uncertain, because John was always nice, and Sherlock was a terrible judge of nice, and perhaps he had misunderstood?
John had shrugged and touched the small of Sherlock's back to guide him toward the cabbage. "It was true."
John had cooked for him that night, last night, a surprisingly good Chinese stir fry.
Sherlock hauled himself off the sofa and out of his thoughts and went to heat up the leftovers. John had made him promise to eat a decent lunch, and somehow Sherlock had agreed to John's definition of decent (includes vegetables and protein) as opposed to his own (includes caffeine).
Sherlock's life was awfully full of John recently. Sherlock's head was awfully full of John. Sherlock's arse had been awfully full of John. And he still hadn't checked on the authenticity of John's exam technique, which could only mean he didn't really want to know.
He decided, over rice and stir fry, that this must be one more thing that was wrong with him. John had figured it out, and that was why the fourth time had been so...impersonal. So he would carry on being impersonal, and there would be no further problems.
Sherlock nodded sharply and dumped the rest of his food in the bin, appetite gone.
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Guh. I did not know I wanted this until I read this fic.
Captcha: Balls fistio. I think Captcha and Anon agree that this fic needs moar porn.
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______
The fifth time, it was late. Sherlock stopped at John's office on the way home from a crime scene (world's most boring murder-suicide), and John was the only one there.
"Almost done," John said. "Just a bit of paperwork, be right with you." He handed Sherlock a cup of tea and sat at his desk, head bent down, light from his desk lamp splashed down his neck and shoulders in a warm haze.
Sherlock drank the tea and changed into the wretched little gown and thought about where he could get John to take him for dinner tonight. Five minutes passed. "Are you going to take all night?" he called.
"Not long now."
Ten minutes. Sherlock stretched out on the table. The room felt warmer than usual, and his eyelids were heavy. Odd. He'd slept last night, a solid four hours. He let them close.
Next: his arms were stretched tight over his head, both his feet were touching cold metal, and when he pried his eyes open he saw John fastening his left ankle to a metal stirrup with a leather strap.
He swallowed hard. "Something in the tea," he said.
"A mild sedative. Would you like some water?"
Sherlock nodded, cautious, certain this was not a good situation at all, and yet everything in John's stance and expression said this was...fine. Normal. John was Sherlock's touchstone for normality, for what was fine and what was not, for right and wrong. No one ever looked at John and said, "A bit not good."
"What is this?" Sherlock said.
John cupped the back of his head and tipped a glass to his lips. The water was cool and welcome, his mouth so dry it seemed to absorb it on contact.
"I thought it was time for a more in-depth examination," John said lightly.
He pulled up a wheeled tray filled with instruments. Sherlock recognized perhaps half of them. The speculum and the scalpel were the most worrying.
"In depth," he repeated.
"Mm." John unwound a length of gauze and wrapped it around Sherlock's eyes, round the back of his head, over his eyes, again and again until the world went from blurred to white to entirely black. "Just a few tests." He flipped the edges of Sherlock's gown open, baring him entirely.
"John..."
"A few questions first. You're not currently sexually active, correct?"
"That's-- Yes, that's correct."
"You never have been."
Five months of data rushed through Sherlock's head, bright and sharp and suddenly coalescing into quite a different picture than the one he'd had so firmly in mind since last time.
"You've spent all this time--
"Preparing you," John said.
"Manipulating me."
"It was easier than I thought it would be." He paused and laid a hand on Sherlock's thigh. "But this isn't really your area, is it?"
His hand left Sherlock's skin, and he made some adjustment--sound of metal on metal, in need of oil--and the stirrups moved out and away from each other, spreading Sherlock's legs wide.
"I must learn not to theorize ahead of data."
"There are a few other things you need to learn, too," John said.
"And you mean to teach me?"
"Of course. This is my area." He was standing between Sherlock's legs, hands resting lightly on Sherlock's knees. "And I am your doctor. Only a fool doesn't listen to his doctor, right?"
John's heat vanished from between his legs, and Sherlock heard footsteps, the shift of something not metal on something metal. What he felt was cold, and it took him a second to interpret it as the stethoscope, now pressed over his nipple and held there.
"The body's more than transport, Sherlock. You can make your voice do what you like, but I can hear your heart. Coming up on ninety beats per second. You do run fast, but that's excessive even for you."
There was a moment of silence, or a moment which neither of them tried to fill. Sherlock heard traffic outside, the faint sound of an ambulance siren, the wind-driven rain against the roof and the window.
"Well. Where were we? Oh, yeah. Never been sexually active. Correct?"
"John..."
"Sherlock. It's an important question. I need to know these things to determine your treatment."
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John sighed, a disappointed sound, and he was certainly standing with his hands on his hips as he had before, a posture and expression to indicate that Sherlock was being unreasonable.
"Sherlock, I need to know. I realize it may be a bit embarrassing, but I am your doctor. You've got to trust me."
He did trust John. Even now. That was the hell of it. He didn't know how not to anymore.
"Correct," he said. It came out less firm than he'd meant it to, a quiet, choked word in a room full of silence.
He heard John's shaky sigh, and then nothing while he counted in his head, trying to keep calm. Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three--
"That's good, Sherlock. Thanks." John's voice was perfectly steady again. He sounded quite himself, but for a certain deeper tone that had to do with tension held in the throat, usually caused by strong emotion, often a good indicator of dishonesty but also anger, fear, and arousal--
John's hand rested on Sherlock's lower stomach, an inch from his cock. Sherlock's train of thought derailed, a spectacular crash, broken tracks, fireball, no survivors.
"But you do masturbate?" John said. "No problems with achieving an erection or ejaculation?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"That's encouraging."
Sherlock almost laughed. John even sounded encouraging. He really was good at this. Had he done it before? Clearly he'd never been caught, and no wonder if he was this careful, this precise, this patient. Sherlock sifted through the last five months again. He needed more information.
"Sherlock." Sound of stretched latex snapping back into place; gloves. A tube uncapped. "Don't drift off, please. If this is going to work, I'll need your full attention, and I will have it."
Slick warmth between his spread cheeks, John's finger again, pressing in. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut behind in the blindfold.
"You have questions," John said.
He ought to have answers, but John did have his full attention now, and he couldn't make his brain work properly. One finger was quickly followed by a second, and they twisted together inside, curved up, and made him see stars as he closed his eyes still tighter. His cock was stiffening, and his breath was coming hard and ragged. Still, he needed to know.
"Who else?" he gasped. "Anyone?"
"Not this far. I've pulled the prostate exam bit a few times."
"Easy to--let people's embarrassment--" He was panting now. John's thrusts were much harder than last time, much more precisely judged, hitting home every time. He pulled against the straps at his ankles and shifted restlessly, paper rustling beneath him.
"Yes, quite. No one wants to think about it, let alone talk about it. Half a dozen Army boys with sexual identity crises. That's about the extent of it."
He pulled his fingers out, and Sherlock's body clenched on nothing. Sherlock turned his face toward his shoulder, searching for somewhere to hide.
"It's not the extent of what I've thought about, of course," John said. "I guess I was waiting for the right moment. Or the right person."
"And that person is me?"
"Seems that way, doesn't it? Relax now. Just a bit more lubricant and then we'll get on."
John pushed cool gel into him until Sherlock found himself trying to shift away. It was impossible, of course, and he was stuck with this feeling of being too wet, too slick, too open and exposed.
"Problem?" John said.
Sherlock dug his nails into his palms. "If I asked you to stop," he said, haltingly, forcing every word out. "Would you-- Is there any chance--"
"Sherlock."
He recognized the tone of John's voice. It was similar to the one he used himself when John was being unbearably dim. From John, it was much gentler, and Sherlock found himself indescribably grateful for that.
"No, I suppose not," he said. "Not having come this far."
"I'm glad you understand," John said.
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Dear God, this is such a guilty pleasure!
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