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
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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."
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."
Fill: A Thorough Examination 6a/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 20:12:06 UTC
There was ratcheting sound, and the stirrups swung up and back, and Sherlock's legs with them, until his knees were nearly over his hips.
"This may be a bit uncomfortable, but you must tell me if it hurts, you understand? It shouldn't hurt. You do trust me, don't you, Sherlock?"
"Yes, John." He did, but there was a thread of fear winding through his thoughts now, fear that came with the certainty that there was no way out of this, that his updated knowledge of John's thought process and personality was still forming and he couldn't predict how far John would go, that no prediction wouldn't help him in any case.
Something much harder and smoother than John's finger pressed inside him. Thicker, as well, and he gasped.
John's hand was briefly soothing on his thigh, but then his fingers were running greedily around the edge of stretched muscle. The skin was tight and slick and too sensitive, and Sherlock tried to flinch away. He failed.
"Lovely," John murmured, and then his fingers were gone, he was moving, manipulating the thing (speculum? the dimensions seemed to fit the one he'd seen on the tray) inside Sherlock, and yes, that was what it was because it was getting bigger, stretching him wider.
"John."
John paused. "Does it hurt?"
After a long few seconds of adjustment and cooling sweat on his chest, he was forced to admit that it didn't. It was uncomfortable and unyielding, and he felt immensely full, but it didn't actually hurt. He shook his head.
John kept going, spreading him open, pausing every now and then to touch the stretched skin of his hole, to turn the instrument lightly from side to side. It produced a deep, itching almost-pleasure that made Sherlock bite his lip and shove his feet harder against cold metal.
"Hm," John said, when Sherlock all but trembling and sure the thing must be open as far as it could go. "Not as good a view as I'd hoped for. We'll have to go to the next size up, I'm afraid."
Sherlock could barely hear the noise that revelation forced out of him, and he was trembling as John pulled the thing slowly out-- "Can't close it all the way, sorry, tissue can get caught." --and out, and the widest point was at the very end, and he was left feeling empty and trying desperately to close his legs, body momentarily beyond his control.
"I have got a spreader bar I can use for your knees if you make me," John said absently. "So I imagine you'll want to stop that."
Sherlock sucked in a breath, thought hard about the opening notes to Prokofiev's Violin Sonata No. 2 in D major, and did stop it. It was not easy, but the threat of still more restraints was more than sufficient motivation. His heart was a constant percussion in his chest; each beat shook his body.
"Better," John said. "Now let's try this again."
By the time the second, larger instrument was seated and open inside him, there were tears stinging Sherlock's eyes. It was all pressure and slick intrusive movements inside him, sensations that walked some fine edge between too-intense pleasure and violation, and over it all, John's soft voice telling him how well he was doing.
"It's really lovely, how sensitive you are. Just impossible to resist. Let's see how sensitive, shall we?"
John was feeding something into the space left by the speculum, something thin and rigid, the tip of which fitted into place against his prostate. John gave it a few nudges, and then there was a click, and the thing started to vibrate.
Sherlock's back arched, and he panted, shifted his hips madly from side to side, but John must have fixed it in place somehow, because nothing he did got him the slightest relief.
"John-- John!"
John laughed. "Hush. I know that doesn't hurt."
"I can't, I can't--"
John moved, and there was a rough hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Not so loud, please." The hand was replaced by another length of gauze that John wrapped around the back of Sherlock's head and fitted between his lips. It pulled at the corners of his mouth and muffled and distorted his words. He was almost grateful for that last: seconds more of this and he'd be begging.
Fill: A Thorough Examination 6b/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 20:13:42 UTC
"You can," John said. "We're nowhere what you can handle yet. Most people mean pain when they talk about the body's limits, but pleasure can be just as intense. Am I right?"
Sherlock couldn't answer, couldn't even really form words inside his own head. His cock was hard and pulsing pre-come that leaked down the shaft and stuck to his stomach. He was so close, muscles shaking with it, cock hot and aching. If he could just touch, it would be over in seconds.
"Of course, pain has its place, too. In controlled situations. Like this one."
A trail of sharp pricks ran up the inside of Sherlock's right thigh. It was distracting more than painful, but the higher up they went, the more sensitive his skin became. When it rolled over his balls he sucked in breath and went very still.
"Wartenburg pinwheel. Designed to test nerve response. They make disposable models now, but I like the steel myself. What do you think?"
It ran up the underside of Sherlock's cock, sharp, so sharp against skin stretched tight. Sherlock's chest heaved, and his orgasm retreated. John ran it up over the head, and he clenched his jaw tight. Up his stomach and chest, back down, and his skin seemed to grow new nerve endings in its wake.
Inner thighs again. It was almost ticklish now. John had a light touch. Sherlock shifted, and the points pressed hard into his skin. He let out a shaky breath at the bright spot of feeling that caused. He couldn't even manage to classify it. Pain, or pleasure, or something else entirely; it was beyond him.
"You do seem to be responding nicely," John said. He sounded amused.
There was a click, and the vibration inside Sherlock intensified, at least twice as strong, and his head hit the table, neck bent awkwardly as if some contortion might result in relief. There was no relief. The little spikes started up his thighs again, over his balls, down to the soft, vulnerable skin stretched around the speculum.
John stayed there, going in little circles, bright specks of almost-pain followed by the press of his finger. His fingertip, slicked again, pushed and wiggled between the edge of skin and the edge of the instrument and the edge of Sherlock's resolve. A choked whimper forced its way from behind the gag, and Sherlock bit at the inside of his cheek.
"Beautiful," John said, softly.
Then it was the pinwheel again, crawling up to his stomach, tracing around his cock, not quite touching, but a constant threat. The muscles of his stomach twitched, and he was pulling hard at the bindings that held his wrists. The pinwheel left his stomach and came down lightly on his cock.
"This is how you're going to come," John said. "It's a bit of a balancing act, you see? The vibrator and this. Your body can't decide which to respond to, so it draws things out."
It didn't hurt. Sherlock wanted it to hurt. It would be easier if it hurt. He could classify it, file it away in his brain, understand it. Instead he had the constant nag of this maddening, ticklish itch, like something crawling up and down his cock. It fought with the vibrator just as John said, and when it rolled over and around the head it was enough like pain to make Sherlock's breath hitch.
It vanished, and John took his cock in a gloved, slicked hand, and stroked him firmly, only once. It was enough to make him arch off the table as much as he could, enough to make him start begging for just one more touch because he knew that would be enough.
"Please," he said, but it came out mangled by the gag and he didn't even know if John could understand him. The pinwheel was back, light prickling and pulling him back from the edge.
"Sixty seconds," John said. "Count it out in your head if you can manage it."
Sherlock tried, but he must've lost count. He was only on forty-seven when John's hand closed around him again and drew up from root to tip, firm and warm and perfect. Then it was the pinwheel again, and Sherlock's throat and eyes burned hot with frustration.
Fill: A Thorough Examination 6c/?
anonymous
September 27 2010, 20:15:37 UTC
"Sixty seconds," John said again. "I'm trying to help you out here, Sherlock. To do this test properly I shouldn't be touching you at all."
It was seventy-six seconds this time, by Sherlock's count, and the smooth glide of John's hand was the best thing in the world. Either he was miscounting or John was being deliberately imprecise to throw him off. His time sense seemed to be going. How long had John had him like this? Normally, he would know to the minute. Now he could only estimate within a 30 minute margin of error, and that was unaccepta--
"I think you're drifting again, Sherlock." John took him in hand again, gave him three rough strokes, and he was so close he couldn't feel anything else, not the table under him or the bite of leather against his ankles or his own nails in his palms.
"Please, John, please, please don't stop--" He couldn't hear himself at all or guess how he sounded. The words broke into whimpers as John stopped touching him entirely and the vibrator jacked up another notch inside him.
He came in long spurts across his chest and throat. Colors swirled behind his eyes, and every muscle strained. When it was over, he collapsed and lay bonelessly still, mind empty of any thought.
"Good," John said. "Now we can really get started."
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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"Not this far. I've pulled the prostate exam bit a few times."
People = gullible.
Wait - John has been working toward this THE WHOLE TIME THEY WERE FLATMATES? That is DIABOLICAL!!!!!!!!!
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*shifty eyes* Author-anon, darling, love, pet? Is it too late to put in a request for some electricity play? *hides in shame*
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"This may be a bit uncomfortable, but you must tell me if it hurts, you understand? It shouldn't hurt. You do trust me, don't you, Sherlock?"
"Yes, John." He did, but there was a thread of fear winding through his thoughts now, fear that came with the certainty that there was no way out of this, that his updated knowledge of John's thought process and personality was still forming and he couldn't predict how far John would go, that no prediction wouldn't help him in any case.
Something much harder and smoother than John's finger pressed inside him. Thicker, as well, and he gasped.
John's hand was briefly soothing on his thigh, but then his fingers were running greedily around the edge of stretched muscle. The skin was tight and slick and too sensitive, and Sherlock tried to flinch away. He failed.
"Lovely," John murmured, and then his fingers were gone, he was moving, manipulating the thing (speculum? the dimensions seemed to fit the one he'd seen on the tray) inside Sherlock, and yes, that was what it was because it was getting bigger, stretching him wider.
"John."
John paused. "Does it hurt?"
After a long few seconds of adjustment and cooling sweat on his chest, he was forced to admit that it didn't. It was uncomfortable and unyielding, and he felt immensely full, but it didn't actually hurt. He shook his head.
John kept going, spreading him open, pausing every now and then to touch the stretched skin of his hole, to turn the instrument lightly from side to side. It produced a deep, itching almost-pleasure that made Sherlock bite his lip and shove his feet harder against cold metal.
"Hm," John said, when Sherlock all but trembling and sure the thing must be open as far as it could go. "Not as good a view as I'd hoped for. We'll have to go to the next size up, I'm afraid."
Sherlock could barely hear the noise that revelation forced out of him, and he was trembling as John pulled the thing slowly out-- "Can't close it all the way, sorry, tissue can get caught." --and out, and the widest point was at the very end, and he was left feeling empty and trying desperately to close his legs, body momentarily beyond his control.
"I have got a spreader bar I can use for your knees if you make me," John said absently. "So I imagine you'll want to stop that."
Sherlock sucked in a breath, thought hard about the opening notes to Prokofiev's Violin Sonata No. 2 in D major, and did stop it. It was not easy, but the threat of still more restraints was more than sufficient motivation. His heart was a constant percussion in his chest; each beat shook his body.
"Better," John said. "Now let's try this again."
By the time the second, larger instrument was seated and open inside him, there were tears stinging Sherlock's eyes. It was all pressure and slick intrusive movements inside him, sensations that walked some fine edge between too-intense pleasure and violation, and over it all, John's soft voice telling him how well he was doing.
"It's really lovely, how sensitive you are. Just impossible to resist. Let's see how sensitive, shall we?"
John was feeding something into the space left by the speculum, something thin and rigid, the tip of which fitted into place against his prostate. John gave it a few nudges, and then there was a click, and the thing started to vibrate.
Sherlock's back arched, and he panted, shifted his hips madly from side to side, but John must have fixed it in place somehow, because nothing he did got him the slightest relief.
"John-- John!"
John laughed. "Hush. I know that doesn't hurt."
"I can't, I can't--"
John moved, and there was a rough hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Not so loud, please." The hand was replaced by another length of gauze that John wrapped around the back of Sherlock's head and fitted between his lips. It pulled at the corners of his mouth and muffled and distorted his words. He was almost grateful for that last: seconds more of this and he'd be begging.
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Sherlock couldn't answer, couldn't even really form words inside his own head. His cock was hard and pulsing pre-come that leaked down the shaft and stuck to his stomach. He was so close, muscles shaking with it, cock hot and aching. If he could just touch, it would be over in seconds.
"Of course, pain has its place, too. In controlled situations. Like this one."
A trail of sharp pricks ran up the inside of Sherlock's right thigh. It was distracting more than painful, but the higher up they went, the more sensitive his skin became. When it rolled over his balls he sucked in breath and went very still.
"Wartenburg pinwheel. Designed to test nerve response. They make disposable models now, but I like the steel myself. What do you think?"
It ran up the underside of Sherlock's cock, sharp, so sharp against skin stretched tight. Sherlock's chest heaved, and his orgasm retreated. John ran it up over the head, and he clenched his jaw tight. Up his stomach and chest, back down, and his skin seemed to grow new nerve endings in its wake.
Inner thighs again. It was almost ticklish now. John had a light touch. Sherlock shifted, and the points pressed hard into his skin. He let out a shaky breath at the bright spot of feeling that caused. He couldn't even manage to classify it. Pain, or pleasure, or something else entirely; it was beyond him.
"You do seem to be responding nicely," John said. He sounded amused.
There was a click, and the vibration inside Sherlock intensified, at least twice as strong, and his head hit the table, neck bent awkwardly as if some contortion might result in relief. There was no relief. The little spikes started up his thighs again, over his balls, down to the soft, vulnerable skin stretched around the speculum.
John stayed there, going in little circles, bright specks of almost-pain followed by the press of his finger. His fingertip, slicked again, pushed and wiggled between the edge of skin and the edge of the instrument and the edge of Sherlock's resolve. A choked whimper forced its way from behind the gag, and Sherlock bit at the inside of his cheek.
"Beautiful," John said, softly.
Then it was the pinwheel again, crawling up to his stomach, tracing around his cock, not quite touching, but a constant threat. The muscles of his stomach twitched, and he was pulling hard at the bindings that held his wrists. The pinwheel left his stomach and came down lightly on his cock.
"This is how you're going to come," John said. "It's a bit of a balancing act, you see? The vibrator and this. Your body can't decide which to respond to, so it draws things out."
It didn't hurt. Sherlock wanted it to hurt. It would be easier if it hurt. He could classify it, file it away in his brain, understand it. Instead he had the constant nag of this maddening, ticklish itch, like something crawling up and down his cock. It fought with the vibrator just as John said, and when it rolled over and around the head it was enough like pain to make Sherlock's breath hitch.
It vanished, and John took his cock in a gloved, slicked hand, and stroked him firmly, only once. It was enough to make him arch off the table as much as he could, enough to make him start begging for just one more touch because he knew that would be enough.
"Please," he said, but it came out mangled by the gag and he didn't even know if John could understand him. The pinwheel was back, light prickling and pulling him back from the edge.
"Sixty seconds," John said. "Count it out in your head if you can manage it."
Sherlock tried, but he must've lost count. He was only on forty-seven when John's hand closed around him again and drew up from root to tip, firm and warm and perfect. Then it was the pinwheel again, and Sherlock's throat and eyes burned hot with frustration.
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It was seventy-six seconds this time, by Sherlock's count, and the smooth glide of John's hand was the best thing in the world. Either he was miscounting or John was being deliberately imprecise to throw him off. His time sense seemed to be going. How long had John had him like this? Normally, he would know to the minute. Now he could only estimate within a 30 minute margin of error, and that was unaccepta--
"I think you're drifting again, Sherlock." John took him in hand again, gave him three rough strokes, and he was so close he couldn't feel anything else, not the table under him or the bite of leather against his ankles or his own nails in his palms.
"Please, John, please, please don't stop--" He couldn't hear himself at all or guess how he sounded. The words broke into whimpers as John stopped touching him entirely and the vibrator jacked up another notch inside him.
He came in long spurts across his chest and throat. Colors swirled behind his eyes, and every muscle strained. When it was over, he collapsed and lay bonelessly still, mind empty of any thought.
"Good," John said. "Now we can really get started."
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This is incredible, Anon. Brava. Brava. @_@
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