On the ninth day of Sherlockmas ... "Revisionist" (2/2) a gift for elanorofcastile
Author: saki101
Title: Revisionist
A gift for: elanorofcastile
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Category: Slash
Rating: Mature to Explicit
Warnings: dub/con vibe
Word Count: ~10K
Summary: What if Sherlock met John when he was training at Bart’s?
Author's Notes: Thank you dear beta; your input and tutelage make everything I write better. All shortcomings, not surprisingly, are mine.
[Read Part 1 here.]
John slid his card into the slot in the turnstile. The metal bars remained stationary when John pushed against them and the card slid back out. The boy behind John crowded closer. An attendant near the luggage gate motioned to John. John apologised as he squeezed past the people queued behind him, back stiffening, jacket suddenly too warm.
“It’s malfunctioning,” John said. The crank of the stiles turning for the people who had been behind him didn’t escape John’s notice. His neck reddened. The attendant held his hand out for John’s card and opened his mouth to speak. “I have at least five pounds on it,” John added.
“This card has been cancelled,” the attendant explained, trying it on the gate. “Did you report it lost?” John shook his head and glanced at his watch, grateful that he’d planned to stop by the library before his rounds. “I’ll just check to see what’s happened.” The man stepped inside the ticket office and John tried not to look like a miscreant with someone’s stolen card.
The attendant opened the door and motioned for John to step closer. “There’s been a replacement card issued. Haven’t you received it yet?”
John drew the card Sherlock had given him out of his pocket. “This came yesterday,” he said, holding it out. “But I didn’t request it.”
The man withdrew into the ticket booth once more and John strove to ignore the impatient looks of the people manoeuvring past him with suitcases and shopping.
The door opened again, to a smiling face and an extended hand. “Dr Watson, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Don’t worry about your balance; it’s been transferred to the new card.”
John shook the hand. “Oh, well, that’s fine, then,” he said, reaching into his pocket for some notes. “I’ll just top it up a bit, then,” he said.
The man leaned closer. “No need, sir,” he replied. “Sherlock explained that you’re working with him now.” The man’s voice dropped lower. “Heaven knows how long those murders would have continued if he hadn’t identified the gang members.” He shook his head. “It was a horrible business, pushing their rivals off the platforms in front of the incoming trains. And we could never identify them from the CCTV tapes. Hoods, glasses, denim trousers, they could have been anyone. Like phantoms, they were. But Sherlock found them.”
The time slipped John’s mind. “How long ago was this?” he asked.
“Must be four years now. It had gone on for months before Sherlock came down from uni and offered to help.” The attendant’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The police weren’t having any luck at all.”
“I don’t recall reading about this,” John said.
“They were calling them suicides in the papers, until it was all sorted that summer,” the man explained. “He refused any recognition or reward for it, you know, but we convinced him to accept travel passes for himself and any relative or friend he wanted to name. When he came in yesterday, we were so pleased he finally added someone. He doesn’t use his very much,” the man said, handing John back the card.
***
“You’re not turning me into a self-effacing hero, are you, John?” Sherlock asked. “You know my views on heroes.”
“Self-effacing isn’t the first adjective that comes to mind when I think of you, but you never wanted fame.” John sighed. “I brought that on with the blog.”
“I had a blog, too.”
“That ten people read,” John said.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “And one of them was the homicidal cabbie and another was Moriarty. So it was enough.”
“But Kitty Riley and her ilk wouldn’t have been interested, except for me. Couldn’t have done what they did, couldn’t have been used against you by Moriarty,” John persisted.
“I never cared, John, one way or the other. And I used what they did, and what Moriarty did, for my purposes. When they finished, they had convinced most of Moriarty’s underlings that he was a front for me. Rather helped with the unravelling,” Sherlock said, “so it worked for the best.”
John looked at the floor.
“I need to leave this for an hour,” Sherlock announced, waving at the various beakers and dishes ranged along the lab table. He turned to the opposite counter, opened the tap. “We can continue in the office. Eat something, if you like.”
John nodded, noting his place. He slipped the memory stick in his pocket, his laptop back in his bag. The tinkle of glassware identified Sherlock’s location in the supply cupboard. John followed, edging the shelving quietly back into place before following Sherlock up the narrow, dark steps.
***
“I never suspected that stairway existed,” John said, lifting his chin in the direction of the bookcase to the side of the desk through which they had entered the office. “I used the ones in the Rare Books Room almost every day, but it never occurred to me to look for others.” He leaned over the arm of the sofa to plug in his laptop.
“Wine or beer?” Sherlock asked from the sideboard. “You’re neither an architect nor a historian. Why would it have occurred to you?”
“Beer,” John said. The computer thunked as he inserted the flash drive. “Seems so obvious now, I suppose.”
“You haven’t seen a tenth of them,” Sherlock replied, handing John a beer and setting a bottle of water down on the coffee table. “Bart’s is honey-combed with them. Even Mycroft doesn’t know where they all are.”
“Really?” John said as Sherlock turned away.
Sherlock smiled before he ducked down to take several containers out of the small refrigerator. “He didn’t wish to be the archivist, so my grandfather only showed me.” Plastic lids snapped. Sherlock set black and green olives and pickled turnips on the table, returned for the grape leaves, the hummus and pita bread.
“I know something Mycroft doesn’t,” John mused. “That’s a pleasant feeling, although thinking about Mycroft generally isn’t.”
“You’re a surgeon, John. You know lots of things Mycroft doesn’t.” Sherlock cracked open another container, took forks from the drawer next to the fridge, closed it with his hip. “He likes to act omniscient, but he’s not.”
John raised his eyebrows and moved a few books off the coffee table to make space. “I’ll be right back,” he said, heading for the loo.
Sherlock counting out several serviettes.
“You don’t have anything lethal on your hands, do you?” John asked, disappearing into the lavatory.
“I washed my hands before we left the lab, didn’t you notice?” Sherlock replied.
“Right,” John answered and shut the door.
“Sherlock!” John exclaimed when he re-opened the door and found Sherlock leaning over the laptop. “I thought you wanted me to read it to you?”
Sherlock slid over on the sofa. “You were taking too long. I wanted to know what happened next.”
John half-smiled, trying to decide whether he was being manipulated or if he had really piqued Sherlock’s interest to that extent. Sherlock held up John’s beer. “Slake your thirst and continue, bard,” Sherlock said.
“Now you’re just ridiculing me,” John replied, snatching the bottle of beer.
“Not at all,” Sherlock averred, lifting his legs onto the sofa and leaning back against the armrest. “I find the characters singularly interesting.” He smiled at John.
“Fine,” John said, sitting down. “Where did you read to?”
Sherlock tapped the middle of the screen with a toe. “You appear to have left out Sebastian.”
“We wouldn’t have gone to see him, if I hadn’t asked you for a loan,” John explained, not looking at Sherlock. “He was one of my big mistakes,” John said.
“Yours?” Sherlock queried.
John leaned back on the sofa, beer resting against his thigh, eyes closed. “Your words would echo in my head. You introduced me as your friend and I corrected you, denied you. It amused him,” John said and sighed. “I’d see your face looking back at me from plate glass windows when I was down in the City, for a moment your eyes were downcast, recovering from the rebuff. It only took you an instant. It didn’t register on me at the time, although I’d seen it. I remembered it and the sound of my disloyal voice.”
“You are very loyal, John,” Sherlock said.
“I wasn’t that day,” John replied. “So I erased our meetings with Sebastian. I considered going further back and erasing him from your life as well.”
“It wouldn’t have been a loss,” Sherlock agreed.
“I figured,” John said.
Sherlock edged his toes under John’s thigh. “I was reading your daydream when you came in,” he said.
John’s head was tilted back on the couch cushions. He opened his eyes and followed the rosy outlines of the painted clouds on the ceiling, the spaces between them ranging from pale blue to cerulean, violet to navy, complete with stars. He’d often stared up at that immutable sky when he awoke on the sofa. “What did you think?”
“I’d like you to read it to me,” Sherlock said in that tone that made people give him things, information, permissions, forgiveness. John heard the water splash against the sides of Sherlock’s water bottle.
“I re-wrote that section, I don’t know how many times, until it almost said what I wanted it to,” John told the sunbeams glimmering between the clouds directly above him. “When I couldn’t sleep, the scene would scroll through my mind. I’d consider changing a few words, finding a different pulse point. I could recite it to you, more or less.”
Sherlock shoved his toes further under John’s leg and John understood. He set his beer bottle on the end table, clicked off the lights and cleared his throat.
“Sometimes John would find Sherlock in the dark, silent and still. It had frightened him at first, stomach clenching at the thought of having arrived too late to thwart some fatal experiment. As his eyes adjusted, the light filtering in from the street had shown John the measured rise and fall of the white shirt. He'd taken a step forward in the gloom, and then another until he'd reached the quiet form on the sofa and bending down heard the faint susurration of Sherlock’s breathing. A different dread stole over him and his knees buckled.”
John took a deep breath. The beer bottle clinked against the lamp when he reached for it. He took a long drink and then another.
“He sat heavily atop the books and papers on the coffee table and the air finding its way in and out of his lungs cloyed. John thought of poisons and paralysis and a mind trapped inside a prison of muscle and bone. He forced himself to touch one of the pale hands rising and falling with the motion of Sherlock’s chest.”
John set the bottle back down on the table and twisted towards Sherlock.
“He lifted one hand away from its mate, brought the wrist to his mouth and what had eluded his fingertips felt strong and hot against his lips."
“Tactile,” Sherlock murmured. "I should have realised sooner."
John pulled Sherlock’s foot onto his lap, peeled his sock away and stroked along the instep, fingertips still cool from the glass of the beer bottle. Sherlock took a deep breath as John's other hand feathered along his calf, not quite touching the skin at the top.
“I should have helped you realise sooner,” John said, resting his cheek on Sherlock's knee and working a thumb into the underside of Sherlock’s arch, fingers firm along the instep. “Did you read what I did next?” Sherlock shook his head. “I unbuttoned your shirt and checked your heartbeat with my lips.” John drew his hands away, rose up on his knees and made quick work of the buttons before him. “Like this,” he added and his lips hovered above Sherlock's heart. “Your pulse is racing,” John murmured.
Sherlock inhaled slowly before he spoke. “I did not stir and berate you for distracting me from my thoughts?” Sherlock asked and John felt the words vibrate through the skin.
John lifted his head. “You were still, except for your heart pounding beneath my lips,” he replied, "so I searched for other signs of life, lips ghosting over the rest of your chest.
“But that would have been away from my heartbeat,” Sherlock protested.
“Yes,” John agreed. "There were delicate places I needed to explore."
“To what end, Doctor?” Sherlock enquired.
John moved to the other side of Sherlock’s chest. “I needed to see if your responsiveness was within normal parameters.”
“Of course,” Sherlock breathed. “Certain poisons slow autonomic functions.”
John raised his head again, his hands nimble on the fastenings at Sherlock’s waist. “I wanted to touch your lips with mine, but I didn’t dare,” John said. John tugged at Sherlock’s garments and he lifted his hips.
“But you dared this?” Sherlock asked.
John sat back on his heels and freed Sherlock’s legs one at a time, set to work on his own shirt buttons. “A proper reaction would be a clear sign of health,” John explained.
“Many poisons leave a scent on the breath,” Sherlock remarked.
John pulled off his shirt. “It didn’t occur to me,” John said.
“You were distracted by your carnal thoughts,” Sherlock said.
John leaned forward, his face directly above Sherlock’s again. “Nothing, Sherlock, is more carnal than my thoughts about your mouth,” he said, leaned down.
Sherlock touched his fingertips to his lips when John finally raised his head. “So you were being reserved when you undid my flies?” Sherlock mused. “What was my response?”
“I was being reserved,” John answered, still getting his breath. “Your response was decidedly healthy,” he paused for air. “And you put your hand on the back of my head when I took you in my mouth.”
“To pull you away?” Sherlock asked. John edged down the sofa, loosening his belt and sliding it off as he went.
“No,” John said and his breath gusted over Sherlock’s skin, his fingers working on buttons and zip.
“To push you down, then?”
“No,” John replied, shoving his clothing over his hips. “It rested gently, your fingers curving slightly as though you were assessing the shape of my skull and you considered it a fragile thing.”
“Like this?” Sherlock asked, curling his hand around the back of John’s head.
John closed his eyes a moment. “Exactly. And you kept it there as I moved because once I started I could not stop myself,” John explained and kissed the skin of Sherlock’s belly.
“Did I comment?” Sherlock asked, his fingertips moving lightly through John’s hair.
“No,” John replied, then kissed Sherlock’s hip. “Your turgidity and your pulse were eloquent, but your were totally silent until…” John stopped and ran his tongue along the crease of Sherlock’s thigh and Sherlock stretched up into the caress. “You drew in your breath and said, ‘Oh!’ as you ejaculated.”
“And you?”
“A new fear seized me, your taste still strong in my mouth, I imagined being pushed to the floor and ordered to leave.” John’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“What did I do?” Sherlock persisted.
“You stroked my hair until you were soft and I let you slip from my mouth,” John said. “And then you asked for your phone.”
“Did I?” Sherlock asked and John could hear his smile.
“It was on the edge of the coffee table, so I reached out and handed it to you without moving my head.”
“Why?”
“You still had your hand on the back of my neck and I didn’t want you to take it away,” John replied. “You texted with one hand and I watched your face by the light of the phone. You sent your message and looked down at me. I thought your anger might manifest then then, your message sent, whatever puzzle you had been contemplating solved, but your fingers started brushing though the hair on my neck and you asked if I could do it again.”
“Indeed,” Sherlock said. John nodded as his lips nuzzled the inside of Sherlock’s thigh and his legs opened a little further. “And did you?”
“Your fingers had shifted to stroking my cheek. I could feel the calluses on your fingertips. You said my touch seemed to have accelerated your thinking. You explained that you had always assumed orgasm would have a dulling effect, like digestion. Now you wanted to see if this new effect could be replicated.”
“You let me experiment on you?” Sherlock asked.
John slid back up Sherlock’s body. “So willingly, Sherlock,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, pressing their chests together, hips undulating slowly. “I repeated every step, although I longed to touch your mouth, I didn’t dare, so I started with your wrist as before, but without moving off the couch, barely moving my head from its place of repose.”
“But starting with you seated on the coffee table would have been more accurate,” Sherlock said, lifting his hips against John’s.
“It would have been, but you didn’t insist. You just let me kiss over the vein. I did it for longer and kissed the centre of your palm as well, pressed my tongue against it and you let out a small sound, so I pressed harder and worked my tongue between your fingers. Mere centimetres from my eyes, you were becoming firm already and I was heartened.”
“Daydreams.”
“Youth. And the intoxication of being desired,” John said, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I wanted your mouth so much,” he whispered and kissed Sherlock again, his tongue more insistent than before, plunging in time to the press of his hips. John drew back and rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “I moved up to your chest, teased each nipple lightly with my teeth. You had quiet again and I feared it was too soon. It should have been too soon, but you had asked and I wanted to give you whatever you asked for.” John’s lips were back near Sherlock’s ear, “I always want to give you what you ask for. I should have known you wanted this without your asking.” He drew an earlobe between his teeth and nipped gently. “I went slowly from your chest, down your abdomen. You bumped against the bottom of my chin, already hard. I was so relieved and you were so quiet. Gone away again to someplace where I couldn’t follow and yet I was somehow lighting your way. The idea was intoxicating. I went further down, traced my tongue over your testicles, suckling. They tightened, but otherwise you were so still.” John took a deep breath.
“Realising you were deep among your thoughts, I began to think I could do anything as long as I did it gently, didn’t startle you back from wherever you’d gone. The thought sharpened my desire.”
Sherlock’s breathing had grown rapid and John kissed him once more, hand in Sherlock’s hair, thumb stroking across his cheekbone. Panting, John pulled away, “I experimented, gently, gently, my heart pounding at the idea of failure and the vision of success. I breathed softly over the moisture on your testicles, pressed my tongue beneath them and eased your legs apart with my hand.”
John stretched out, half on Sherlock, half on his side, his hand stroking from Sherlock’s chest to his thigh, his face nestled by Sherlock’s shoulder, his mouth below Sherlock’s ear.
“After that, if I found you stretched out on the couch thinking, I would repeat some variation of this approach, never sudden, never too bold at the outset, each time pressing closer and closer to my fiercest desire.” John pressed his lips to the pulse at Sherlock’s throat, drew the skin between his teeth. He eased away and continued speaking. “The first time I found you slouched in your chair, lost in thought, I simply knelt between your legs, breathed through the thin cloth of your pyjamas and soon your hand was in my hair, stroking softly.”
Sherlock turned onto his side, drove John against the back of the sofa. “You make no mention of yourself. You imagined me as selfish as that?” Sherlock demanded, his hips rotating.
“That was when you were thinking. You could not think of me then, you were finding other answers, but when you were bored, you had a great deal of time to think of what might please me.”
“I experimented on you further?” Sherlock said.
“You discovered everything I liked,” John replied. “Things I had no idea about.”
“I like to be thorough,” Sherlock said, hooking a leg around John’s.
“Yes, you do,” John agreed.
“So I wasn’t purely self-centred?” Sherlock asked.
“Not at all.”
“Did you write up any of those…experiments?”
“I did,” John affirmed, his hand sliding down Sherlock’s back. “Speaking of which, don’t you have one downstairs that needs attention?”
Sherlock flung an arm behind him to grab his phone off the table. He held it in front of his face and glared at the screen. “Yes!” he said, leaping off the couch and striding towards the bookcase.
“Clothes,” John reminded.
Sherlock looked down at himself, walked back and yanked his trousers out from under the coffee table. He stepped into them and turned back to the bookcase.
“You’re not going to wear more than that?” John asked.
“Lab coat,” Sherlock replied. “And it was superstition making you avoid the classic gesture of awakening,” he added and was gone down the stairs to the lab.
***
John heard the soft shift of leather as the bookcase began to move. He closed his laptop, the office darkened, but for the wink of tiny blue and green lights.
“I couldn’t stay away,” Sherlock said in the gloom, walking towards the sofa.
“Why?” John asked.
“I knew how you’d feel.” Sherlock sat down, still wrapped in his coat, next to John.
“I was just buying a ticket to follow you,” John said.
“You knew where I was going?”
“You leave your computer open sometimes,” John said. “I look.”
“Learning my methods, John,” Sherlock said.
“Is this why we came back to London? To drop me off? Why for this? You’ve been gone for days before, a couple weeks to South Africa. Was this going to be longer than that?” John paused. “More dangerous?”
By the fey light, John could see Sherlock staring straight ahead. “Did you leave the train booking there for me to find? Did you want me to stop you?” John asked.
Sherlock remained silent. “Have I ruined it? Injected sentiment where cold planning was needed?” John probed.
“No,” Sherlock replied. “But I was going to send a text this time.”
“Good. But why not discuss it first? I dealt with your needing to go alone those other times,” John asked. Sherlock was quiet for longer. “You’re unsure. You knew I’d see that, try to dissuade you.”
“It’s not the day you think it is,” Sherlock said.
“What?” John’s voice came out a little higher than he’d intended.
“It’s Sunday night, not Saturday,” Sherlock explained. “I drugged you. I’ve been in Amsterdam for the last twenty-four hours.” He took a deep breath. “It’s done. Fewer people taken into custody, some data lost, but it’s over.
A low sound escaped John, the beginning of a question perhaps or the end of one.
***
John awoke, chilled. He tugged the blankets higher. His hand skimmed over the cool sheets. Raising his head, he saw the faint line of blue-grey light glowing along the floor. Quietly, he got up, grabbed the dressing gown from the bottom of the bed. He listened at the door, pushed the handle down slowly, easing the door open, but Sherlock didn’t look up. John went to sit next to him on the sofa. By the silvered light of the computer monitor, he could see the flash drive jutting out from the side of his laptop. He leaned forward to see which file was open.
“That’s what you fear the most. Still,” Sherlock said, his voice contemplative. “I haven't resurrected your trust.”
John turned to watch the shadowed face. “It never died. It's just beset by fears now and then.”
Sherlock drew his bare feet up onto the couch, rested his chin on his pyjama-clad knees. John stretched out a hand towards him. “Maybe I should write down what I could have done differently,” Sherlock murmured. John’s hand settled on Sherlock’s shoulder. “But I’d rather tell it to you, John. In the dark, while you sleep.”
John’s hand rose. He brought it down softly on Sherlock’s dishevelled curls. “I’d be listening.”
Title: Revisionist
A gift for: elanorofcastile
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Category: Slash
Rating: Mature to Explicit
Warnings: dub/con vibe
Word Count: ~10K
Summary: What if Sherlock met John when he was training at Bart’s?
Author's Notes: Thank you dear beta; your input and tutelage make everything I write better. All shortcomings, not surprisingly, are mine.
[Read Part 1 here.]
John slid his card into the slot in the turnstile. The metal bars remained stationary when John pushed against them and the card slid back out. The boy behind John crowded closer. An attendant near the luggage gate motioned to John. John apologised as he squeezed past the people queued behind him, back stiffening, jacket suddenly too warm.
“It’s malfunctioning,” John said. The crank of the stiles turning for the people who had been behind him didn’t escape John’s notice. His neck reddened. The attendant held his hand out for John’s card and opened his mouth to speak. “I have at least five pounds on it,” John added.
“This card has been cancelled,” the attendant explained, trying it on the gate. “Did you report it lost?” John shook his head and glanced at his watch, grateful that he’d planned to stop by the library before his rounds. “I’ll just check to see what’s happened.” The man stepped inside the ticket office and John tried not to look like a miscreant with someone’s stolen card.
The attendant opened the door and motioned for John to step closer. “There’s been a replacement card issued. Haven’t you received it yet?”
John drew the card Sherlock had given him out of his pocket. “This came yesterday,” he said, holding it out. “But I didn’t request it.”
The man withdrew into the ticket booth once more and John strove to ignore the impatient looks of the people manoeuvring past him with suitcases and shopping.
The door opened again, to a smiling face and an extended hand. “Dr Watson, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Don’t worry about your balance; it’s been transferred to the new card.”
John shook the hand. “Oh, well, that’s fine, then,” he said, reaching into his pocket for some notes. “I’ll just top it up a bit, then,” he said.
The man leaned closer. “No need, sir,” he replied. “Sherlock explained that you’re working with him now.” The man’s voice dropped lower. “Heaven knows how long those murders would have continued if he hadn’t identified the gang members.” He shook his head. “It was a horrible business, pushing their rivals off the platforms in front of the incoming trains. And we could never identify them from the CCTV tapes. Hoods, glasses, denim trousers, they could have been anyone. Like phantoms, they were. But Sherlock found them.”
The time slipped John’s mind. “How long ago was this?” he asked.
“Must be four years now. It had gone on for months before Sherlock came down from uni and offered to help.” The attendant’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The police weren’t having any luck at all.”
“I don’t recall reading about this,” John said.
“They were calling them suicides in the papers, until it was all sorted that summer,” the man explained. “He refused any recognition or reward for it, you know, but we convinced him to accept travel passes for himself and any relative or friend he wanted to name. When he came in yesterday, we were so pleased he finally added someone. He doesn’t use his very much,” the man said, handing John back the card.
***
“You’re not turning me into a self-effacing hero, are you, John?” Sherlock asked. “You know my views on heroes.”
“Self-effacing isn’t the first adjective that comes to mind when I think of you, but you never wanted fame.” John sighed. “I brought that on with the blog.”
“I had a blog, too.”
“That ten people read,” John said.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “And one of them was the homicidal cabbie and another was Moriarty. So it was enough.”
“But Kitty Riley and her ilk wouldn’t have been interested, except for me. Couldn’t have done what they did, couldn’t have been used against you by Moriarty,” John persisted.
“I never cared, John, one way or the other. And I used what they did, and what Moriarty did, for my purposes. When they finished, they had convinced most of Moriarty’s underlings that he was a front for me. Rather helped with the unravelling,” Sherlock said, “so it worked for the best.”
John looked at the floor.
“I need to leave this for an hour,” Sherlock announced, waving at the various beakers and dishes ranged along the lab table. He turned to the opposite counter, opened the tap. “We can continue in the office. Eat something, if you like.”
John nodded, noting his place. He slipped the memory stick in his pocket, his laptop back in his bag. The tinkle of glassware identified Sherlock’s location in the supply cupboard. John followed, edging the shelving quietly back into place before following Sherlock up the narrow, dark steps.
***
“I never suspected that stairway existed,” John said, lifting his chin in the direction of the bookcase to the side of the desk through which they had entered the office. “I used the ones in the Rare Books Room almost every day, but it never occurred to me to look for others.” He leaned over the arm of the sofa to plug in his laptop.
“Wine or beer?” Sherlock asked from the sideboard. “You’re neither an architect nor a historian. Why would it have occurred to you?”
“Beer,” John said. The computer thunked as he inserted the flash drive. “Seems so obvious now, I suppose.”
“You haven’t seen a tenth of them,” Sherlock replied, handing John a beer and setting a bottle of water down on the coffee table. “Bart’s is honey-combed with them. Even Mycroft doesn’t know where they all are.”
“Really?” John said as Sherlock turned away.
Sherlock smiled before he ducked down to take several containers out of the small refrigerator. “He didn’t wish to be the archivist, so my grandfather only showed me.” Plastic lids snapped. Sherlock set black and green olives and pickled turnips on the table, returned for the grape leaves, the hummus and pita bread.
“I know something Mycroft doesn’t,” John mused. “That’s a pleasant feeling, although thinking about Mycroft generally isn’t.”
“You’re a surgeon, John. You know lots of things Mycroft doesn’t.” Sherlock cracked open another container, took forks from the drawer next to the fridge, closed it with his hip. “He likes to act omniscient, but he’s not.”
John raised his eyebrows and moved a few books off the coffee table to make space. “I’ll be right back,” he said, heading for the loo.
Sherlock counting out several serviettes.
“You don’t have anything lethal on your hands, do you?” John asked, disappearing into the lavatory.
“I washed my hands before we left the lab, didn’t you notice?” Sherlock replied.
“Right,” John answered and shut the door.
“Sherlock!” John exclaimed when he re-opened the door and found Sherlock leaning over the laptop. “I thought you wanted me to read it to you?”
Sherlock slid over on the sofa. “You were taking too long. I wanted to know what happened next.”
John half-smiled, trying to decide whether he was being manipulated or if he had really piqued Sherlock’s interest to that extent. Sherlock held up John’s beer. “Slake your thirst and continue, bard,” Sherlock said.
“Now you’re just ridiculing me,” John replied, snatching the bottle of beer.
“Not at all,” Sherlock averred, lifting his legs onto the sofa and leaning back against the armrest. “I find the characters singularly interesting.” He smiled at John.
“Fine,” John said, sitting down. “Where did you read to?”
Sherlock tapped the middle of the screen with a toe. “You appear to have left out Sebastian.”
“We wouldn’t have gone to see him, if I hadn’t asked you for a loan,” John explained, not looking at Sherlock. “He was one of my big mistakes,” John said.
“Yours?” Sherlock queried.
John leaned back on the sofa, beer resting against his thigh, eyes closed. “Your words would echo in my head. You introduced me as your friend and I corrected you, denied you. It amused him,” John said and sighed. “I’d see your face looking back at me from plate glass windows when I was down in the City, for a moment your eyes were downcast, recovering from the rebuff. It only took you an instant. It didn’t register on me at the time, although I’d seen it. I remembered it and the sound of my disloyal voice.”
“You are very loyal, John,” Sherlock said.
“I wasn’t that day,” John replied. “So I erased our meetings with Sebastian. I considered going further back and erasing him from your life as well.”
“It wouldn’t have been a loss,” Sherlock agreed.
“I figured,” John said.
Sherlock edged his toes under John’s thigh. “I was reading your daydream when you came in,” he said.
John’s head was tilted back on the couch cushions. He opened his eyes and followed the rosy outlines of the painted clouds on the ceiling, the spaces between them ranging from pale blue to cerulean, violet to navy, complete with stars. He’d often stared up at that immutable sky when he awoke on the sofa. “What did you think?”
“I’d like you to read it to me,” Sherlock said in that tone that made people give him things, information, permissions, forgiveness. John heard the water splash against the sides of Sherlock’s water bottle.
“I re-wrote that section, I don’t know how many times, until it almost said what I wanted it to,” John told the sunbeams glimmering between the clouds directly above him. “When I couldn’t sleep, the scene would scroll through my mind. I’d consider changing a few words, finding a different pulse point. I could recite it to you, more or less.”
Sherlock shoved his toes further under John’s leg and John understood. He set his beer bottle on the end table, clicked off the lights and cleared his throat.
“Sometimes John would find Sherlock in the dark, silent and still. It had frightened him at first, stomach clenching at the thought of having arrived too late to thwart some fatal experiment. As his eyes adjusted, the light filtering in from the street had shown John the measured rise and fall of the white shirt. He'd taken a step forward in the gloom, and then another until he'd reached the quiet form on the sofa and bending down heard the faint susurration of Sherlock’s breathing. A different dread stole over him and his knees buckled.”
John took a deep breath. The beer bottle clinked against the lamp when he reached for it. He took a long drink and then another.
“He sat heavily atop the books and papers on the coffee table and the air finding its way in and out of his lungs cloyed. John thought of poisons and paralysis and a mind trapped inside a prison of muscle and bone. He forced himself to touch one of the pale hands rising and falling with the motion of Sherlock’s chest.”
John set the bottle back down on the table and twisted towards Sherlock.
“He lifted one hand away from its mate, brought the wrist to his mouth and what had eluded his fingertips felt strong and hot against his lips."
“Tactile,” Sherlock murmured. "I should have realised sooner."
John pulled Sherlock’s foot onto his lap, peeled his sock away and stroked along the instep, fingertips still cool from the glass of the beer bottle. Sherlock took a deep breath as John's other hand feathered along his calf, not quite touching the skin at the top.
“I should have helped you realise sooner,” John said, resting his cheek on Sherlock's knee and working a thumb into the underside of Sherlock’s arch, fingers firm along the instep. “Did you read what I did next?” Sherlock shook his head. “I unbuttoned your shirt and checked your heartbeat with my lips.” John drew his hands away, rose up on his knees and made quick work of the buttons before him. “Like this,” he added and his lips hovered above Sherlock's heart. “Your pulse is racing,” John murmured.
Sherlock inhaled slowly before he spoke. “I did not stir and berate you for distracting me from my thoughts?” Sherlock asked and John felt the words vibrate through the skin.
John lifted his head. “You were still, except for your heart pounding beneath my lips,” he replied, "so I searched for other signs of life, lips ghosting over the rest of your chest.
“But that would have been away from my heartbeat,” Sherlock protested.
“Yes,” John agreed. "There were delicate places I needed to explore."
“To what end, Doctor?” Sherlock enquired.
John moved to the other side of Sherlock’s chest. “I needed to see if your responsiveness was within normal parameters.”
“Of course,” Sherlock breathed. “Certain poisons slow autonomic functions.”
John raised his head again, his hands nimble on the fastenings at Sherlock’s waist. “I wanted to touch your lips with mine, but I didn’t dare,” John said. John tugged at Sherlock’s garments and he lifted his hips.
“But you dared this?” Sherlock asked.
John sat back on his heels and freed Sherlock’s legs one at a time, set to work on his own shirt buttons. “A proper reaction would be a clear sign of health,” John explained.
“Many poisons leave a scent on the breath,” Sherlock remarked.
John pulled off his shirt. “It didn’t occur to me,” John said.
“You were distracted by your carnal thoughts,” Sherlock said.
John leaned forward, his face directly above Sherlock’s again. “Nothing, Sherlock, is more carnal than my thoughts about your mouth,” he said, leaned down.
Sherlock touched his fingertips to his lips when John finally raised his head. “So you were being reserved when you undid my flies?” Sherlock mused. “What was my response?”
“I was being reserved,” John answered, still getting his breath. “Your response was decidedly healthy,” he paused for air. “And you put your hand on the back of my head when I took you in my mouth.”
“To pull you away?” Sherlock asked. John edged down the sofa, loosening his belt and sliding it off as he went.
“No,” John said and his breath gusted over Sherlock’s skin, his fingers working on buttons and zip.
“To push you down, then?”
“No,” John replied, shoving his clothing over his hips. “It rested gently, your fingers curving slightly as though you were assessing the shape of my skull and you considered it a fragile thing.”
“Like this?” Sherlock asked, curling his hand around the back of John’s head.
John closed his eyes a moment. “Exactly. And you kept it there as I moved because once I started I could not stop myself,” John explained and kissed the skin of Sherlock’s belly.
“Did I comment?” Sherlock asked, his fingertips moving lightly through John’s hair.
“No,” John replied, then kissed Sherlock’s hip. “Your turgidity and your pulse were eloquent, but your were totally silent until…” John stopped and ran his tongue along the crease of Sherlock’s thigh and Sherlock stretched up into the caress. “You drew in your breath and said, ‘Oh!’ as you ejaculated.”
“And you?”
“A new fear seized me, your taste still strong in my mouth, I imagined being pushed to the floor and ordered to leave.” John’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“What did I do?” Sherlock persisted.
“You stroked my hair until you were soft and I let you slip from my mouth,” John said. “And then you asked for your phone.”
“Did I?” Sherlock asked and John could hear his smile.
“It was on the edge of the coffee table, so I reached out and handed it to you without moving my head.”
“Why?”
“You still had your hand on the back of my neck and I didn’t want you to take it away,” John replied. “You texted with one hand and I watched your face by the light of the phone. You sent your message and looked down at me. I thought your anger might manifest then then, your message sent, whatever puzzle you had been contemplating solved, but your fingers started brushing though the hair on my neck and you asked if I could do it again.”
“Indeed,” Sherlock said. John nodded as his lips nuzzled the inside of Sherlock’s thigh and his legs opened a little further. “And did you?”
“Your fingers had shifted to stroking my cheek. I could feel the calluses on your fingertips. You said my touch seemed to have accelerated your thinking. You explained that you had always assumed orgasm would have a dulling effect, like digestion. Now you wanted to see if this new effect could be replicated.”
“You let me experiment on you?” Sherlock asked.
John slid back up Sherlock’s body. “So willingly, Sherlock,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, pressing their chests together, hips undulating slowly. “I repeated every step, although I longed to touch your mouth, I didn’t dare, so I started with your wrist as before, but without moving off the couch, barely moving my head from its place of repose.”
“But starting with you seated on the coffee table would have been more accurate,” Sherlock said, lifting his hips against John’s.
“It would have been, but you didn’t insist. You just let me kiss over the vein. I did it for longer and kissed the centre of your palm as well, pressed my tongue against it and you let out a small sound, so I pressed harder and worked my tongue between your fingers. Mere centimetres from my eyes, you were becoming firm already and I was heartened.”
“Daydreams.”
“Youth. And the intoxication of being desired,” John said, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I wanted your mouth so much,” he whispered and kissed Sherlock again, his tongue more insistent than before, plunging in time to the press of his hips. John drew back and rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “I moved up to your chest, teased each nipple lightly with my teeth. You had quiet again and I feared it was too soon. It should have been too soon, but you had asked and I wanted to give you whatever you asked for.” John’s lips were back near Sherlock’s ear, “I always want to give you what you ask for. I should have known you wanted this without your asking.” He drew an earlobe between his teeth and nipped gently. “I went slowly from your chest, down your abdomen. You bumped against the bottom of my chin, already hard. I was so relieved and you were so quiet. Gone away again to someplace where I couldn’t follow and yet I was somehow lighting your way. The idea was intoxicating. I went further down, traced my tongue over your testicles, suckling. They tightened, but otherwise you were so still.” John took a deep breath.
“Realising you were deep among your thoughts, I began to think I could do anything as long as I did it gently, didn’t startle you back from wherever you’d gone. The thought sharpened my desire.”
Sherlock’s breathing had grown rapid and John kissed him once more, hand in Sherlock’s hair, thumb stroking across his cheekbone. Panting, John pulled away, “I experimented, gently, gently, my heart pounding at the idea of failure and the vision of success. I breathed softly over the moisture on your testicles, pressed my tongue beneath them and eased your legs apart with my hand.”
John stretched out, half on Sherlock, half on his side, his hand stroking from Sherlock’s chest to his thigh, his face nestled by Sherlock’s shoulder, his mouth below Sherlock’s ear.
“After that, if I found you stretched out on the couch thinking, I would repeat some variation of this approach, never sudden, never too bold at the outset, each time pressing closer and closer to my fiercest desire.” John pressed his lips to the pulse at Sherlock’s throat, drew the skin between his teeth. He eased away and continued speaking. “The first time I found you slouched in your chair, lost in thought, I simply knelt between your legs, breathed through the thin cloth of your pyjamas and soon your hand was in my hair, stroking softly.”
Sherlock turned onto his side, drove John against the back of the sofa. “You make no mention of yourself. You imagined me as selfish as that?” Sherlock demanded, his hips rotating.
“That was when you were thinking. You could not think of me then, you were finding other answers, but when you were bored, you had a great deal of time to think of what might please me.”
“I experimented on you further?” Sherlock said.
“You discovered everything I liked,” John replied. “Things I had no idea about.”
“I like to be thorough,” Sherlock said, hooking a leg around John’s.
“Yes, you do,” John agreed.
“So I wasn’t purely self-centred?” Sherlock asked.
“Not at all.”
“Did you write up any of those…experiments?”
“I did,” John affirmed, his hand sliding down Sherlock’s back. “Speaking of which, don’t you have one downstairs that needs attention?”
Sherlock flung an arm behind him to grab his phone off the table. He held it in front of his face and glared at the screen. “Yes!” he said, leaping off the couch and striding towards the bookcase.
“Clothes,” John reminded.
Sherlock looked down at himself, walked back and yanked his trousers out from under the coffee table. He stepped into them and turned back to the bookcase.
“You’re not going to wear more than that?” John asked.
“Lab coat,” Sherlock replied. “And it was superstition making you avoid the classic gesture of awakening,” he added and was gone down the stairs to the lab.
***
John heard the soft shift of leather as the bookcase began to move. He closed his laptop, the office darkened, but for the wink of tiny blue and green lights.
“I couldn’t stay away,” Sherlock said in the gloom, walking towards the sofa.
“Why?” John asked.
“I knew how you’d feel.” Sherlock sat down, still wrapped in his coat, next to John.
“I was just buying a ticket to follow you,” John said.
“You knew where I was going?”
“You leave your computer open sometimes,” John said. “I look.”
“Learning my methods, John,” Sherlock said.
“Is this why we came back to London? To drop me off? Why for this? You’ve been gone for days before, a couple weeks to South Africa. Was this going to be longer than that?” John paused. “More dangerous?”
By the fey light, John could see Sherlock staring straight ahead. “Did you leave the train booking there for me to find? Did you want me to stop you?” John asked.
Sherlock remained silent. “Have I ruined it? Injected sentiment where cold planning was needed?” John probed.
“No,” Sherlock replied. “But I was going to send a text this time.”
“Good. But why not discuss it first? I dealt with your needing to go alone those other times,” John asked. Sherlock was quiet for longer. “You’re unsure. You knew I’d see that, try to dissuade you.”
“It’s not the day you think it is,” Sherlock said.
“What?” John’s voice came out a little higher than he’d intended.
“It’s Sunday night, not Saturday,” Sherlock explained. “I drugged you. I’ve been in Amsterdam for the last twenty-four hours.” He took a deep breath. “It’s done. Fewer people taken into custody, some data lost, but it’s over.
A low sound escaped John, the beginning of a question perhaps or the end of one.
***
John awoke, chilled. He tugged the blankets higher. His hand skimmed over the cool sheets. Raising his head, he saw the faint line of blue-grey light glowing along the floor. Quietly, he got up, grabbed the dressing gown from the bottom of the bed. He listened at the door, pushed the handle down slowly, easing the door open, but Sherlock didn’t look up. John went to sit next to him on the sofa. By the silvered light of the computer monitor, he could see the flash drive jutting out from the side of his laptop. He leaned forward to see which file was open.
“That’s what you fear the most. Still,” Sherlock said, his voice contemplative. “I haven't resurrected your trust.”
John turned to watch the shadowed face. “It never died. It's just beset by fears now and then.”
Sherlock drew his bare feet up onto the couch, rested his chin on his pyjama-clad knees. John stretched out a hand towards him. “Maybe I should write down what I could have done differently,” Sherlock murmured. John’s hand settled on Sherlock’s shoulder. “But I’d rather tell it to you, John. In the dark, while you sleep.”
John’s hand rose. He brought it down softly on Sherlock’s dishevelled curls. “I’d be listening.”