FILL (3/?) Starved For Your Touch
anonymous
March 5 2011, 04:34:49 UTC
Day Three
John nearly lets the third day pass without trying out a new touch. The day started out fine -- a placid meeting with Lestrade at the Yard -- but it had ended with a mad chase through the Underground. He and Sherlock had run for forty-five minutes before catching the suspect, and John is bloody tired -- too tired to think clearly. The last thing he wants to do is make Sherlock feel uncomfortable or cross the line into inappropriate.
So he flops back against the seat of the cab. Sherlock is gazing out the window; his head is turned away from John, giving John the opportunity to admire the strong line of his jaw. John would very much like to touch there, to run his finger down the bone, to trace it. To draw his lips across -
John swallows hard and pulls his eyes away. Not a good train of thought. Not yet anyway. Not until he’s determined what exactly it is that Sherlock wants from him. What Sherlock needs. Sherlock will tell John anything else; he’ll be blunt and unwavering in his requests, but in this… John isn’t sure Sherlock will ever admit to needing John’s touch.
Sherlock’s head is still turned, and John reconsiders. His friend looks so lonely all the way over there. Almost wistful. And If Sherlock shows any reluctance to the touch, John can stop.
John lifts his left hand and rests it on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and in one smooth motion, he dips the ends of his fingers into the hair that curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock jumps a little, clearly startled, but then settles back into his contemplative stance, eyes focused on the passing scenery.
John assumes this is a clear signal to proceed, and he does so. First, he scrapes his nails down Sherlock’s neck, very lightly, and then back up again into his hairline. Sherlock gives an imperceptible shiver.
Satisfied, John curls his fingers, brushing through the hair, across Sherlock’s scalp. He pets Sherlock like this, in the back of a cab, over and over, through the streets of London.
They’re almost back to Baker Street before John notices it: Sherlock is leaning into John’s hand - ever so slightly, yes, but it’s there. John smiles.
Re: FILL (3/?) Starved For Your Touch
anonymous
March 5 2011, 05:29:46 UTC
John will respond in kind. And he will not look embarrassed as he answers. He glances up from his menu. He does not flush. “Yes,” he says and returns to reading.
FILL (4/?) Starved For Your Touch
anonymous
March 10 2011, 04:59:09 UTC
In the back of the cab, John gives the nape of Sherlock’s neck one more soft scratch, and lets his hand drop.
Sherlock looks a little dazed, but he remains poised, keeping his head turned toward the window until the absolute last moment.
It should be awkward when they get back to the flat, but it’s not, and once John’s in bed, he falls asleep with his hand pressed against the sheet, imagining Sherlock’s curls between the tips of his fingers.
Day Four
Sherlock is only half-sprawled on the sofa, so John fits himself into the remaining space. He has a journal with him, one he’s going to pretend to read while he works out how to best make some sort of physical contact with Sherlock again. Sherlock is not typing, he’s clicking with his right hand, and his left lies unoccupied, next to his thigh. Perfect. John can hold his journal with his left hand, and he’ll have his right arm free to touch Sherlock.
Neither of them have mentioned the night before, in the cab, when John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, but John had felt Sherlock leaning into him, and John’s prepared to do whatever it takes to make that happen again.
In for a penny, John thinks.
Once decided, John doesn’t hesitate. He moves his arm over next to Sherlock’s leg and then places his hand, palm down, on top of Sherlock’s arm. He wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist, curling them all the way around, until his index finger is against Sherlock’s pulse point.
Very softy, very very softly, John circles the pad of his finger against the underside of Sherlock’s wrist.
Sherlock's breathing quickens.
John sneaks a glance at Sherlock, whose eyes have fluttered closed. Sherlock swallows hard, and John exhales -- maybe that was a little more suggestive than he had intended.
No matter. John can improvise. He studies Sherlock’s face, watching for any signs of distress.
He finds none. In fact, Sherlock’s face is almost relaxed, and his breathing has evened out.
John is going forward then. If Sherlock pulls away, or gives that typical shake of his head, John’ll stop and move. But Sherlock does neither, and John applies a little more pressure, encasing the bones of Sherlock’s wrist with his fingers. He keeps the pressure just under a firm grip, and stops, intending to keep his hand there for as long as Sherlock allows it.
And allow it Sherlock does. Just like the night previous, Sherlock leans toward John. He shifts his arm, just a fraction, but still there, closer to John, demonstrating that yes, Sherlock wants this.
John’s chest feels tight with pleasure - the warm and fuzzy kind that makes his head buzz and his eyes close half way. He’s going to ignore the other part of his body that’s a little more insistent than he’d like - Sherlock is clearly waiting for John to take the lead, and John’s going to take his time and savor this process. It’s something he can easily do - relish the early stage, when they’re still getting accustomed to each other, in a physical sense.
By now, Sherlock has resumed whatever activity he was pursuing on the computer, eyes darting back and forth over the screen, so John does his best to focus on his medical journal, which is quite impossible with Sherlock’s skin warm under John’s hand. After fifteen minutes, John gives up and lets his mind wander. He has to smile, just a bit -- he’s practically holding hands with Sherlock Holmes. And apparently, Sherlock likes it.
John nearly lets the third day pass without trying out a new touch. The day started out fine -- a placid meeting with Lestrade at the Yard -- but it had ended with a mad chase through the Underground. He and Sherlock had run for forty-five minutes before catching the suspect, and John is bloody tired -- too tired to think clearly. The last thing he wants to do is make Sherlock feel uncomfortable or cross the line into inappropriate.
So he flops back against the seat of the cab. Sherlock is gazing out the window; his head is turned away from John, giving John the opportunity to admire the strong line of his jaw. John would very much like to touch there, to run his finger down the bone, to trace it. To draw his lips across -
John swallows hard and pulls his eyes away. Not a good train of thought. Not yet anyway. Not until he’s determined what exactly it is that Sherlock wants from him. What Sherlock needs. Sherlock will tell John anything else; he’ll be blunt and unwavering in his requests, but in this… John isn’t sure Sherlock will ever admit to needing John’s touch.
Sherlock’s head is still turned, and John reconsiders. His friend looks so lonely all the way over there. Almost wistful. And If Sherlock shows any reluctance to the touch, John can stop.
John lifts his left hand and rests it on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and in one smooth motion, he dips the ends of his fingers into the hair that curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
Sherlock jumps a little, clearly startled, but then settles back into his contemplative stance, eyes focused on the passing scenery.
John assumes this is a clear signal to proceed, and he does so. First, he scrapes his nails down Sherlock’s neck, very lightly, and then back up again into his hairline. Sherlock gives an imperceptible shiver.
Satisfied, John curls his fingers, brushing through the hair, across Sherlock’s scalp. He pets Sherlock like this, in the back of a cab, over and over, through the streets of London.
They’re almost back to Baker Street before John notices it: Sherlock is leaning into John’s hand - ever so slightly, yes, but it’s there. John smiles.
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Perfect! More, please.
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Um. YES. This is AWESOME. JOYOUS TIMES.
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I'm enjoying this sooooooo much! It's awesome! Perfect!
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Mycroft agrees, and demands oysters: happiness oystris
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Sherlock looks a little dazed, but he remains poised, keeping his head turned toward the window until the absolute last moment.
It should be awkward when they get back to the flat, but it’s not, and once John’s in bed, he falls asleep with his hand pressed against the sheet, imagining Sherlock’s curls between the tips of his fingers.
Day Four
Sherlock is only half-sprawled on the sofa, so John fits himself into the remaining space. He has a journal with him, one he’s going to pretend to read while he works out how to best make some sort of physical contact with Sherlock again. Sherlock is not typing, he’s clicking with his right hand, and his left lies unoccupied, next to his thigh. Perfect. John can hold his journal with his left hand, and he’ll have his right arm free to touch Sherlock.
Neither of them have mentioned the night before, in the cab, when John ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, but John had felt Sherlock leaning into him, and John’s prepared to do whatever it takes to make that happen again.
In for a penny, John thinks.
Once decided, John doesn’t hesitate. He moves his arm over next to Sherlock’s leg and then places his hand, palm down, on top of Sherlock’s arm. He wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist, curling them all the way around, until his index finger is against Sherlock’s pulse point.
Very softy, very very softly, John circles the pad of his finger against the underside of Sherlock’s wrist.
Sherlock's breathing quickens.
John sneaks a glance at Sherlock, whose eyes have fluttered closed. Sherlock swallows hard, and John exhales -- maybe that was a little more suggestive than he had intended.
No matter. John can improvise. He studies Sherlock’s face, watching for any signs of distress.
He finds none. In fact, Sherlock’s face is almost relaxed, and his breathing has evened out.
John is going forward then. If Sherlock pulls away, or gives that typical shake of his head, John’ll stop and move. But Sherlock does neither, and John applies a little more pressure, encasing the bones of Sherlock’s wrist with his fingers. He keeps the pressure just under a firm grip, and stops, intending to keep his hand there for as long as Sherlock allows it.
And allow it Sherlock does. Just like the night previous, Sherlock leans toward John. He shifts his arm, just a fraction, but still there, closer to John, demonstrating that yes, Sherlock wants this.
John’s chest feels tight with pleasure - the warm and fuzzy kind that makes his head buzz and his eyes close half way. He’s going to ignore the other part of his body that’s a little more insistent than he’d like - Sherlock is clearly waiting for John to take the lead, and John’s going to take his time and savor this process. It’s something he can easily do - relish the early stage, when they’re still getting accustomed to each other, in a physical sense.
By now, Sherlock has resumed whatever activity he was pursuing on the computer, eyes darting back and forth over the screen, so John does his best to focus on his medical journal, which is quite impossible with Sherlock’s skin warm under John’s hand. After fifteen minutes, John gives up and lets his mind wander. He has to smile, just a bit -- he’s practically holding hands with Sherlock Holmes. And apparently, Sherlock likes it.
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MOAR PLZ SOON! :D
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You win everything.
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<3
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