Fill (2/?)
anonymous
November 9 2010, 12:12:01 UTC
"Stop fidgeting," John snaps. He presses down on Sherlock's shoulder with his right hand and pulls the at hem of Sherlock's shirt with his left so that he can get a better look at the bandages on Sherlock's ribs.
Sherlock stops.
He wants to stop, he realizes. He wants to go still and quiet just because John wants him to, because John's hand is warm and steady, and he's staring at Sherlock intently enough to make Sherlock's skin prickle. John presses down on the bandage. His touch is light, but it still makes Sherlock tense up, a low, throbbing pain spreading across his chest. "You're healing up nicely," John says. "Don't do anything to hinder your recovery. I mean it, Sherlock."
Sherlock snorts. He doubts he'll be up for this whole 'resting' business much longer. Soon enough, the boredom will be back and John will have to tell Sherlock to stop putting holes in the wall and to stop leaving experiments out to rot and to stop sulking around the flat. "Yes, fine," Sherlock says, because that's what John wants to hear.
John doesn't pull back the way Sherlock expects him to. "I'm going to be keeping an eye out," John says, frowning. "Don't do anything stupid." His fingers drift over the skin of Sherlock's stomach, surprisingly cold, and Sherlock sucks in a soft breath. If John notices his reaction, he gives no sign of it.
"Of course," Sherlock says, and he finds that he wants to do this, wants to make John happy, wants to bend when John pushes. The realization makes him feel as though he's been punched in the chest, like all the air has left his body at once.
John lips twitch upwards, and Sherlock bites his tongue to keep himself from dropping to knees.
---
One day Sherlock notices a bruise on John's upper arm, most likely an errant elbow to the from the looks of it. It's pale and a little old, purple fading into yellow at the edges.
"You went to the pub two nights ago," Sherlock says, "judging by the smell of your jacket. There was a fight. You were caught in the middle of it." He knows he is staring but he can't bring himself to care. John has long since stopped being bothered by it.
John flushes red along his neck. "Ah, no. Not quite. Well, you're right about the pub. No fight, though."
He's right; there's been no damage to any of John's clothes as far as Sherlock can see, not even the slightest marks. He'd been naked, then, and Sherlock does needs to readjust his observations to compensate for the lack of clothing. Was it an accident? Sherlock does not see any other evidence on John's skin of a brawl or even a struggle, just a round bruise, barely noticeable to someone who isn't Sherlock. Sex, then. Which would explain the nakedness and John's hesitance to talk about it. "She kicked you," Sherlock says, "while you were in bed."
John's eyes twitch to the right and the blush deepens. "I'm really not going to talk about my sex life with you," John says.
"It was an accident," Sherlock says. "I had figured as such." An accident while they were doing what, exactly? She had been on her back, and John had been between her legs. John's head had been between her legs too, judging by the angle of the bruise. Did John startle her with a touch of pain? Sherlock wonders. Did he dig his nails into her skin hard enough to make her twitch? How many marks did he leave on her body?
"I have no idea why I'm even bothering to say this, because I know you're not going to listen anyway, but it's really none of your business and I'm not telling you anything," John says. He gives Sherlock a look that makes Sherlock's back want to go straight, makes Sherlock want to behave just so John can pat his head and tell him he did good. John says, "Just-- don't, Sherlock."
Fill (3/?)
anonymous
November 11 2010, 00:58:01 UTC
Sometimes, Sherlock's mind fills up with things other than cases, dead bodies, and scraps of dirt under fingernails.
These days, it is mostly John. It's normal things, like reconstructing the exact sounds John would make as he comes, a synthesis of what he sounds like while he's eating particularly good curry and what he sounds like after he's stretched an aching muscle first thing in the morning, or like imagining the feel of John's cock in his hands, his mouth, wanting the salt-skin taste of it on his tongue.
And it's less-normal things too, like the smell of John's shampoo and the way he looks after he's rolled out of bed, sleep still clinging to him until he's had a proper shower and some tea. It's wanting to examine the lines around John's eyes and needing to touch the sharp jut of John's collar bone. It's the way John says his name, annoyed and exasperated and affectionate all at once.
Sherlock finds it rather annoying, how distracting he finds it all. He likes the cases because they clear his mind out, give him something sharp and bright to focus his thoughts, but John is apparently capable of drowning out even that.
"What was that about the ear plugs you said?" John asks while Sherlock is trying not to think too hard about the way John's hands are wrapped around the grip of his gun, steady and sure.
"Hmm? They'll be in the cookie jar," Sherlock says, "conveniently covered in the victim's blood." They're in the hallway that leads to the suspect's flat, and Sherlock feels a sharp rush of adrenaline at the thought of physical danger.
John goes still beside him, even stiller than usual. "You'll never stop amazing me," John says, his voice quiet, and a strange, fluttery feeling takes up residence in Sherlock's ribcage, almost painful in its intensity.
"We should get moving," Sherlock says around the tightness in his throat. "He'll want to make a run for it, because of the--"
"All right," John says, cutting him off. "Let's go."
----
Sherlock supposes that he should have realized that things were going to come to a head sooner or later, but in his defense, his mind has been too preoccupied as of late to consider the long term. So when John shows up in the doorway to his bedroom on a quiet Sunday morning, Sherlock thinks that it has more to do with the experiment he left in the tub than anything else. It doesn't.
"Do you trust me?" John asks when Sherlock turns to look at him.
He's not touching Sherlock, a careful two feet between them, and Sherlock wants to lean towards him, wants to bury his face in the wool of John's jumper and just breathe in the scents of it, London and dim sum and John's particular brand of detergent. "Yes," Sherlock says, and the word tastes strange on his tongue.
"Good," John says, as he brushes his lips across Sherlock's, light enough to be a tease. "I want you kneeling."
Sherlock drops to his knees almost as soon as John's finished the sentence. "You knew," Sherlock says, still feeling a bit petulant. He's not in that place in his head yet, where all he can do is want and obey and need. "You knew and you didn't say anything."
"I suspected," John says. "I didn't know until just now." He runs a hand through Sherlock's hair, his fingers digging lightly into Sherlock's scalp. "You'd be obedient at the strangest times and I could never suss out why that was."
"You're not very observant," Sherlock agrees, and John yanks his hair, forcing Sherlock's head back. It strains Sherlock's neck just a tick past comfortable. It makes Sherlock want to whimper. It makes Sherlock want to beg.
"We're not talking about me," John says. "Safeword?" His voice is as mild and as pleasant as it always is, but there's a slight edge to it that slides up Sherlock's spine and makes Sherlock's mouth go dry.
"Is that really necessary? I already said I trusted you," Sherlock says. He likes the idea of John doing whatever (whatever) he wants to Sherlock's body, likes the thought that John might not stop, even if Sherlock asked him to.
Another twist of Sherlock's hair, painful this time, a sensation that goes straight to Sherlock's cock. "Tell me your safeword, Sherlock," John says, and this time it's an order.
Re: Fill (3/?)tatyan85November 11 2010, 07:57:08 UTC
Oh yes. Dear Anon, you don't know how happy you make me. I wanted a true, honest D/s relationship with Sherlock as the sub from the very beginning, and you also menaged to write it in a incredibly believable way. With Sherlock POV! He isn't the easiest chap to write. Your style is just perfect. You menage to make us see how much Sherlock is falling in love with little things "Sherlock wants to lean towards him, wants to bury his face in the wool of John's jumper and just breathe in the scents of it, London and dim sum and John's particular brand of detergent". So true and so him! Please, keep this going, dear Anon. I'll refresh this page like a madwoman in the next days
Sherlock stops.
He wants to stop, he realizes. He wants to go still and quiet just because John wants him to, because John's hand is warm and steady, and he's staring at Sherlock intently enough to make Sherlock's skin prickle. John presses down on the bandage. His touch is light, but it still makes Sherlock tense up, a low, throbbing pain spreading across his chest. "You're healing up nicely," John says. "Don't do anything to hinder your recovery. I mean it, Sherlock."
Sherlock snorts. He doubts he'll be up for this whole 'resting' business much longer. Soon enough, the boredom will be back and John will have to tell Sherlock to stop putting holes in the wall and to stop leaving experiments out to rot and to stop sulking around the flat. "Yes, fine," Sherlock says, because that's what John wants to hear.
John doesn't pull back the way Sherlock expects him to. "I'm going to be keeping an eye out," John says, frowning. "Don't do anything stupid." His fingers drift over the skin of Sherlock's stomach, surprisingly cold, and Sherlock sucks in a soft breath. If John notices his reaction, he gives no sign of it.
"Of course," Sherlock says, and he finds that he wants to do this, wants to make John happy, wants to bend when John pushes. The realization makes him feel as though he's been punched in the chest, like all the air has left his body at once.
John lips twitch upwards, and Sherlock bites his tongue to keep himself from dropping to knees.
---
One day Sherlock notices a bruise on John's upper arm, most likely an errant elbow to the from the looks of it. It's pale and a little old, purple fading into yellow at the edges.
"You went to the pub two nights ago," Sherlock says, "judging by the smell of your jacket. There was a fight. You were caught in the middle of it." He knows he is staring but he can't bring himself to care. John has long since stopped being bothered by it.
John flushes red along his neck. "Ah, no. Not quite. Well, you're right about the pub. No fight, though."
He's right; there's been no damage to any of John's clothes as far as Sherlock can see, not even the slightest marks. He'd been naked, then, and Sherlock does needs to readjust his observations to compensate for the lack of clothing. Was it an accident? Sherlock does not see any other evidence on John's skin of a brawl or even a struggle, just a round bruise, barely noticeable to someone who isn't Sherlock. Sex, then. Which would explain the nakedness and John's hesitance to talk about it. "She kicked you," Sherlock says, "while you were in bed."
John's eyes twitch to the right and the blush deepens. "I'm really not going to talk about my sex life with you," John says.
"It was an accident," Sherlock says. "I had figured as such." An accident while they were doing what, exactly? She had been on her back, and John had been between her legs. John's head had been between her legs too, judging by the angle of the bruise. Did John startle her with a touch of pain? Sherlock wonders. Did he dig his nails into her skin hard enough to make her twitch? How many marks did he leave on her body?
"I have no idea why I'm even bothering to say this, because I know you're not going to listen anyway, but it's really none of your business and I'm not telling you anything," John says. He gives Sherlock a look that makes Sherlock's back want to go straight, makes Sherlock want to behave just so John can pat his head and tell him he did good. John says, "Just-- don't, Sherlock."
Sherlock doesn't.
Reply
This is fantastic!
Reply
And you write amazingly good!
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
These days, it is mostly John. It's normal things, like reconstructing the exact sounds John would make as he comes, a synthesis of what he sounds like while he's eating particularly good curry and what he sounds like after he's stretched an aching muscle first thing in the morning, or like imagining the feel of John's cock in his hands, his mouth, wanting the salt-skin taste of it on his tongue.
And it's less-normal things too, like the smell of John's shampoo and the way he looks after he's rolled out of bed, sleep still clinging to him until he's had a proper shower and some tea. It's wanting to examine the lines around John's eyes and needing to touch the sharp jut of John's collar bone. It's the way John says his name, annoyed and exasperated and affectionate all at once.
Sherlock finds it rather annoying, how distracting he finds it all. He likes the cases because they clear his mind out, give him something sharp and bright to focus his thoughts, but John is apparently capable of drowning out even that.
"What was that about the ear plugs you said?" John asks while Sherlock is trying not to think too hard about the way John's hands are wrapped around the grip of his gun, steady and sure.
"Hmm? They'll be in the cookie jar," Sherlock says, "conveniently covered in the victim's blood." They're in the hallway that leads to the suspect's flat, and Sherlock feels a sharp rush of adrenaline at the thought of physical danger.
John goes still beside him, even stiller than usual. "You'll never stop amazing me," John says, his voice quiet, and a strange, fluttery feeling takes up residence in Sherlock's ribcage, almost painful in its intensity.
"We should get moving," Sherlock says around the tightness in his throat. "He'll want to make a run for it, because of the--"
"All right," John says, cutting him off. "Let's go."
----
Sherlock supposes that he should have realized that things were going to come to a head sooner or later, but in his defense, his mind has been too preoccupied as of late to consider the long term. So when John shows up in the doorway to his bedroom on a quiet Sunday morning, Sherlock thinks that it has more to do with the experiment he left in the tub than anything else. It doesn't.
"Do you trust me?" John asks when Sherlock turns to look at him.
He's not touching Sherlock, a careful two feet between them, and Sherlock wants to lean towards him, wants to bury his face in the wool of John's jumper and just breathe in the scents of it, London and dim sum and John's particular brand of detergent. "Yes," Sherlock says, and the word tastes strange on his tongue.
"Good," John says, as he brushes his lips across Sherlock's, light enough to be a tease. "I want you kneeling."
Sherlock drops to his knees almost as soon as John's finished the sentence. "You knew," Sherlock says, still feeling a bit petulant. He's not in that place in his head yet, where all he can do is want and obey and need. "You knew and you didn't say anything."
"I suspected," John says. "I didn't know until just now." He runs a hand through Sherlock's hair, his fingers digging lightly into Sherlock's scalp. "You'd be obedient at the strangest times and I could never suss out why that was."
"You're not very observant," Sherlock agrees, and John yanks his hair, forcing Sherlock's head back. It strains Sherlock's neck just a tick past comfortable. It makes Sherlock want to whimper. It makes Sherlock want to beg.
"We're not talking about me," John says. "Safeword?" His voice is as mild and as pleasant as it always is, but there's a slight edge to it that slides up Sherlock's spine and makes Sherlock's mouth go dry.
"Is that really necessary? I already said I trusted you," Sherlock says. He likes the idea of John doing whatever (whatever) he wants to Sherlock's body, likes the thought that John might not stop, even if Sherlock asked him to.
Another twist of Sherlock's hair, painful this time, a sensation that goes straight to Sherlock's cock. "Tell me your safeword, Sherlock," John says, and this time it's an order.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Your style is just perfect. You menage to make us see how much Sherlock is falling in love with little things "Sherlock wants to lean towards him, wants to bury his face in the wool of John's jumper and just breathe in the scents of it, London and dim sum and John's particular brand of detergent". So true and so him!
Please, keep this going, dear Anon. I'll refresh this page like a madwoman in the next days
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment