Re: Stolen Moments pt 9/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 09:59:57 UTC
And there it was: positively acres of skin that John had been denying him for weeks. A cornucopia of information. Trembling with excitement Sherlock went to work, standing close by, his fingertips hovering over the skin.
The bullet wound first. He'd known about it for as long as he'd known John, but he'd never seen it. Never known it. 9 millimeter from the size of the injury, it had entered to the side of his armpit, bypassing his body armor and had nicked the lung before lodging in his scapula. Lung would have probably collapsed, filled with blood. Pneumothorax possible. Sherlock ran his thumb over the wound. The scar was a lumpy crimson knot. John grunted slightly as though the pressure was uncomfortable.
Sherlock jolted a bit at the sound. "I won't do anything to you, you understand, I just needed to see what you felt you had to hide from me," he explained. The frown on John's face smoothed. "You never needed to hide from me, you know. You never need to hide anything at all."
Guilt wiggled like an irritation in his chest. "It's okay for now. Put on your shirt and go back to sleep. I've seen enough for tonight."
John put on his shirt and crawled back into bed without a word.
The next morning John emerged from the shower with nothing but a towel around his waist. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and John, noticing his response stared back at him, then looked down, then back up with an expression that dared him to make a cutting remark. Sherlock said nothing. He simply absorbed. All the injuries were there, for his perusal in bright light of morning. The faint tan marks, almost all gone now. The cuts, the moles, the bruises from where he'd hit the pavement. All free for his inspection. Sherlock drank them in, eagerly.
"What?" John said at last, looking like his patience was wearing thin. "You act like you've never seen me before."
"You are normally quite modest," said Sherlock.
"Yeah," said John. "Well, do I really need to be around you? You've already deduced me down to the pound, and as for the bruises, you were there when I got them. However, if you're offended I'll make the effort. But really, after all we've been through, there didn't seem to be a point in it."
He doesn't remember, thought Sherlock, torn between relief and guilt. Mycroft had warned him that there would be consequences. Apparently this new less modest John was one of them.
And that was a good thing, Sherlock decided.
"Of course, there's no point in it," said Sherlock with scarcely a pause. "You can prance around naked, if you wish." It would give him the opportunity to see the rest of him.
But John just laughed. "And then scandalize Mrs. Hudson next time she brings up some biscuits? Oh god. What a picture."
And with that he turned and headed up the stairs. A few minutes later he was as covered up as normal, but Sherlock had already made inventory of his calves and feet, and was for the moment quite satisfied.
Re: Stolen Moments pt 10/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:33:25 UTC
It was inevitable that John would get a job. He'd been itching to find one since they'd moved in. His fiscal jitters had grown worse with each passing week, even though Sherlock had happily shared the fees he'd collected from his clients. John's pension barely covered rent and left nothing for the thousand other little necessities in life. A cab ride here, a new umbrella there. A coffee. Plastic containers to keep Sherlock's experiments separate from the perishables.
It hadn't helped that the last three clients were too poor to give more than a token payment for his services and the Yard never paid at all. Sherlock didn't much care. He dipped into his trust fund when times were lean, and saved when times were fat. But John didn't come from money. For the better part of two months, he'd sucked it up and let his meager savings slowly dwindle, but he'd come to the point where he simply couldn't do it anymore.
The crisis came to a head when the last of John's savings gave out, embarrassingly enough at Tesco. To Sherlock, the solution was a blindingly simple one: John could use his bank account until such time as he found solvency again. But for John, taking charity was an affront to his masculinity.
The next day, he had a job. Just like that.
Sherlock had always suspected that John's lack of work had more to do with his motivation to find a job than his ability to land it. Perhaps he was expecting Sherlock to keep him employed, not understanding that Sherlock had no control over when the jobs came or in what form.
Sherlock reluctantly accepted the new job, but what he didn't expect was that John would further complicate his life with Sarah Sawyer. That was simply taking things too far.
As hard as it was giving up John to his profession, having to compete for his free time as well - and in the middle of a truly juicy job - unacceptable!
There was no practical reason for the girlfriend. She took up John's time and gave nothing in return. She doubtless expected John to pay for entertainments and meals that he couldn't afford. She was an interference.
"You see her all day at work, why on earth would you want to waste your time with her now. We have a case!"
John glared at him. "You know if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."
Sherlock, mortally affronted, glared back. "To be jealous would mean that I considered her to be in some way a threat, which couldn't be farther from the case. She cannot possibly provide you with anything remotely like the stimulation I do. She certainly doesn't need your help as much as I do. What can you possibly get from her that you wouldn't from me?"
"Well she can certainly provide me one kind of stimulation you can't," said John.
"Oh, bah," sneered Sherlock, throwing his hands in the air. "Is your libido really so rampant that you'd exchange an exciting case with people's lives at stake for an evening of vapid entertainment and even duller conversation? All for possible promise of an orgasm, which you're more than capable of providing yourself?"
"Not all of us are married to our work," said John, in that patient, doctorly tone that all but dripped condescension. He then readied himself for his date.
Re: Stolen Moments pt 11/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:34:45 UTC
It didn't.
On top of being inconvenient, unwanted, and utterly irrelevant to Sherlock's life, Sarah turned out to be remarkably tenacious. She affably accepted his presence on her date. She coped with the circus suddenly turning into a brawl. She even, god help her, was helpful with the case. And at the end of the night, after giving her statement to Lestrade, she'd kissed John's cheek and thanked him for saving her life.
"Is she possibly insane?" Sherlock asked after John smilingly informed him of their impending second date. "You'd think after all that, she'd have second thoughts."
John sighed. "Well, luckily for her, this time I plan an evening of, what did you term it, 'vapid entertainment and duller conversation.'" He grabbed his coat. "And you are not invited. Don't wait up." He left, then turned at the door at ducked his head back in. "Oh and Sherlock, should you get called on a case…"
"Yes?" Sherlock asked, feeling a leap of hope.
"I'm busy."
Well that was just being snide. John had no call to be so huffy and affronted, about the matter. It hadn't been his idea to involve Sarah on their last case at all.
Sherlock watched him through the window until he rounded a corner and then sat heavily down, considering the problem. He'd come to depend on John. And John depended on him as well. Neither of them needed Sarah, but there she was between them, and there was nothing that Sherlock could say that would prevent it.
He'd grow bored of Sarah, Sherlock was certain of it. Day in, day out, the same mindless, pointless drivel. It would all end badly. John needed to get his priorities straight.
When John came home at half-past eleven, Sherlock pretended to ignore him.
"Oh, for god's sake," he said, irritably after a moment. "Sometimes you are like a child, Sherlock."
"I'm busy, don't bother me," Sherlock replied, keeping his face pointedly in a different direction.
John hesitated only a moment longer. "Well, I won't interrupt your wall staring contest. I'm off to bed, and by the way, it was an absolutely smashing second date." He didn't bother to disguise his smugness.
That last bit was just cruel. Sherlock flashed him an angry look before he could stop himself, but then went determinedly back to ignoring him. He heard John's feet tromping heavily up the stairs and then the various groans and creeks and he went through his normal bedroom routine.
Re: Stolen Moments pt 12/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:35:20 UTC
Patience. Sherlock waited.
Half an hour. Too soon.
An hour. Possibly, better hold off a bit longer.
It wasn't fair that Sarah had seen more of John than Sherlock himself. She'd known him less than two weeks and already he'd doffed his clothes for her. It had taken Sherlock months and hypnosis to reach that point. Was sex really that important?
Two hours. That should be enough.
Sherlock crept up the stairs, let the door swing open on it's well oiled hinges, and sure enough, John's room was dark and he could hear the slow sounds of his breathing. This time John woke enough to cry out before Sherlock found the right spots. He breathed a sigh of relief as the man went heavy and limp again.
"Do you know who I am?" He asked.
"Sherlock," said John.
"Yes, I'm your friend. You're best friend."
John smiled. "Yes. Best friend."
"As your best friend, I'm your priority," said Sherlock. "Dating is second. You will come when I need you, won't you?"
"You always come first," agreed John.
"You won't let Sarah come between us."
"No," said John frowning a little. "I would never."
"I need you John. That's the only reason why I'm doing this. I really need you."
"I know," said John. "You're so lonely."
Sherlock held John's head in his hands and thought. He'd said really all he needed to say, but yet it wore on him that Sarah had been privileged to something he was not. It was jealousy, but not completely. It was rational that Sherlock defend his relationship against attack.
"Did you have sex with Sarah?" he asked.
"Yes." John smiled.
"Don't have it again. Not with her." Sherlock knew he was being petty, but having said it, he felt much better. Without sex, Sarah had nothing to offer John and he'd soon give her up. Then everything would be back to normal again.
John's smile slipped away. "Okay."
"Sleep and forget that I visited you in your room tonight."
Re: Stolen Moments pt 13/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:36:10 UTC
John's relationship with Sarah went nowhere. Though Sherlock never inquired, the look of frustration on his face after the next two dates made it obvious that his bit of petty vengeance had hit home. After the third date he'd trudged straight to the shower. Sherlock waited patiently outside.
When John emerged in nothing but his towel and a deep glower.
"Was the wank unsatisfying?" Sherlock asked.
"Putting aside that question being ever so much not your business," grumbled John, "I just returned from a date with Sarah, why would I need to wank?"
"If you'd had sex, you would have showered at her place. Dinner and a movie is not enough on it's own to warrant a third shower for the day. Therefore you were using the sound of the shower to mask masturbation, possibly in an attempt to hide the fact that your date was less than successful to me." Sherlock gazed nonchalantly at his fingers. "Though I don't know why you should try to hide such a thing."
"Perhaps because I find it embarrassing?" John said. "Ever considered that."
Sherlock softened his expression. "I never meant to embarrass you."
"And yet you do," John accused. Sherlock felt suddenly guilty.
"Sorry," said John, with genuine contriteness. "It's not your problem, it's mine. Thing is, I've never had this problem before. You might not know it to look at me, but I've had a pretty darned good track record when it comes with women. And I find Sarah lovely. So why can't I … all of a sudden… Why doesn't she do it for me?"
Sherlock weighed several answers before going with the one he felt was most honest. "Perhaps you realize that she's a distraction from better pursuits."
John's glare was back. "What, following you around like some pathetic puppy? That's the only thing else I do." John waited a second and when Sherlock didn't respond, he went on: "For some of us, sex is important. Romance is important. Marriage… would be nice. So am I supposed to be satisfied with a wank in the shower and a life of devotion to a flatmate who ignores me for days on end? I'm not a monk, and you aren't my religion."
"If I had sex with you, would that make it better?" Sherlock blurted out. The moment he said the words, he wished he could pull them back. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Part of him hoped John would say yes. Part of him was terrified he would. Sex was awkward, and though it felt good, it always came with strings and conditions. Expectations. It always ended badly.
"What?" John shook his head. "Oh god. No!" He looked horrified.
"Why not?" Sherlock feeling stung and insulted.
John rubbed his head. "Sherlock… you are my best friend. I've never had a friend even remotely as special to me as you are." Sherlock glowed. "And I'm secure enough to admit that I love you, as a friend. But, never mind that I'm primarily attracted to women and you are primarily attracted to… crime scenes, when two people start bringing sex into things, it changes the relationship. I don't want to risk losing what we have. Especially not for the sake of a pity fuck."
Sherlock nodded. It was more or less what he'd been telling himself for months now. Disappointment was irrational and Sherlock refused to believe that was the cause of the tightness in his chest.
John clapped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It's very … you … of you to offer, but it's not going to fix my problem." He let go and headed towards the stairs. "Some mysteries I just have to solve on my own, Sherlock."
Re: Stolen Moments pt 14/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:40:01 UTC
And now there was a new obsession. Sex. It kept strobing back into his mind while he and John tracked down the missing thirteen-year-old girl and her forty-one year old lover to a seedy flat near the railway.
The confrontation started easy enough. The pedophile threw out a laundry list of reasons for forgiveness. He was a savior, her parents emotionally abused her, and no they'd never had sex. He thought of her as a daughter. Lies, lies, lies.
Sherlock cut through them with chilling observations.
At which point the victim, who up to that time seemed confident that her molester would talk Sherlock out of reporting them, suddenly realized the jig was up. Far from being grateful at being rescued, she threw a tantrum befitting the orneriest two year old. Shrieking, throwing everything within reach, punching walls. Hurling swear words that would have sent Sherlock to his room with a bar of soap in his mouth had he said them at her age. He wondered if Dimmock would fault him if he tied her up and gagged her.
John, the ever reasonable, attempted to talk her down with his kindest bedside manner. She awarded him with kick to the shin that sent him to his knees on the floor. Sherlock, for a split second, had to stifle an urge to backhand her.
… But then his eyes caught on John's position.
And suddenly all the screaming and bellowing, sirens and breaking seemed to dim. For the space for two seconds, Sherlock stared at John.
He was facing away from Sherlock, bent over on hands and knees, as through offering himself up for Sherlock's eyes. His buttocks were clearly delineated through his trousers. Sherlock fought the impulse to touch the stretched fabric, test for firmness. A pulse of pleasure went down his cock and he felt skin tighten pleasantly and his groin go heavy.
He hissed.
Then John staggered up, leaning over and holding his leg, his wince twisting his face. He groped his way to a chair and sat heavily down. "Watch out, I think the boots she's wearing are steel-toed."
The moment passed, the world crashed back in. Noises: the girl was now working her way through the plates in the kitchen, making a bigger heap of broken shards on the floor. Movement: The pedophile jerked in one direction then another, torn between stopping her from breaking his things and considering making a run for it. Sherlock's proto-erection faded as swiftly as it had started. No one in the room seemed to have noticed, and for that he was intensely grateful.
"There's no point in running," he said casually to the perp. To the girl he sneered, "Is that really how you think a grown woman behaves?"
Stunned she paused with a glass in hand and her face shriveled in like she'd suddenly sucked on a lime.
Then the door burst open and Dimmock took over, and Sherlock's part in this whole wretched thing was done.
Re: Stolen Moments pt 15/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:40:52 UTC
Sherlock stood in a corner and sank fully into his disconcertion. He should not have gotten distracted like that. His mind had actually turned off for a second and had been filled with a lust every bit as inappropriate as the man Dimmock and his men were now arresting. How did normal people stand this? Was it going to happen again? It was bad enough having these impulses, but to have them come, will-he-nill-he, in the middle of a case was impossible.
He had to find some way of turning this off!
"Good job," said the inspector, clapping his shoulder with a familiarity that normally would have had Sherlock bristling, but he was so far off his game, he let it pass without acknowledgement. He watched as the inspector and his people swarming the scene.
Someone was patting his arm again, and he turned to look, irritated and distracted. It was John, looking concerned. "You seem bothered by this. Is there something more we should know?"
And just like that, Sherlock's impulse to reach out, lick and taste and feel and strip the man rushed back. He pulled away, looked off, sought refuge in something else. "She kicked you," he finally latched on to. "I wanted to kick her back."
"She's just a kid," said John. "A kid who thinks she's in love."
"A kid who needs a good spanking. She hurt you."
"Bruised. I'll be fine."
"She hurt you." Sherlock glowered, his righteous fury building.
John shook his head, then clapped his hand on Sherlock's shouder and pushed him towards the door. "I'm tougher than that. Come on. Post-case celebration. I'm thinking Italian."
It wasn't a hard decision. After seeing John undressed, Sherlock's distraction with his skin had gone away just as surely as he predicted. After his intervention about Sarah, his annoying jealousy of her had vanished. It stood to reason that this new lust would go away as soon as he'd indulged it. And all would go back to normal.
It made perfect sense, using hypnosis. It solved a multitude of difficulties: There would be no awkward romantic strings attached and none of the bother of persuading John to go along with it. It would be like a thought experiment, and once he was done, the slate could be wiped clean and John would wake up none-the-wiser. Sherlock could test just how far things needed to go, on his terms, and still preserve his current relationship with John.
It seemed rational enough, though Sherlock knew that the law would say otherwise.
Re: Stolen Moments pt 16/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:41:42 UTC
And honestly, it was just rubbing body parts together. Why make such a big deal of it? A mere biological function, hardly worth the amount of thought and energy normal people devoted to it. Why couldn't people relieve the itch and have it done without dragging all these relationship expectations into it? Why did it have to be so complicated?
Sherlock paced the floor of the sitting room, round and round the coffee table. He hadn't heard John's footsteps upstairs for an hour. He considered playing the violin but he didn't want to risk waking him. Sleep, he willed. Sleep while I think this over.
John was already so much a part of Sherlock's life, it seemed preposterous to think that, if not for the fear of wrecking what they had, he would not go along with this. If he could easily forgive that girl for injuring him, why wouldn't he forgive Sherlock for giving him a bit of pleasure?
It was the rational decision. It was the necessary decision. The question was not whether Sherlock should do this. It was "why was he hesitating?"
John kept lubricant and condoms in his dresser drawer. For Sarah, probably, for the day he overcame Sherlock's block. There were tissues to clean the inevitable mess. There shouldn't be any marks or bruises, Sherlock wasn't planning anything kinky. He didn't think penetration was necessary.
Two hours since John stopped moving. Time.
Steeling himself, he padded up the stairs to John's room. The door opened silently. John's breathing was slow and deep. Sherlock moved quickly to the head of the bed. He'd done this enough times that his movements were sure and swift. John didn't even rouse before his thumbs found the spots on his neck.
"John," whispered Sherlock. "Please wake up."
"Yes?" For a second Sherlock worried that the hypnosis hadn't worked this time. But John's breathing was as slow as before. He wasn't really roused.
"Undress for me."
While John sat up and removed his pyjama top, Sherlock turned the light on in the room. Turning back he saw John stand to pull the bottoms down. He felt a sudden rush of endorphins at the sight. He'd never seen John fully stripped before. The bits of newly bared skin made Sherlock's flesh tingle in sympathy. John's penis, though limp, was respectably long. He wasn't cut and the foreskin dangled like an empty sleeve past the rise of his balls. Sherlock bit his lip and squelched an unmanly whimper.
Re: Stolen Moments pt 17/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:42:23 UTC
Undressed John stood straight and watched him, the expression on his face was mild, as though he weren't at all bothered by what was going on.
"You are amazing," Sherlock said. His groin itched and tingled in a terribly pleasant way. His heart sped up from it's customary 55 to a racing 90 beats per minute. The excitement he felt in his chest was not unlike that of starting a new case. Except for the way his brain seemed to have grown quiet and focused on sensory input, it was all in all quite similar to an experiment.
"Come here," said Sherlock after drinking in the sight of him for the better part of a minute. "We'll start with kissing."
"Kissing?" asked John.
"Yes. Would you like to kiss me?"
"Yes," John was smiling. "Very much want to kiss you." But then he frowned. "You don't want to kiss me. I shouldn't."
"Of course, I want to kiss you," said Sherlock.
And that was apparently enough to break through John's inhibitions. He walked over, no more clumsily than normal, until he was pressed against Sherlock's chest. His arms fitted around Sherlock in a way that instantly felt right and natural. One hand reached up and pulled his neck to make him bend, and Sherlock belatedly realized that his participation was necessary in this. He leaned down and John took his mouth.
He'd been prepared for it to be warm and a bit wet. He vaguely remembered from years ago that there would be pressure, both suction and simply the press of their heads together. What he hadn't remembered, what he hadn't expected was that the kiss would make his nipples harden and tingle. That it would make his cock go from hard to rock hard. Suddenly the touch of his own clothes was far too distracting and uncomfortable to bear.
Sherlock broke off the kiss with a deep throated sigh, then stepped back to undress as quickly as he could. John simply stood, passively watching, a smile of pleasure on his face. Sherlock reached and missed a button when he realized that John had gone from flaccid to hard himself. He'd lengthened about another inch, drawing the foreskin back so that the tip of his cock peaked out. Still only 45 degrees from vertical and the lack of prominent veins suggested that he hadn't filled out as much as he would.
Sherlock couldn't stop himself from reaching out and giving the member a careful, tentative pull. John looked down as if vaguely surprised that he had a cock at all, then sighed. The skin seemed softer than Sherlock's own, perhaps because there was no feedback from the erection itself interfering with signals coming through his fingers. It was warm and the erection felt heavy. It filled out more as Sherlock held and squeezed it. Ah, there were the veins, the head had now fully emerged from it's cowl, deep red and slightly moist.
Sherlock licked his lips. His mouth flooded with saliva. His own cock began to protest the chafing confinement. It was astonishing how quickly he shed the rest of his clothes.
John was watching him, his eyes huge, mouth slightly open. "You may touch me," said Sherlock. "Anywhere you like."
Re: Stolen Moments pt 18/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:42:55 UTC
John stepped forward again and carefully touched his cock, giving it the same treatment he'd given John moments before. It felt unbelievably good. It felt cathartically good. Sherlock took John's cock and, forgetting lube, condoms and tissues, he began to wank the man. John mirrored his movements. And in a way it wasn't dissimilar to masturbation, but in a way it was nothing remotely like it at all.
John, pupils huge, gasped with pleasure and murmured, "Faster. Faster, please. Harder."
Sherlock rubbed faster, held harder, felt the loose skin slip along the rigid meat beneath. John's foreskin slid forward and back and his cock continually leaked slippery clear precum. He was doing much the same. It wasn't all pleasure, there was a roughness to this, but the pleasure far and away overran the pain. Part of Sherlock thought to stop it, to go get the lube, do it properly, but he literally couldn't do it. It was as if all his willpower were tied to the yanking on his cock, and the need for one more pull of that hot, calloused hand was far bigger than any worries his reason had about consequences.
"Going to come," murmured John. "Going to come now."
And he did. Sherlock jumped a bit, startled by the heat and sudden wetness that splashed his hand and belly. John didn't even slow down in jacking Sherlock, even after Sherlock had dropped his cock to stare at his suddenly soiled hand. The surprise of succeeding in a handjob slowed his own orgasm down by a minute, but then he was able to concentrate on John's hand, and swiftly pleasure overrode all his thoughts.
Seconds later he stood breathing hard, John's come dripping slowly through his pubes, his own splashed liberally over John's belly and chest. Feeling despoiled and empty and amazing and grossed out. He had the urge to rub his sticky hand on John's arm and felt mildly disgusted with how quickly the experiment had ended.
He had hardly had a chance to touch John at all. He hadn't licked his chest, or sucked his nipples, the way his fantasies had urged him to. He hadn't even touched John's arse. And yet, now Sherlock felt completely sated for sex, and the idea of licking or molesting him any further seemed more silly than enticing.
If only he'd been able to hold off a bit longer and done all the things he'd longed to. Would this really be enough to fill his curiosity?
Only time would tell. If not, he'd have to repeat this.
That wasn't as awful an idea as Sherlock thought it would be.
Finally noticing the mess John was in, it was obvious he couldn't have the man simply put on his pyjamas and go back to bed. He told John to take a shower instead, while he washed himself as thoroughly as he could in the sink. Sherlock had a moment of fear that the spray of water would wake John from hypnosis, but it didn't. When John emerged, pink skinned from the water, he was just as placid and happy as before.
Sherlock helped John dry himself. Not because he needed to, but because it felt somehow right to do so. "Job well done," he found himself telling him. John's smile grew happier. They kissed again, more chastely this time. And that felt right as well.
From then it was no difficulty getting John back in his clothes and in bed, sending him back to sleep with orders not to wake before eight.
Sherlock himself took considerably longer to get to sleep, but when he did, it was deep, comfortable, and restful. He didn't wake until John was long gone, breakfast dishes drying next to the sink. Just like a typical Tuesday.
Re: Stolen Moments pt 19/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:43:45 UTC
"I'm home," John called as he entered the flat that afternoon. "Went by Tesco and got us some liverwurst. Would you like me to make you a sandwich?" There wasn't even a hint that he remembered what had happened the night before. Sherlock felt a wave of relief.
John placed the sack on the counter. "You could start us some tea, if you would."
Sherlock slid around him to grab the electric kettle and was surprised when he turned back to find John's face in his. A moment later, John's lips brushed his in a quick, nearly chaste peck.
They both startled back.
"Oh, God," said John, flushing an alarming color. "I'm so sorry, I have no idea where that came from. I must have mistaken you for Sarah, I guess. Oh, god." His hand covered his mouth.
"It's fine," said Sherlock, recovering.
"I'm so embarrassed. I really… oh, God."
"It's completely fine," Sherlock repeated. "You can kiss me all you like. It's fine by me. I kiss Mrs. Hudson all the time."
"Oh the cheek!" protested John. "It's not the same."
"Oh really," said Sherlock suddenly feeling peevish. "So you kissed me. A man. Was it really so awful? You've already confessed your love to me. Why should this be so terrible."
"It's not that…"
"It's alright," repeated Sherlock. "We are good friends, good friends can kiss, if they feel like, deliberately or by accident, and it doesn't mean anything."
John suddenly seemed relieved. "Yes. Like the French."
"Absolutely," lied Sherlock. "Close enough. Now you were going to make me a liverwurst sandwich."
Re: Stolen Moments pt 20/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:46:22 UTC
Two nights in a row. That was pretty short order for hypnosis. Sherlock was annoyed at himself for having so little control. But he couldn't sleep, the case was done and there were nothing more on the docket and he could think nothing but what he wanted to do to John's body next. If he waited any longer, he'd end up doing something inappropriate, he was sure of it.
John went under as predictably as ever. This time Sherlock had the willpower to wait until they were both completely undressed and crowded onto John's bed before letting himself give in to the impulses that hammered at his brain.
They were going to go slower this time. No quick wank and done. It was going to be a satisfying quest for knowledge. An intellectual, as well as physical, event. And when he was done, he could work on erasing his footsteps a bit better. That kiss was no accident. That was one of Mycroft's much fretted "consequences."
Sherlock began with cuddling. It felt strange letting John cuddle him. The man was good at it, running his hands softly over his skin. Teasing, comforting. Not really that erotic, but still somehow very pleasant. Which was odder still, since, up to now, he'd found cuddles frustrating and unsatisfying. The touches were always too hard, too ticklish, too random. It was annoying.
Not so with John. It was as if his body knew he'd found the right person to do this with. He trusted John. He was able to relax and simply let the experience happen without the need to anticipate and counter it.
After a while cuddling grew boring and he had John stop and lie still. It was his turn. Caressing John was far more satisfying than the other way around. Where being touched was pleasant, this was exciting. Finally he could learn the flavor of John's chest. It tasted mildly of sweat with a distant tang of soap. The neck had a slight lintiness in the folds. Satisfied, he began to catalogue the rest: The texture of John's body hair, the firmness of his skin. The feeling of John's nipples hardening under his tongue.
Sherlock's groin hardened quickly at the last. Something about the sensation of nipple on tongue went straight to his cock. His blood pooled, filled it stiff, sensitive, proud. The urge to rut against John's side was pleasantly unbearable.
Inspiration. He climbed on top of John, straddling him, feeling the warmth of his legs trapped under his buttocks. Sherlock grabbed both their cocks and held them together. Remembering the lube this time (there had been a bit of reddening from the previous wank, though apparently not so much that John had been alarmed), he slathered them both up and began working them together with his hands.
John's hand joined his and soon they were squirming, sliding, thrusting and flexing together, John's hand sliding over Sherlock's and then Sherlock's over John's. It was sloppy, and hot and oh so good. A feedback loop that shut out everything but itself. Sherlock, being the one in control of their pace, came first this time. He let his sensitized cock fall free and concentrated on wanking John to completion.
This time he got the pleasure of seeing John's expression as he came. His face screwed up as if he were in great pain or fear, and then as he released it went blissfully calm. John sighed out contentedly.
"I love you, Sherlock," he said softly.
Sherlock leaned over and kissed him.
They repeated the routine from the night before with showers, toweling, getting John dressed and in bed. Once there, Sherlock couldn't resist a last kiss to his forehead. John sighed contentedly.
Perhaps, once Sherlock had learned enough, he'd dare risk this with John awake.
"Don't be ashamed to kiss me," said Sherlock impulsively. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about." He then ordered John to forget the encounter and sleep.
Re: Stolen Moments pt 21/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:47:04 UTC
Oddly enough, John didn't kiss him the next day, despite the permission. In fact, John started avoiding him.
At first Sherlock didn't notice. Sated for company and between clients, Sherlock had fallen into a bored funk that he filled with reproducing blood spatters. His mind was clear and racing -- ready for the next challenge.
So if John stayed late at the clinic, it was really no bother. If he chose the next day to meet with Sarah for one of their dull attempts at dating, that was fine as well. Lancet particularly riveting this month? That just left the sitting room free for Sherlock's pacing.
John could be as unsocial as he wanted. Sherlock knew that he'd be there for him in the small hours of the night.
And he was.
One night was spent learning the art of blow jobs. It was a fantastic opportunity. John, in his mesmerized state, was completely compliant and infinitely patient, responding to verbal instructions and giving clear feedback. Sherlock's earlier lovers never really gave him the chance to figure things out properly. John gave him nothing but chances.
He had John bring him off first so that his mind could be clear. Then he spent the better part of an hour applying what he'd learned. John's voice broke as Sherlock went through each technique, but he never stopped telling Sherlock what felt good and what didn't. Curious, Sherlock finally lubed up a finger, and very gently inserted it in John, to catalogue how prostate massage effected his response to being sucked. The answer made itself extremely obvious when, with barely a warning, John came.
Interesting. "Was that good?"
"Very good."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Fifteen," said John.
Sherlock laughed. It was so like the normal John to come up with a nonsensical number. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he was under hypnosis at all. It was unfortunate in a way, because Sherlock thought he might like to discuss this sometime when John was awake, but that was clearly impossible.
They were both so sweaty from all the exercise that Sherlock piled into the shower with John. When he finally put him to bed there was a scant two hours left to the night.
"I love you," said John just before he drifted off into his ordered sleep.
Re: Stolen Moments pt 22/?velvet_maceJanuary 8 2011, 21:48:40 UTC
It wasn't too much of a surprise that John came home from work yawning and in a foul mood. Sherlock was ready to offer him tea, but John jolted away when he approached, then mumbled something about a nap. Sherlock had to go out on an errand, and by the time he came back John had woken and left again.
That night Sherlock experimented with passive sodomy. It had been a long time since he'd done this, and in his memories it had been a lot more uncomfortable and less rewarding. With John, the pace was steady, the sensation heady. He was filled and fulfilled and everything just felt more intense.
"I'm going to come," he gasped out, when it became inevitable. "Come," he ordered. John arched his back with a groan and Sherlock came harder than he ever had in his life.
As he put John down to sleep and he whispered, "Next time we'll switch."
Though it had been over a week since thoughts of lust interfered with his day-time activities, it didn't occur to Sherlock to stop. He was starting to wonder if he couldn't just keep doing this forever.
But then fate stepped in.
The next day, John decided to see his sister, which wasn't wholly out of character. The two got along well enough for day or two before their personalities clashed too badly. Sherlock only worried when John decided to spend the night because he hadn't brought an overnight bag with him and it seemed rather impulsive.
Sherlock pushed away the thought and busied himself instead setting up a pin board with every unsolved crime in the last five years carefully marked off with color-coded strings. He then attempted to make some sort of sense out of the patterns that emerged. He remembered John when he discovered the refrigerator empty, but then forgot again when he got distracted at Tesco predicting which vegetables the patrons would choose to put in their cart.
That night, he paced John's empty room. Though they'd barely interacted outside of the bedroom in nearly two weeks, for the first time, he truly missed the man. His body had become used to their nightly sessions, but more than that, Sherlock missed hearing John's voice, missed having his comfortable presence around as a sounding board to his ideas. Missed everything about him.
Sherlock realized that John hadn't met his eye or engaged in conversation longer than eight words since the accidental kiss.
What had happened?
He tried texting John to clarify things, only to discover the daft man had left his phone in the pocket of his discarded trousers. Sherlock dug the phone out of the hamper and set it uselessly on the coffee table.
Another "consequence?" But Sherlock had been so specific with his orders. John shouldn't remember their encounters at all. Why would they affect him? And why like this?
The bullet wound first. He'd known about it for as long as he'd known John, but he'd never seen it. Never known it. 9 millimeter from the size of the injury, it had entered to the side of his armpit, bypassing his body armor and had nicked the lung before lodging in his scapula. Lung would have probably collapsed, filled with blood. Pneumothorax possible. Sherlock ran his thumb over the wound. The scar was a lumpy crimson knot. John grunted slightly as though the pressure was uncomfortable.
Sherlock jolted a bit at the sound. "I won't do anything to you, you understand, I just needed to see what you felt you had to hide from me," he explained. The frown on John's face smoothed. "You never needed to hide from me, you know. You never need to hide anything at all."
Guilt wiggled like an irritation in his chest. "It's okay for now. Put on your shirt and go back to sleep. I've seen enough for tonight."
John put on his shirt and crawled back into bed without a word.
The next morning John emerged from the shower with nothing but a towel around his waist. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and John, noticing his response stared back at him, then looked down, then back up with an expression that dared him to make a cutting remark. Sherlock said nothing. He simply absorbed. All the injuries were there, for his perusal in bright light of morning. The faint tan marks, almost all gone now. The cuts, the moles, the bruises from where he'd hit the pavement. All free for his inspection. Sherlock drank them in, eagerly.
"What?" John said at last, looking like his patience was wearing thin. "You act like you've never seen me before."
"You are normally quite modest," said Sherlock.
"Yeah," said John. "Well, do I really need to be around you? You've already deduced me down to the pound, and as for the bruises, you were there when I got them. However, if you're offended I'll make the effort. But really, after all we've been through, there didn't seem to be a point in it."
He doesn't remember, thought Sherlock, torn between relief and guilt. Mycroft had warned him that there would be consequences. Apparently this new less modest John was one of them.
And that was a good thing, Sherlock decided.
"Of course, there's no point in it," said Sherlock with scarcely a pause. "You can prance around naked, if you wish." It would give him the opportunity to see the rest of him.
But John just laughed. "And then scandalize Mrs. Hudson next time she brings up some biscuits? Oh god. What a picture."
And with that he turned and headed up the stairs. A few minutes later he was as covered up as normal, but Sherlock had already made inventory of his calves and feet, and was for the moment quite satisfied.
Reply
It hadn't helped that the last three clients were too poor to give more than a token payment for his services and the Yard never paid at all. Sherlock didn't much care. He dipped into his trust fund when times were lean, and saved when times were fat. But John didn't come from money. For the better part of two months, he'd sucked it up and let his meager savings slowly dwindle, but he'd come to the point where he simply couldn't do it anymore.
The crisis came to a head when the last of John's savings gave out, embarrassingly enough at Tesco. To Sherlock, the solution was a blindingly simple one: John could use his bank account until such time as he found solvency again. But for John, taking charity was an affront to his masculinity.
The next day, he had a job. Just like that.
Sherlock had always suspected that John's lack of work had more to do with his motivation to find a job than his ability to land it. Perhaps he was expecting Sherlock to keep him employed, not understanding that Sherlock had no control over when the jobs came or in what form.
Sherlock reluctantly accepted the new job, but what he didn't expect was that John would further complicate his life with Sarah Sawyer. That was simply taking things too far.
As hard as it was giving up John to his profession, having to compete for his free time as well - and in the middle of a truly juicy job - unacceptable!
There was no practical reason for the girlfriend. She took up John's time and gave nothing in return. She doubtless expected John to pay for entertainments and meals that he couldn't afford. She was an interference.
"You see her all day at work, why on earth would you want to waste your time with her now. We have a case!"
John glared at him. "You know if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."
Sherlock, mortally affronted, glared back. "To be jealous would mean that I considered her to be in some way a threat, which couldn't be farther from the case. She cannot possibly provide you with anything remotely like the stimulation I do. She certainly doesn't need your help as much as I do. What can you possibly get from her that you wouldn't from me?"
"Well she can certainly provide me one kind of stimulation you can't," said John.
"Oh, bah," sneered Sherlock, throwing his hands in the air. "Is your libido really so rampant that you'd exchange an exciting case with people's lives at stake for an evening of vapid entertainment and even duller conversation? All for possible promise of an orgasm, which you're more than capable of providing yourself?"
"Not all of us are married to our work," said John, in that patient, doctorly tone that all but dripped condescension. He then readied himself for his date.
It'll blow over, Sherlock consoled himself.
Reply
On top of being inconvenient, unwanted, and utterly irrelevant to Sherlock's life, Sarah turned out to be remarkably tenacious. She affably accepted his presence on her date. She coped with the circus suddenly turning into a brawl. She even, god help her, was helpful with the case. And at the end of the night, after giving her statement to Lestrade, she'd kissed John's cheek and thanked him for saving her life.
"Is she possibly insane?" Sherlock asked after John smilingly informed him of their impending second date. "You'd think after all that, she'd have second thoughts."
John sighed. "Well, luckily for her, this time I plan an evening of, what did you term it, 'vapid entertainment and duller conversation.'" He grabbed his coat. "And you are not invited. Don't wait up." He left, then turned at the door at ducked his head back in. "Oh and Sherlock, should you get called on a case…"
"Yes?" Sherlock asked, feeling a leap of hope.
"I'm busy."
Well that was just being snide. John had no call to be so huffy and affronted, about the matter. It hadn't been his idea to involve Sarah on their last case at all.
Sherlock watched him through the window until he rounded a corner and then sat heavily down, considering the problem. He'd come to depend on John. And John depended on him as well. Neither of them needed Sarah, but there she was between them, and there was nothing that Sherlock could say that would prevent it.
He'd grow bored of Sarah, Sherlock was certain of it. Day in, day out, the same mindless, pointless drivel. It would all end badly. John needed to get his priorities straight.
When John came home at half-past eleven, Sherlock pretended to ignore him.
"Oh, for god's sake," he said, irritably after a moment. "Sometimes you are like a child, Sherlock."
"I'm busy, don't bother me," Sherlock replied, keeping his face pointedly in a different direction.
John hesitated only a moment longer. "Well, I won't interrupt your wall staring contest. I'm off to bed, and by the way, it was an absolutely smashing second date." He didn't bother to disguise his smugness.
That last bit was just cruel. Sherlock flashed him an angry look before he could stop himself, but then went determinedly back to ignoring him. He heard John's feet tromping heavily up the stairs and then the various groans and creeks and he went through his normal bedroom routine.
Reply
Half an hour. Too soon.
An hour. Possibly, better hold off a bit longer.
It wasn't fair that Sarah had seen more of John than Sherlock himself. She'd known him less than two weeks and already he'd doffed his clothes for her. It had taken Sherlock months and hypnosis to reach that point. Was sex really that important?
Two hours. That should be enough.
Sherlock crept up the stairs, let the door swing open on it's well oiled hinges, and sure enough, John's room was dark and he could hear the slow sounds of his breathing. This time John woke enough to cry out before Sherlock found the right spots. He breathed a sigh of relief as the man went heavy and limp again.
"Do you know who I am?" He asked.
"Sherlock," said John.
"Yes, I'm your friend. You're best friend."
John smiled. "Yes. Best friend."
"As your best friend, I'm your priority," said Sherlock. "Dating is second. You will come when I need you, won't you?"
"You always come first," agreed John.
"You won't let Sarah come between us."
"No," said John frowning a little. "I would never."
"I need you John. That's the only reason why I'm doing this. I really need you."
"I know," said John. "You're so lonely."
Sherlock held John's head in his hands and thought. He'd said really all he needed to say, but yet it wore on him that Sarah had been privileged to something he was not. It was jealousy, but not completely. It was rational that Sherlock defend his relationship against attack.
"Did you have sex with Sarah?" he asked.
"Yes." John smiled.
"Don't have it again. Not with her." Sherlock knew he was being petty, but having said it, he felt much better. Without sex, Sarah had nothing to offer John and he'd soon give her up. Then everything would be back to normal again.
John's smile slipped away. "Okay."
"Sleep and forget that I visited you in your room tonight."
John fell back asleep.
Reply
John's relationship with Sarah went nowhere. Though Sherlock never inquired, the look of frustration on his face after the next two dates made it obvious that his bit of petty vengeance had hit home. After the third date he'd trudged straight to the shower. Sherlock waited patiently outside.
When John emerged in nothing but his towel and a deep glower.
"Was the wank unsatisfying?" Sherlock asked.
"Putting aside that question being ever so much not your business," grumbled John, "I just returned from a date with Sarah, why would I need to wank?"
"If you'd had sex, you would have showered at her place. Dinner and a movie is not enough on it's own to warrant a third shower for the day. Therefore you were using the sound of the shower to mask masturbation, possibly in an attempt to hide the fact that your date was less than successful to me." Sherlock gazed nonchalantly at his fingers. "Though I don't know why you should try to hide such a thing."
"Perhaps because I find it embarrassing?" John said. "Ever considered that."
Sherlock softened his expression. "I never meant to embarrass you."
"And yet you do," John accused. Sherlock felt suddenly guilty.
"Sorry," said John, with genuine contriteness. "It's not your problem, it's mine. Thing is, I've never had this problem before. You might not know it to look at me, but I've had a pretty darned good track record when it comes with women. And I find Sarah lovely. So why can't I … all of a sudden… Why doesn't she do it for me?"
Sherlock weighed several answers before going with the one he felt was most honest. "Perhaps you realize that she's a distraction from better pursuits."
John's glare was back. "What, following you around like some pathetic puppy? That's the only thing else I do." John waited a second and when Sherlock didn't respond, he went on: "For some of us, sex is important. Romance is important. Marriage… would be nice. So am I supposed to be satisfied with a wank in the shower and a life of devotion to a flatmate who ignores me for days on end? I'm not a monk, and you aren't my religion."
"If I had sex with you, would that make it better?" Sherlock blurted out. The moment he said the words, he wished he could pull them back. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. Part of him hoped John would say yes. Part of him was terrified he would. Sex was awkward, and though it felt good, it always came with strings and conditions. Expectations. It always ended badly.
"What?" John shook his head. "Oh god. No!" He looked horrified.
"Why not?" Sherlock feeling stung and insulted.
John rubbed his head. "Sherlock… you are my best friend. I've never had a friend even remotely as special to me as you are." Sherlock glowed. "And I'm secure enough to admit that I love you, as a friend. But, never mind that I'm primarily attracted to women and you are primarily attracted to… crime scenes, when two people start bringing sex into things, it changes the relationship. I don't want to risk losing what we have. Especially not for the sake of a pity fuck."
Sherlock nodded. It was more or less what he'd been telling himself for months now. Disappointment was irrational and Sherlock refused to believe that was the cause of the tightness in his chest.
John clapped his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "It's very … you … of you to offer, but it's not going to fix my problem." He let go and headed towards the stairs. "Some mysteries I just have to solve on my own, Sherlock."
Reply
Literally, loudly, LOL'd. XD
Reply
Reply
The confrontation started easy enough. The pedophile threw out a laundry list of reasons for forgiveness. He was a savior, her parents emotionally abused her, and no they'd never had sex. He thought of her as a daughter. Lies, lies, lies.
Sherlock cut through them with chilling observations.
At which point the victim, who up to that time seemed confident that her molester would talk Sherlock out of reporting them, suddenly realized the jig was up. Far from being grateful at being rescued, she threw a tantrum befitting the orneriest two year old. Shrieking, throwing everything within reach, punching walls. Hurling swear words that would have sent Sherlock to his room with a bar of soap in his mouth had he said them at her age. He wondered if Dimmock would fault him if he tied her up and gagged her.
John, the ever reasonable, attempted to talk her down with his kindest bedside manner. She awarded him with kick to the shin that sent him to his knees on the floor. Sherlock, for a split second, had to stifle an urge to backhand her.
… But then his eyes caught on John's position.
And suddenly all the screaming and bellowing, sirens and breaking seemed to dim. For the space for two seconds, Sherlock stared at John.
He was facing away from Sherlock, bent over on hands and knees, as through offering himself up for Sherlock's eyes. His buttocks were clearly delineated through his trousers. Sherlock fought the impulse to touch the stretched fabric, test for firmness. A pulse of pleasure went down his cock and he felt skin tighten pleasantly and his groin go heavy.
He hissed.
Then John staggered up, leaning over and holding his leg, his wince twisting his face. He groped his way to a chair and sat heavily down. "Watch out, I think the boots she's wearing are steel-toed."
The moment passed, the world crashed back in. Noises: the girl was now working her way through the plates in the kitchen, making a bigger heap of broken shards on the floor. Movement: The pedophile jerked in one direction then another, torn between stopping her from breaking his things and considering making a run for it. Sherlock's proto-erection faded as swiftly as it had started. No one in the room seemed to have noticed, and for that he was intensely grateful.
"There's no point in running," he said casually to the perp. To the girl he sneered, "Is that really how you think a grown woman behaves?"
Stunned she paused with a glass in hand and her face shriveled in like she'd suddenly sucked on a lime.
Then the door burst open and Dimmock took over, and Sherlock's part in this whole wretched thing was done.
Reply
He had to find some way of turning this off!
"Good job," said the inspector, clapping his shoulder with a familiarity that normally would have had Sherlock bristling, but he was so far off his game, he let it pass without acknowledgement. He watched as the inspector and his people swarming the scene.
Someone was patting his arm again, and he turned to look, irritated and distracted. It was John, looking concerned. "You seem bothered by this. Is there something more we should know?"
And just like that, Sherlock's impulse to reach out, lick and taste and feel and strip the man rushed back. He pulled away, looked off, sought refuge in something else. "She kicked you," he finally latched on to. "I wanted to kick her back."
Yes. Anger. Wonderful, appropriate, understandable anger.
"She's just a kid," said John. "A kid who thinks she's in love."
"A kid who needs a good spanking. She hurt you."
"Bruised. I'll be fine."
"She hurt you." Sherlock glowered, his righteous fury building.
John shook his head, then clapped his hand on Sherlock's shouder and pushed him towards the door. "I'm tougher than that. Come on. Post-case celebration. I'm thinking Italian."
It wasn't a hard decision. After seeing John undressed, Sherlock's distraction with his skin had gone away just as surely as he predicted. After his intervention about Sarah, his annoying jealousy of her had vanished. It stood to reason that this new lust would go away as soon as he'd indulged it. And all would go back to normal.
It made perfect sense, using hypnosis. It solved a multitude of difficulties: There would be no awkward romantic strings attached and none of the bother of persuading John to go along with it. It would be like a thought experiment, and once he was done, the slate could be wiped clean and John would wake up none-the-wiser. Sherlock could test just how far things needed to go, on his terms, and still preserve his current relationship with John.
It seemed rational enough, though Sherlock knew that the law would say otherwise.
Reply
Sherlock paced the floor of the sitting room, round and round the coffee table. He hadn't heard John's footsteps upstairs for an hour. He considered playing the violin but he didn't want to risk waking him. Sleep, he willed. Sleep while I think this over.
John was already so much a part of Sherlock's life, it seemed preposterous to think that, if not for the fear of wrecking what they had, he would not go along with this. If he could easily forgive that girl for injuring him, why wouldn't he forgive Sherlock for giving him a bit of pleasure?
It was the rational decision. It was the necessary decision. The question was not whether Sherlock should do this. It was "why was he hesitating?"
John kept lubricant and condoms in his dresser drawer. For Sarah, probably, for the day he overcame Sherlock's block. There were tissues to clean the inevitable mess. There shouldn't be any marks or bruises, Sherlock wasn't planning anything kinky. He didn't think penetration was necessary.
Two hours since John stopped moving. Time.
Steeling himself, he padded up the stairs to John's room. The door opened silently. John's breathing was slow and deep. Sherlock moved quickly to the head of the bed. He'd done this enough times that his movements were sure and swift. John didn't even rouse before his thumbs found the spots on his neck.
"John," whispered Sherlock. "Please wake up."
"Yes?" For a second Sherlock worried that the hypnosis hadn't worked this time. But John's breathing was as slow as before. He wasn't really roused.
"Undress for me."
While John sat up and removed his pyjama top, Sherlock turned the light on in the room. Turning back he saw John stand to pull the bottoms down. He felt a sudden rush of endorphins at the sight. He'd never seen John fully stripped before. The bits of newly bared skin made Sherlock's flesh tingle in sympathy. John's penis, though limp, was respectably long. He wasn't cut and the foreskin dangled like an empty sleeve past the rise of his balls. Sherlock bit his lip and squelched an unmanly whimper.
Reply
"You are amazing," Sherlock said. His groin itched and tingled in a terribly pleasant way. His heart sped up from it's customary 55 to a racing 90 beats per minute. The excitement he felt in his chest was not unlike that of starting a new case. Except for the way his brain seemed to have grown quiet and focused on sensory input, it was all in all quite similar to an experiment.
"Come here," said Sherlock after drinking in the sight of him for the better part of a minute. "We'll start with kissing."
"Kissing?" asked John.
"Yes. Would you like to kiss me?"
"Yes," John was smiling. "Very much want to kiss you." But then he frowned. "You don't want to kiss me. I shouldn't."
"Of course, I want to kiss you," said Sherlock.
And that was apparently enough to break through John's inhibitions. He walked over, no more clumsily than normal, until he was pressed against Sherlock's chest. His arms fitted around Sherlock in a way that instantly felt right and natural. One hand reached up and pulled his neck to make him bend, and Sherlock belatedly realized that his participation was necessary in this. He leaned down and John took his mouth.
He'd been prepared for it to be warm and a bit wet. He vaguely remembered from years ago that there would be pressure, both suction and simply the press of their heads together. What he hadn't remembered, what he hadn't expected was that the kiss would make his nipples harden and tingle. That it would make his cock go from hard to rock hard. Suddenly the touch of his own clothes was far too distracting and uncomfortable to bear.
Sherlock broke off the kiss with a deep throated sigh, then stepped back to undress as quickly as he could. John simply stood, passively watching, a smile of pleasure on his face. Sherlock reached and missed a button when he realized that John had gone from flaccid to hard himself. He'd lengthened about another inch, drawing the foreskin back so that the tip of his cock peaked out. Still only 45 degrees from vertical and the lack of prominent veins suggested that he hadn't filled out as much as he would.
Sherlock couldn't stop himself from reaching out and giving the member a careful, tentative pull. John looked down as if vaguely surprised that he had a cock at all, then sighed. The skin seemed softer than Sherlock's own, perhaps because there was no feedback from the erection itself interfering with signals coming through his fingers. It was warm and the erection felt heavy. It filled out more as Sherlock held and squeezed it. Ah, there were the veins, the head had now fully emerged from it's cowl, deep red and slightly moist.
Sherlock licked his lips. His mouth flooded with saliva. His own cock began to protest the chafing confinement. It was astonishing how quickly he shed the rest of his clothes.
John was watching him, his eyes huge, mouth slightly open. "You may touch me," said Sherlock. "Anywhere you like."
Reply
John, pupils huge, gasped with pleasure and murmured, "Faster. Faster, please. Harder."
Sherlock rubbed faster, held harder, felt the loose skin slip along the rigid meat beneath. John's foreskin slid forward and back and his cock continually leaked slippery clear precum. He was doing much the same. It wasn't all pleasure, there was a roughness to this, but the pleasure far and away overran the pain. Part of Sherlock thought to stop it, to go get the lube, do it properly, but he literally couldn't do it. It was as if all his willpower were tied to the yanking on his cock, and the need for one more pull of that hot, calloused hand was far bigger than any worries his reason had about consequences.
"Going to come," murmured John. "Going to come now."
And he did. Sherlock jumped a bit, startled by the heat and sudden wetness that splashed his hand and belly. John didn't even slow down in jacking Sherlock, even after Sherlock had dropped his cock to stare at his suddenly soiled hand. The surprise of succeeding in a handjob slowed his own orgasm down by a minute, but then he was able to concentrate on John's hand, and swiftly pleasure overrode all his thoughts.
Seconds later he stood breathing hard, John's come dripping slowly through his pubes, his own splashed liberally over John's belly and chest. Feeling despoiled and empty and amazing and grossed out. He had the urge to rub his sticky hand on John's arm and felt mildly disgusted with how quickly the experiment had ended.
He had hardly had a chance to touch John at all. He hadn't licked his chest, or sucked his nipples, the way his fantasies had urged him to. He hadn't even touched John's arse. And yet, now Sherlock felt completely sated for sex, and the idea of licking or molesting him any further seemed more silly than enticing.
If only he'd been able to hold off a bit longer and done all the things he'd longed to. Would this really be enough to fill his curiosity?
Only time would tell. If not, he'd have to repeat this.
That wasn't as awful an idea as Sherlock thought it would be.
Finally noticing the mess John was in, it was obvious he couldn't have the man simply put on his pyjamas and go back to bed. He told John to take a shower instead, while he washed himself as thoroughly as he could in the sink. Sherlock had a moment of fear that the spray of water would wake John from hypnosis, but it didn't. When John emerged, pink skinned from the water, he was just as placid and happy as before.
Sherlock helped John dry himself. Not because he needed to, but because it felt somehow right to do so. "Job well done," he found himself telling him. John's smile grew happier. They kissed again, more chastely this time. And that felt right as well.
From then it was no difficulty getting John back in his clothes and in bed, sending him back to sleep with orders not to wake before eight.
Sherlock himself took considerably longer to get to sleep, but when he did, it was deep, comfortable, and restful. He didn't wake until John was long gone, breakfast dishes drying next to the sink. Just like a typical Tuesday.
No harm, thought Sherlock. No foul.
Reply
John placed the sack on the counter. "You could start us some tea, if you would."
Sherlock slid around him to grab the electric kettle and was surprised when he turned back to find John's face in his. A moment later, John's lips brushed his in a quick, nearly chaste peck.
They both startled back.
"Oh, God," said John, flushing an alarming color. "I'm so sorry, I have no idea where that came from. I must have mistaken you for Sarah, I guess. Oh, god." His hand covered his mouth.
"It's fine," said Sherlock, recovering.
"I'm so embarrassed. I really… oh, God."
"It's completely fine," Sherlock repeated. "You can kiss me all you like. It's fine by me. I kiss Mrs. Hudson all the time."
"Oh the cheek!" protested John. "It's not the same."
"Oh really," said Sherlock suddenly feeling peevish. "So you kissed me. A man. Was it really so awful? You've already confessed your love to me. Why should this be so terrible."
"It's not that…"
"It's alright," repeated Sherlock. "We are good friends, good friends can kiss, if they feel like, deliberately or by accident, and it doesn't mean anything."
John suddenly seemed relieved. "Yes. Like the French."
"Absolutely," lied Sherlock. "Close enough. Now you were going to make me a liverwurst sandwich."
Reply
John went under as predictably as ever. This time Sherlock had the willpower to wait until they were both completely undressed and crowded onto John's bed before letting himself give in to the impulses that hammered at his brain.
They were going to go slower this time. No quick wank and done. It was going to be a satisfying quest for knowledge. An intellectual, as well as physical, event. And when he was done, he could work on erasing his footsteps a bit better. That kiss was no accident. That was one of Mycroft's much fretted "consequences."
Sherlock began with cuddling. It felt strange letting John cuddle him. The man was good at it, running his hands softly over his skin. Teasing, comforting. Not really that erotic, but still somehow very pleasant. Which was odder still, since, up to now, he'd found cuddles frustrating and unsatisfying. The touches were always too hard, too ticklish, too random. It was annoying.
Not so with John. It was as if his body knew he'd found the right person to do this with. He trusted John. He was able to relax and simply let the experience happen without the need to anticipate and counter it.
After a while cuddling grew boring and he had John stop and lie still. It was his turn. Caressing John was far more satisfying than the other way around. Where being touched was pleasant, this was exciting. Finally he could learn the flavor of John's chest. It tasted mildly of sweat with a distant tang of soap. The neck had a slight lintiness in the folds. Satisfied, he began to catalogue the rest: The texture of John's body hair, the firmness of his skin. The feeling of John's nipples hardening under his tongue.
Sherlock's groin hardened quickly at the last. Something about the sensation of nipple on tongue went straight to his cock. His blood pooled, filled it stiff, sensitive, proud. The urge to rut against John's side was pleasantly unbearable.
Inspiration. He climbed on top of John, straddling him, feeling the warmth of his legs trapped under his buttocks. Sherlock grabbed both their cocks and held them together. Remembering the lube this time (there had been a bit of reddening from the previous wank, though apparently not so much that John had been alarmed), he slathered them both up and began working them together with his hands.
John's hand joined his and soon they were squirming, sliding, thrusting and flexing together, John's hand sliding over Sherlock's and then Sherlock's over John's. It was sloppy, and hot and oh so good. A feedback loop that shut out everything but itself. Sherlock, being the one in control of their pace, came first this time. He let his sensitized cock fall free and concentrated on wanking John to completion.
This time he got the pleasure of seeing John's expression as he came. His face screwed up as if he were in great pain or fear, and then as he released it went blissfully calm. John sighed out contentedly.
"I love you, Sherlock," he said softly.
Sherlock leaned over and kissed him.
They repeated the routine from the night before with showers, toweling, getting John dressed and in bed. Once there, Sherlock couldn't resist a last kiss to his forehead. John sighed contentedly.
Perhaps, once Sherlock had learned enough, he'd dare risk this with John awake.
"Don't be ashamed to kiss me," said Sherlock impulsively. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about." He then ordered John to forget the encounter and sleep.
Reply
At first Sherlock didn't notice. Sated for company and between clients, Sherlock had fallen into a bored funk that he filled with reproducing blood spatters. His mind was clear and racing -- ready for the next challenge.
So if John stayed late at the clinic, it was really no bother. If he chose the next day to meet with Sarah for one of their dull attempts at dating, that was fine as well. Lancet particularly riveting this month? That just left the sitting room free for Sherlock's pacing.
John could be as unsocial as he wanted. Sherlock knew that he'd be there for him in the small hours of the night.
And he was.
One night was spent learning the art of blow jobs. It was a fantastic opportunity. John, in his mesmerized state, was completely compliant and infinitely patient, responding to verbal instructions and giving clear feedback. Sherlock's earlier lovers never really gave him the chance to figure things out properly. John gave him nothing but chances.
He had John bring him off first so that his mind could be clear. Then he spent the better part of an hour applying what he'd learned. John's voice broke as Sherlock went through each technique, but he never stopped telling Sherlock what felt good and what didn't. Curious, Sherlock finally lubed up a finger, and very gently inserted it in John, to catalogue how prostate massage effected his response to being sucked. The answer made itself extremely obvious when, with barely a warning, John came.
Interesting. "Was that good?"
"Very good."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Fifteen," said John.
Sherlock laughed. It was so like the normal John to come up with a nonsensical number. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he was under hypnosis at all. It was unfortunate in a way, because Sherlock thought he might like to discuss this sometime when John was awake, but that was clearly impossible.
They were both so sweaty from all the exercise that Sherlock piled into the shower with John. When he finally put him to bed there was a scant two hours left to the night.
"I love you," said John just before he drifted off into his ordered sleep.
Sherlock kissed his brow. "I know."
Reply
That night Sherlock experimented with passive sodomy. It had been a long time since he'd done this, and in his memories it had been a lot more uncomfortable and less rewarding. With John, the pace was steady, the sensation heady. He was filled and fulfilled and everything just felt more intense.
"I'm going to come," he gasped out, when it became inevitable. "Come," he ordered. John arched his back with a groan and Sherlock came harder than he ever had in his life.
As he put John down to sleep and he whispered, "Next time we'll switch."
Though it had been over a week since thoughts of lust interfered with his day-time activities, it didn't occur to Sherlock to stop. He was starting to wonder if he couldn't just keep doing this forever.
But then fate stepped in.
The next day, John decided to see his sister, which wasn't wholly out of character. The two got along well enough for day or two before their personalities clashed too badly. Sherlock only worried when John decided to spend the night because he hadn't brought an overnight bag with him and it seemed rather impulsive.
Sherlock pushed away the thought and busied himself instead setting up a pin board with every unsolved crime in the last five years carefully marked off with color-coded strings. He then attempted to make some sort of sense out of the patterns that emerged. He remembered John when he discovered the refrigerator empty, but then forgot again when he got distracted at Tesco predicting which vegetables the patrons would choose to put in their cart.
That night, he paced John's empty room. Though they'd barely interacted outside of the bedroom in nearly two weeks, for the first time, he truly missed the man. His body had become used to their nightly sessions, but more than that, Sherlock missed hearing John's voice, missed having his comfortable presence around as a sounding board to his ideas. Missed everything about him.
Sherlock realized that John hadn't met his eye or engaged in conversation longer than eight words since the accidental kiss.
What had happened?
He tried texting John to clarify things, only to discover the daft man had left his phone in the pocket of his discarded trousers. Sherlock dug the phone out of the hamper and set it uselessly on the coffee table.
Another "consequence?" But Sherlock had been so specific with his orders. John shouldn't remember their encounters at all. Why would they affect him? And why like this?
Reply
Leave a comment