Fill (5/6)
anonymous
November 14 2010, 21:29:05 UTC
There's a faint line on the back of John's neck, paler than the skin around it. When John lets him, Sherlock likes to trace it with his fingers, as if he can feel the indentations that must have been left behind.
"Why don't you wear your tags anymore?" Sherlock asks one lazy Saturday morning as they're both lounging around the flat. John is reading a book. Sherlock is reading John. Sherlock doesn't have to ask that John keeps his tags in one of the bags in his closet that he never opens, the same one contains his uniform and most of the other clothes he wore during the war. Sherlock doesn't understand that about John, since John can talk about his experiences easily enough, and even with the PTSD, John seems to want it back. He follows Sherlock around London and into danger, after all, a brightness in his eyes and a gun at his side. John acts as if he never wanted to leave in the first place.
John entire body stiffens, and Sherlock can feel him pull away. "What does it matter?" John asks, and his voice sounds brittle and hard. A bad button to push, then, but Sherlock has already pressed it and he might as well see this through.
"I wanted to see them," Sherlock says. He imagines what they'd look like, hanging from John's neck while he's fucking Sherlock, the metal plates dangling over Sherlock's chest. And then after that, Sherlock could suck the chain into his mouth and taste the metal mixed with John's sweat. Sherlock's body hums pleasantly at the the thought.
John studies Sherlock for a long moment before he stands up and leaves in order to fetch them from his room. When he gets back, he's carrying them in a tight fist, his knuckles white and his lips pulled into a thin line, but he hands them over without much reluctance.
The tags haven't been cleaned, which surprises Sherlock because John is usually fastidious with such things, but there's still a smattering of blood on the metal and a good deal of sand and dust still wedged underneath the silencers. Sherlock says, "Is this blood--"
John doesn't let him finish. He pulls the tags out of Sherlock's hands and slides them over Sherlock's head.
Sherlock hadn't considered it before, but maybe he had and John had seen it, had known even before Sherlock did (and isn't that interesting and useful for further study?). The chain is cool against his neck, and as John tucks the tags underneath Sherlock's shirt, Sherlock feels almost breathless from the knowledge that they're there, that John's name is pressed right against his skin. Sherlock has never felt so completely owned in his life, never felt so completely marked as someone else's property.
He leans forward and kisses John, going pliant as John pushes Sherlock against the wall, his hands tight on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock can't seem to stop, can't seem to tear his mouth away from John's. If he could, he would stay like this, and the thought of not touching John any longer is almost like a physical ache.
"Yours," Sherlock says when he can breathe again, and it's amazing how that tiny word can hold so much.
"Mine," John agrees, and Sherlock has to close his eyes at the soft heat in his voice.
Re: Fill (5/6)tatyan85November 15 2010, 08:16:45 UTC
Here it is, just when I thought this story couldn't be any more hot... you do something like this. Gggh... It is perfect. So perfect and so hot and so sweet all at once. And so *Sherlock*, which is hard to poinpoint in more "common" story and here it is even harder... but you do wonderfully
Fill (6/6)
anonymous
November 16 2010, 11:48:50 UTC
"Oh," John says. "It's not like that."
"Do you want it to be?" the man asks. Sherlock's fingers twitch as the man, the twink, leans forward, smiling with downturned lashes and a tilt to his head that exposes his neck. He's figured out what John is underneath the careful smile and simple politeness, and Sherlock imagines the twenty different things he could say to get the twink to piss off. Unfortunately, he's a witness, and so Sherlock tolerates him. Barely.
The twink puts a hand on John's arm, sliding a thumb along the seam of John's jacket. The movement shows off the bands of brown leather around the twink's wrists, a blatant ploy to invoke a particular reaction in John. Sherlock grits his teeth and reminds himself that he was the one that John had tied up yesterday, arms behind his back, the clasp of John's belt rubbing against his forearms, John refusing to touch him until he managed to get himself off by rubbing against the soft cotton of the bed sheets. He is the one wearing John's tags.
Sherlock puts on a smile, the most normal-looking one, and says in a light tone of voice, "What was it he said about the chickens again?" He feels John's eyes, John's attention, shift back to him, and it makes Sherlock want to preen. His smile gets just the tiniest bit wider.
The twink sizes the two of them up again, and Sherlock can see the exact moment he backs off, with a slight nod in Sherlock's direction to acknowledge his claim. Sherlock feels his shoulders relax, and his smile has slightly less teeth. He's glad that they've come to an understanding without need for further intervention on Sherlock's part, and Sherlock doesn't even make the comment about the twink's shoes that he was saving for an opportune moment.
"You don't have to be jealous," John says later when they're examining the half-empty room for traces of talcum powder. "I am perfectly capable of turning people down myself."
Sherlock kneels to inspect the floorboards and says, "I didn't like it." He resists the urge to press a hand against the dog tags underneath his shirt, because he's always sneered at the little trinkets people carry with them, and he refuses to become like them what with their small minds and silly crutches. A wedding ring is just a ring, after all.
John slides a thumb underneath Sherlock's collar and presses against the chain. "I'm not going to choose anyone else," he says, "because I love you."
So many people put undue importance on those words, and Sherlock has never considered himself one of them, but he cannot deny the warm flush that chases its way through his body. For once, Sherlock has no idea what to say. He wants to curl up at John's feet, wants to press his mouth against the sharp jut of John hips, wants to tuck his nose into to the curl of John's neck and breathe in John's scent. "Yes," he says, and he thinks of how he never could have predicted it, that first day in the basement of St. Bart's, with John's mild, pleasant smile on his face and his history written all over his body. But Sherlock doesn't regret it at all, not a single moment.
John smiles something more real, something that almost seems to make his face glow with the warmth of it. "You really can be one of the most ignorant people I know," John says. His thumbnail digs into Sherlock's flesh along his spine, a small stinging sensation that makes Sherlock hiss through his teeth.
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock says, but there's a matching smile forming on his face, and when John kisses him, he wants to laugh from the giddy feeling that's flowing through him, that's pouring out of him at the seams.
He's not certain what it is, but he thinks it might even be happiness.
Re: Fill (6/6)saathi1013November 16 2010, 22:03:40 UTC
yes and yes and yes. absolutely lovely. I wish you weren't anon & that you had it all up as a journal entry so I could properly mem it a dozen times. well done.
"Why don't you wear your tags anymore?" Sherlock asks one lazy Saturday morning as they're both lounging around the flat. John is reading a book. Sherlock is reading John. Sherlock doesn't have to ask that John keeps his tags in one of the bags in his closet that he never opens, the same one contains his uniform and most of the other clothes he wore during the war. Sherlock doesn't understand that about John, since John can talk about his experiences easily enough, and even with the PTSD, John seems to want it back. He follows Sherlock around London and into danger, after all, a brightness in his eyes and a gun at his side. John acts as if he never wanted to leave in the first place.
John entire body stiffens, and Sherlock can feel him pull away. "What does it matter?" John asks, and his voice sounds brittle and hard. A bad button to push, then, but Sherlock has already pressed it and he might as well see this through.
"I wanted to see them," Sherlock says. He imagines what they'd look like, hanging from John's neck while he's fucking Sherlock, the metal plates dangling over Sherlock's chest. And then after that, Sherlock could suck the chain into his mouth and taste the metal mixed with John's sweat. Sherlock's body hums pleasantly at the the thought.
John studies Sherlock for a long moment before he stands up and leaves in order to fetch them from his room. When he gets back, he's carrying them in a tight fist, his knuckles white and his lips pulled into a thin line, but he hands them over without much reluctance.
The tags haven't been cleaned, which surprises Sherlock because John is usually fastidious with such things, but there's still a smattering of blood on the metal and a good deal of sand and dust still wedged underneath the silencers. Sherlock says, "Is this blood--"
John doesn't let him finish. He pulls the tags out of Sherlock's hands and slides them over Sherlock's head.
Sherlock hadn't considered it before, but maybe he had and John had seen it, had known even before Sherlock did (and isn't that interesting and useful for further study?). The chain is cool against his neck, and as John tucks the tags underneath Sherlock's shirt, Sherlock feels almost breathless from the knowledge that they're there, that John's name is pressed right against his skin. Sherlock has never felt so completely owned in his life, never felt so completely marked as someone else's property.
He leans forward and kisses John, going pliant as John pushes Sherlock against the wall, his hands tight on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock can't seem to stop, can't seem to tear his mouth away from John's. If he could, he would stay like this, and the thought of not touching John any longer is almost like a physical ache.
"Yours," Sherlock says when he can breathe again, and it's amazing how that tiny word can hold so much.
"Mine," John agrees, and Sherlock has to close his eyes at the soft heat in his voice.
Reply
And then after that, Sherlock could suck the chain into his mouth and taste the metal mixed with John's sweat.
Just, ffff. ♥ I adore everything about this fic.
Reply
John is reading a book. Sherlock is reading John. Ha! Very, very nice.
Reply
GUH, THANK YOU SO MUCH.
Reply
Gggh...
It is perfect. So perfect and so hot and so sweet all at once. And so *Sherlock*, which is hard to poinpoint in more "common" story and here it is even harder... but you do wonderfully
Reply
"Do you want it to be?" the man asks. Sherlock's fingers twitch as the man, the twink, leans forward, smiling with downturned lashes and a tilt to his head that exposes his neck. He's figured out what John is underneath the careful smile and simple politeness, and Sherlock imagines the twenty different things he could say to get the twink to piss off. Unfortunately, he's a witness, and so Sherlock tolerates him. Barely.
The twink puts a hand on John's arm, sliding a thumb along the seam of John's jacket. The movement shows off the bands of brown leather around the twink's wrists, a blatant ploy to invoke a particular reaction in John. Sherlock grits his teeth and reminds himself that he was the one that John had tied up yesterday, arms behind his back, the clasp of John's belt rubbing against his forearms, John refusing to touch him until he managed to get himself off by rubbing against the soft cotton of the bed sheets. He is the one wearing John's tags.
Sherlock puts on a smile, the most normal-looking one, and says in a light tone of voice, "What was it he said about the chickens again?" He feels John's eyes, John's attention, shift back to him, and it makes Sherlock want to preen. His smile gets just the tiniest bit wider.
The twink sizes the two of them up again, and Sherlock can see the exact moment he backs off, with a slight nod in Sherlock's direction to acknowledge his claim. Sherlock feels his shoulders relax, and his smile has slightly less teeth. He's glad that they've come to an understanding without need for further intervention on Sherlock's part, and Sherlock doesn't even make the comment about the twink's shoes that he was saving for an opportune moment.
"You don't have to be jealous," John says later when they're examining the half-empty room for traces of talcum powder. "I am perfectly capable of turning people down myself."
Sherlock kneels to inspect the floorboards and says, "I didn't like it." He resists the urge to press a hand against the dog tags underneath his shirt, because he's always sneered at the little trinkets people carry with them, and he refuses to become like them what with their small minds and silly crutches. A wedding ring is just a ring, after all.
John slides a thumb underneath Sherlock's collar and presses against the chain. "I'm not going to choose anyone else," he says, "because I love you."
So many people put undue importance on those words, and Sherlock has never considered himself one of them, but he cannot deny the warm flush that chases its way through his body. For once, Sherlock has no idea what to say. He wants to curl up at John's feet, wants to press his mouth against the sharp jut of John hips, wants to tuck his nose into to the curl of John's neck and breathe in John's scent. "Yes," he says, and he thinks of how he never could have predicted it, that first day in the basement of St. Bart's, with John's mild, pleasant smile on his face and his history written all over his body. But Sherlock doesn't regret it at all, not a single moment.
John smiles something more real, something that almost seems to make his face glow with the warmth of it. "You really can be one of the most ignorant people I know," John says. His thumbnail digs into Sherlock's flesh along his spine, a small stinging sensation that makes Sherlock hiss through his teeth.
"Oh, shut up," Sherlock says, but there's a matching smile forming on his face, and when John kisses him, he wants to laugh from the giddy feeling that's flowing through him, that's pouring out of him at the seams.
He's not certain what it is, but he thinks it might even be happiness.
Reply
Reply
Reply
We'll see. I might just go ahead and de-anon anyway.
Reply
(captcha is cocarmat force... I don't know what it's trying to tell me, but I am Amused and had to share)
Reply
Oh, and if you want to remix it, please be my guest! I think remixes are awesome. :)
Reply
*dances some more*
there is nothing about this that does not make me giddy.
(o god except now the pressure to live up to your writing o god)
Reply
Any chance you'll continue writing them like this in another fic? I really enjoyed this.
Reply
Reply
Reply
That's right, Sherlock. John gave you his tags, and no nameless twink is going to win those away from you. *patpat*
I love the odd reversed possessiveness in this last part. A sub who doesn't want to lose his master.
HAWWWWT!
Reply
Leave a comment