fic part two - [Sherlock 2010] The Experiment (2/2)
The Experiment (2/2)
description and disclaimer on part one.
John's phone alarm, which he'd had the forethought to set the afternoon before, wakes him at 7:30 the next morning. His reflexes hardened through military discipline, he gets right up, makes his bed, and is in the shower before his conscious mind comes on line.
Where's the song? The song was here, and then it was gone and I woke up.
He's got a full day shift at the surgery, starting at 8:30. No time to dwell on what might or might not have happened last night; only time to dress, consume breakfast, and get to work. He'd had plenty of sleep, really, and his mind is remarkably clear - almost too clear. Almost hollow.
Downstairs, in the sitting room, Sherlock sprawls over the sofa, as naked as the day he was born, limbs askew, mouth open, snoring softly. Hairy navel; ribs; long limp brown penis flung carelessly across his groin. In one hand he still holds his violin bow, though the instrument itself has been carefully placed back into its velvet-lined case.
John spares a moment to study the remarkable tableau of Sherlock actually asleep. John knows Sherlock does sleep, of course - after Moriarty, Sherlock had slept for almost 24 straight hours, but that was in his own room, with the door closed. For all John knew, he could have been reading or something. But here is Sherlock quite unconscious, his face appearing alarmingly young, vulnerable, pure, his quiet snores half wheeze, half grunt.
Taking the bow from Sherlock's unmoving hand, John tucks the Union Jack pillow under Sherlock's wild hair, and spreads an afghan over him from collarbone to toes. The detective is too deeply asleep to respond more than slightly flared nostrils.
Tempting to just sit beside Sherlock, and wait for him to wake up, but John envisions a corgi in a stripy jumper, waiting for Master to revive and take him out for walkies; he shakes his head and turns away. He is Dr. John Watson, adult male human, and he has a job to go to.
There's no point in breakfasting here. He'd finished everything off yesterday, and hadn't gone to the shops, being rather too busy dissecting a human liver and getting kicked in the face. John shoulders his jacket and heads out, down to the end of Baker Street, where the café provides him with strong tea and a bun promptly enough so that he's able to catch the 7:50 tube, arriving at the medical clinic a few minutes early.
He cheerfully greets the receptionist, who is always there first thing. "Morning, Gillian."
"Planning on staying awake today, are we, John? I'm just having you on, love. Coffee's made." Gillian has exact opposite moods from the usual; she's always friendly first thing, and a hell bitch on wheels by the end of the day.
"Thanks." John heads to the break room, pours a cup, drinks it black and plain. Looks up to see Sarah smiling at him from the doorway, her hair swept back into a sleek French braid. John goggles at it for a moment, wanting nothing more than to plunge his fingers into it, loosen it up. He pictures her in the shower, spray trained upwards, rubbing her clit with the opposite thumb.
"You all right?" she asks, forehead slightly furrowed with concern.
"Yeah, yeah," John assures her, rinsing his coffee mug. "If I look strange, it's because I got two full nights' sleep in a row."
Her smile is gently pitying. It so often is. "I was talking about your lip."
"What?" John reflexively licks the split. It's mostly healed. Sherlock kissed it better. With his penis. "Oh," he grumbles. "That. S'nothing really."
"He doesn't beat you, does he?" Sarah quips, arching her eyebrow.
"Oh, ha, ha."
She passes very close by him on her way to the coffee pot and says, "I don't know why you're sniffing me; I'm not wearing perfume, John."
"It's, uh, your shampoo," John mumbles, his face going hot. "Smells nice."
"It's unscented."
He can't win. "Well, I'd better get to it. Lunch at noon?"
Sarah takes a lot of milk in her coffee, no sugar. Her lips leave a glistening sheen of moisture on the rim of the cup; no lip color, just a gloss, or vaseline, or - "I'm at one; sorry. But if you're going to Pret, get me a croissant sandwich, would you?"
"Be delighted to," John says, and it's true. "Have a good day."
At five minutes to noon, the first text comes in. John ignores it, busy thumping the white-haired back of his current patient, but he can hear his phone even through the rattling of mucus in the old geezer's lungs. John takes his time getting to reading the text; it can only be Sherlock, and John's not in a hurry to read anything from him. The phone buzzes again - four times - before he reads.
Stop being offended. I don't like it. SH
Remember that I am a sociopath and an investigator by nature. It’s nothing personal. SH
You're being emotional. I know it's your lunchtime; you can't claim that you're busy working. Get back to me. SH
I’d never do this with anyone but you, so that should mean something. Doesn't it? RSVP. SH
Bring home milk, please. Mrs. Hudson won't give me any more. SH
John laughs, but sets his phone to silent until he's done eating. He brings the sandwich for Sarah, but can't find her, and has to shove the sandwich into the break room refrigerator and rush to his exam room to meet his next patient. Around four o'clock, John checks his phone again.
I am not averse to sharing sexual activities with you. SH
I don't understand. Where are you? SH
Did I force myself on you? Tell me candidly; I have no feelings to hurt. SH
John feels obligated to reply this time. To use your own language, I am not - and was not - averse to sharing sexual activities with you. Obviously. Grow up and sort it out. I'm at work.
The response comes almost instantly. Good; don’t forget milk. Dim Sum takeaway would also be good, particularly crab puffs. SH
John almost replies, Fuck you, but deletes it at the last minute and goes back to work.
He's done at six, and catches Sarah just as she's leaving. "Busy tonight?" he asks hopefully.
Sarah cocks her head a bit, examining him, and sighs. "I'm afraid so," she says. "I have a date."
John smiles and shrugs, trying to be harmless. "Good, good," he replies, too quickly, too smoothly. "Nice bloke?"
"Don't really know yet," she confesses. "Look, John, um-"
"You don't have to say anything," he cuts in hastily.
"John, I fancy you, all right?" Sarah states emphatically, if gently, softening it with a sheepish grin. "But right now, I am single, and enjoying that fact. And you . . ." She looks him up and down a bit more. "It's not as though you live a boring life, what with your flatmate. You're good together."
"We're not-"
She holds up her hand, silencing him. "I just want you to be absolutely sure what you want," she says, "and who with. In the meantime, don't get hung up. Remember to let things happen; don’t force them. I do want to see you again. Next weekend, maybe? Try the cinema again?"
John hardly knows what to think, what to feel. He likes her even more now, even as his doglike lust has cooled somewhat; in these last sixty seconds, she's become even more of a person to him, someone who, perhaps, he can believe cares about him. Perhaps, in this bizarre world he now lives in, it's even more valuable to have a good friend than to get a leg over. What he really needs right now is a friend. Sherlock is . . . well, he is definitely more, though he's not sure exactly what. More than a friend. And less, as well. Sherlock is (his) Sherlock, as vital and dangerous as the sun.
"Love to," John finally replies. "If you need anything, give me a call."
"Of course," she replies. She reaches over and gives his hand a little squeeze.
As he walks towards the tube station, he calls in the takeaway order to the Chinese place down Oxford Street, the dim sum that's not on the menu. The clerk asks if it's for Mr. Holmes, and John grits his teeth and admits that it is. "Crab rangoon," the clerk says knowledgeably. "Order of six. Your man like. Ready by quarter of eight. You pick up!"
After getting off the tube, John goes straight to the pub on Oxford Street rather than waiting in the restaurant, having an entire family of Cantonese tease him about his "man". John just can't face it. He drinks a pint and a whiskey, and when the pint outstrips the whiskey, he orders another shot. He's stalling. He's not much of a drinker, but tonight the whiskey seems necessary as a buffer. The phone in his pocket has been silent for hours, but it doesn't give him a sense of peace. Sherlock could be dead, or he could just be watching Friends with Mrs. Hudson.
John licks his lips, thinking of the shape of Sherlock's lips; tastes the hoppy foam at the corners of his mouth, and thinks of the flavor of Sherlock's foreskin and the delicate, damp bonbon of flesh inside it. Sighs and remembers the sound of Sherlock's sighs. He wills himself to be brave enough to be honest with himself.
With the whiskey burning the back of his throat, John whispers soundlessly to himself, I forgive you.
He picks up the greasy, steamy bags of takeaway, then, as he gets to the door of 221, groans and turns back to the corner shop to get milk.
At last, home. The stairwell's dark, Mrs. Hudson's flat silent. John flicks light switches and goes upstairs. 221b is dark, too, and quiet. He puts the food on the kitchen counter and the milk in the fridge next to the stripped skeleton of a rat vacuum-sealed in an evidence bag and the seemingly-ordinary can of beer that Sherlock had warned him that he must not, under any circumstances, touch.
"Sherlock?" John calls out. "You in?" He hears a faint splash, and a quiet tattoo of water dripping onto water. John moves toward the faint light glowing from the slightly open door to the bathroom; not bright enough to be the overhead bulbs. Candlelight, or . . .
A brass antique lantern, oil crackling faintly, rests on the closed lid of the toilet bowl. Sherlock lies, slumped and unmoving, in the bathtub, hair a chaos of dark wet curls, his eyes closed. John rushes in closer, holding his breath, heart pounding, and stares down into the bathwater; he completely expects it to be dark with blood from slashed wrists. Instead, it's whitish, faintly cloudy, steaming milky transparence against Sherlock's parchment-pale skin. And Sherlock is breathing, if shallowly.
"God," John exhales, frowning. "You gave me a turn."
Sherlock opens his eyes, pupils huge and black in the dim light. "Oh, there you are," he replies quietly. "You were ages."
"I brought the milk," John says. "And the takeaway."
"Yes, I can smell it," Sherlock murmurs. His voice is uncharacteristically slow and low. It is excruciatingly sexy. "Also, the pub." His nostrils quiver. "Bourbon whiskey," he adds. "And Hornbuckle's special bitter. Beer and a shot; something you picked up from your American colleagues in Kandahar." He closes his eyes again. Both knees and the floating tip of his cock break the water like islands, his body hair moist and smooth, nipples soft and relaxed in the warmth. John clenches his fists, resisting the urge to climb in. When Sherlock's voice comes again, it's distant and weary. "Don't worry; I'd never kill myself that way."
Of course Sherlock wouldn't say thank you. John's a fool for wanting it. "Food'll get cold," he says, turning away.
"I'll be round momentarily," Sherlock murmurs. "Won't hurt dim sum to be at room temperature. Would you put the kettle on, there's a dear . . . I'm feeling like the chrysanthemum tonight . . ."
"Wait a minute . . ." John turns back, making his own deductions. "Are you high?"
Sherlock smiles. "No more than you are drunk," he says, chuckling. "True, I took a morphine tablet. Only fifteen milligrams; hardly enough to get me high." At John's expression, he gives an impatient, weary sigh. "I was in pain," he explains softly. "They're prescribed. Originally for something else, but . . ." Grimacing, he shifts his body in the tub and vaguely waves a wet, wrinkly hand. "I'll be round; go on."
John returns to the kitchen, puts the kettle on, and sets out the dim sum onto a tray. Sherlock, barefoot, angular form wrapped in his indigo silk robe, shuffles in, and zeroes in on the food. "God, yes," he murmurs avidly, snatching up a crab puff and stuffing it into his mouth. It's the first time John's seen Sherlock eat anything in days. "Brilliant. Crab rangoon is one of mankind's greatest achievements. Simultaneously exotic, hopelessly bastardized, and dreadful for you; it is - mmmm - modernity in a won ton."
"Eat, don't talk," John says, pouring clear tea into the last two clean cups in the house. At the table, Sherlock sinks down onto a chair, eating all six rangoon one after the other, washing them down with a gulp of the scalding tea.
John sits down too, and plucks at the food with chopsticks. Sherlock soldiers on through three-quarters of the order, devouring buns and dumplings with excellent appetite, occasionally pausing to thoroughly savor some taste or texture, rolling it sensuously round his mouth and moaning quietly with pleasure. The whiskey has blunted John's appetite, and a red-bean-paste bun and a few shrimp dumplings with plenty of tea is enough to satisfy his belly.
But as the silence stretches out between them, soundtracked only with Sherlock's childish humming, John grows tense again. He can't sit still. They have to talk about this - but which "this"? There's so much. The sex, the drugs, the selfishness. Too much. He considers getting his jacket back on, leaving the flat, running back down to the pub for a few more drinks and a chance to pull someone uncomplicated.
Instead, he rises, circles around Sherlock, standing behind him, smoothing his crazy hair. Curly, but drying shaggy; and John just hadn't noticed before that the near-black of it has undertones of the darkest, most sinister red.
He hadn't hurt himself. He hadn't hurt John. It's all okay. John is home and Sherlock is all right and they're together; it's all okay. And this is the happiest John has ever been in his life.
John bends down and kisses Sherlock's hair, behind the ear. Sherlock just keeps chewing and humming, and when he takes a gulp of tea, John feels the muscles in Sherlock's neck jump and respond. John kisses the ear itself, the perfect pale patch of skin under it. Sherlock slowly, dreamlike, turns and finds John's lips with his own. They kiss, lightly, four times, five times; John loses count. They are some of the most intimate kisses he's ever had, though their mouths never open; every molecule of breath, every vibrating cell of skin that joins them, the fact that Sherlock is still humming, groaning softly; it's almost unbearably sweet.
"I like to kiss you," John whispers. "I won't do without that."
Sherlock's eyes are closed, a slight smile on his ruddy lips. "You shouldn't have to," he replies, shaking his head. His hands slide all over John's arms, stroking them up and down, as if they are the only part of John's body he's allowed to touch. John takes one of the hands and rests it against his belly, slides it up to his chest, and his breath shudders as Sherlock's palm brushes against his nipple. Sherlock's eyes open in mild surprise; John can practically hear the gears spinning in his brain. Chuckling softly, John unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off, and replaces Sherlock's hand on his chest, rubbing the palm back and forth. With a sardonic twist to his lip and an arched eyebrow, Sherlock grasps the nipple between his fingertips and gives it a squeeze. As his grip tightens, he muses, "You said you'd fuck me . . . will you?"
"Yes," John whispers, first lovingly and comfortably, then, yelping faintly from the unexpected pressure on his tit, he half-shouts, "Yes, yes." The grip releases, and John gasps for breath. "Okay, yes. God." He tips his lips against Sherlock's again, but Sherlock draws back, still smiling. "When? Now?" Want more kisses.
"Yes," Sherlock says. "Now."
Even if he should have been expecting it, John's still caught off guard. Does this count as letting something happen to him? "All right; just let me, um, pop out and pick up a couple of things we'll need."
"We don't need anything," Sherlock says.
"Oh, we do, though."
"We've got everything we need here," Sherlock clarifies. "I keep a supply of personal lubricant on hand at all times; it's a very useful substance. What?"
John grins. "I'm sure it is."
"Don't look at me like that; you're a doctor; you know. Towels. Water. Interest. What else would you need?" Sherlock's eyebrow quirks again.
"Condoms," John mentions quietly.
To his surprise, Sherlock just shakes his head patiently. "No," he says. "Unless you're squeamish. And even if you are, I've got some. They have many uses as well. I don't tend to have much cause to use them for their traditional purpose."
That vocal tic again, this time a hiss at the end of the word. John kisses Sherlock on the chin. "I'm not squeamish," he says. "I'm . . . careful."
"Did you read my dossier?"
John's confused for a moment, then shakes his head, remembering. "Oh. I didn't." He'd forgotten all about it, in fact.
"If you had, you'd have seen confirmation of my STI-free status."
"If I'd wanted to know, I'd have asked. Like you should've."
There it was; the whole Talk. In a nutshell. Sherlock just shrugs and rolls his eyes. "It's irrelevant now," he replies.
"Do you understand why I'm upset?"
"You made that quite -" Qui-TAH. "- clear." Sherlock rolls John's nipple between his fingertips.
"You're distracting me," John says, stroking Sherlock's eyebrow.
"Good," Sherlock says. The other hand cups John's crotch. "Pay no further attention to the matter; this is a far more interesting learning opportunity. Now. Bed? Where you can kiss me more? I'm all lovely and clean and I don't mind that you're not."
"Yeah," John sighs, resigned and delighted. "All right."
In the dark, this time, into John's bedroom. Once again, Sherlock is nude almost effortlessly; all he does is shrug off his robe and leave it in the middle of the floor, too engaged in simultaneously dragging and groping John and pulling him down onto the bed. "Lie down," Sherlock tells him. He slowly, carefully pulls off John's shoes and socks and unzips his trousers. "Underpants are so pointless," he says snobbishly, pulling John's half-hard dick out the front hole and bending over it for a lick. "I mean, it's just another step, isn't it."
"It's . . . for protection," John protests breathlessly.
"You care about protection a lot, don't you?" Sherlock muses. "Of course you do. You're a soldier; you're obsessed with it." He pulls the underwear down, and John obligingly wriggles out of it, hungry for the touch of Sherlock's legs along his bare hips. It's as if Sherlock knows how fascinated John is with his swinging cock and low-hanging balls, and how delicious it is to feel them brushing against his thighs. "You try to protect yourself from me. That's . . . wise, I guess."
"There's a funny thing called common sense," John agrees.
"Never bother with it." Sherlock arches his back, dropping his balls in a cool puddle against John's inner thigh. "Touch them. Touch them with your hands. And your mouth. Or is it that you want me to keep you from it?"
"No . . . I'm just . . . letting things happen. Not forcing them. Do you understand that?" John asks.
It makes Sherlock withdraw, if not physically, back into himself; eyes vague, chin drawn in. He looks chastened, a touch ashamed of himself. It's unbearable; Sherlock should always be gleaming with arrogant pride. "It's all right," John says soothingly, kissing Sherlock's forehead and his clavicle, rubbing his lips against the prominent veins in his forearms, so similar to the ones twining around his cock. "Distract me."
Once Sherlock is lying down, John drops kisses across his neck and belly, lies half on top, crosswise, chin balanced on Sherlock's chest and his left hand full of cock and balls. He squeezes. Sherlock likes that; he arches comfortably, like a cat. John asks conversationally, "Are your nipples sensitive?"
Sherlock gives the matter some thought. "Not . . . especially," he replies, stroking John's hair.
"Really?" John wonders, and set his teeth at the edge of one nipple. Rather than biting, he draws his lower teeth across, giving the whole system a light but thorough scrape, over and over. At first Sherlock just lies still, then he heaves a great heavy breath, as if settling in for something dull but pleasant. "Be patient," John takes a moment to say, "just feel it. Concentrate on the sensation."
No sucking, no biting; just the hypnotic scraping of the teeth, and the saliva that John makes no attempt to slow or hold in, rapidly wetting the flesh of Sherlock's chest. Eventually, soon, Sherlock quivers all over underneath him, his skin gone rough with gooseflesh. "Hhhmmm," he groans.
So John does the other one. By the time he thinks Sherlock might have had enough, the detective's belly is rigid, his thighs wide open, involuntary grunts working their way out of his throat, and John's handful of genitalia is so wet he wonders if Sherlock popped off and didn't realize it. Sherlock sweaty. How divine.
"It seems that . . . they can be," Sherlock breathes. "That's a first. Well done, you."
"Thank you." John beams. "I'm going to relax you up a bit," he says, giving a kiss over the intense thudding of Sherlock's pulse. "For that, I will use a glove. If you don't mind."
"No, I only want your come," Sherlock says, his voice so impatiently breathy that John's cock jumps like it's been shocked.
"I assume that there's lube in the pocket of your robe."
"Correct," Sherlock replies. “You’re learning.”
As much as he doesn’t want to, John has to leave the warmth of Sherlock's body to fetch a surgical glove from his medical kit, and a few towels from the cupboard. On the bed, Sherlock masturbates, breath deep and unsteady, his right hand curled around his cock, gently stretching the wet skin to and fro. Dropping towels, glove, and packets onto the bed, John kneels on the floor beside it and takes the glistening, salty-sweet glans in his mouth. Has to. Like a moth to a lightbulb. "Exquisite torture," Sherlock groans, trailing his damp, musky fingers across John's cheek. "Oh, I craved this all day; it was horrible. And no tea. No John and no tea."
John chuckles at him, mounting his narrow bed again, moving Sherlock over to the edge against the wall. "Lie on your side," John commands. "Have you ever done this before?"
"Of course I have," Sherlock replies, turning but reaching behind him to keep one hand on John.
"How long has it been?" John pulls the tight glove on, and opens one of the single-use packets of silicone lubricant he'd fished out of Sherlock's robe.
"Four years or thereabouts," Sherlock shrugs. "It's not something I find important to remember."
Sherlock's ass is narrow, tight, and deliciously rounded, fleshier than John had imagined, marked with intriguing scars that look like marks left by a metal whip, perhaps a car antenna, or perhaps a sharp cane. The marks go all the way down Sherlock's thighs, too many and too regular to have come from any other source but from having been struck. John doesn't resist the urge to kiss his way down one ladder and back up the next. "Did you enjoy it? Being fucked."
Sherlock shivers all over, and his hand strokes his penis harder and faster. John reaches over and stops him. "I didn't mind it," Sherlock says, "but I enjoyed what led up to it more."
"This? This beating?"
"No . . . that's from something else. I quite liked that too, though."
"God, Sherlock." John parts the buttocks, and leaves another kiss at the top of the join.
"I don't mind a good caning when it's deserved."
"You deserve it all the time," John remarks, and kisses the hypersensitive crease between gluteus and hamstring.
Sherlock chuckles lazily. "I know I do," he replies. "But I love meting it out even more. Bit of an art form. Pity you don't deserve it."
"Posh toff," John says. "With the usual vice. Probably got it in school, didn't you?" He slides the dry glove along until he locates the entry point, lubricates his first two fingers, and slides inside. "Bend over and take six of the best, right?"
"I've got the cane in question in the front room, you know. Mycroft used to thrash me with it," Sherlock breathes. He doesn't flinch at the touch of the cold gel, nor at the gentle violation, but shifts his hips to accommodate. "It's a family heirloom. Grandfather was a h-h-headmaster."
"Heh . . . I can see that. Did you ever get Mycroft a few licks back?"
"Never."
"No wonder," says John.
"Deeper, please." Sherlock is so very hot inside; he's almost forgotten this locus of intense heat, the tight but yielding space. He's had his fingers up the bum of dozens, hundreds of people, patients, since the last time he did this for the express purpose of bringing pleasure, but he remembers how, the particular corkscrewing motion of the digits to relax the rings of muscle inside. Sherlock's breath quickens; his hand on John's thigh tightens, holding on. John's fingertip circles the firm tissue of the prostate, evincing a low groan from Sherlock's throat and a slight twisting of his hips.
"Yes . . . keep milking it, ingest what results . . . I want to know it's inside you. I'll need to fuck you, too, to ejaculate inside you. But not tonight. Tonight, you need this. And I want it." At once, Sherlock shudders and bends half forward, hips jerking back, driving John's fingers in. "Ah, go on, give me all of it, as much as you dare."
One hand balanced on Sherlock's hip, doing nothing to keep the man still, John thrusts his fingers in, twists them, withdraws them to add more lube, and another finger joins the two. When Sherlock tries to reach for his own cock, John reaches over and slaps his wrist, hard. Sherlock groans, does not lie still, bucking hard against John's hand, fumbling for himself. John sets his teeth; so they're going to fight, are they? He's up for it. He grabs Sherlock's cock away from him and stabs his fingers inside, bumping against some interior fold of flesh. Sherlock cries out, a strangled noise combining lust and pain.
"Stop it," John mutters. "Or I'll hurt you."
"Don't care. Enough stalling," Sherlock hisses, grabbing John's wrist, forcing him in even harder, forcing John to slide his pinky in too so that it won't get broken against Sherlock's pubic bone. In retaliation, John yanks his hand away completely, leaving Sherlock empty, his cock trapped and squeezed in John's hand. "Stop denying yourself. Stop denying me. Come on."
The old bedsprings squeak. The glove is pulled off and flung away, the lube packet squashed between them, leaking and plastic and jagged. Sherlock scrapes it away with his sharp fingernails. John's on top of Sherlock, both men sweating now, breath coming in hard grunts and moans, arms sloppily grappling at each other. Sherlock gets hold of John's nipple and pinches, just roughly enough.
"Ow! Fuck."
"Come on, John," Sherlock grumbles, legs splayed, hips angled up, grabbing John's cock and banging it hard against his thigh. John's cock slides across the groin, against Sherlock's juice-slick balls, up, and inside, too fast, too hard, desperate and painful. "Ah, God. Fuck. I need it."
"Stop it," John says again, pulling out, trying to force Sherlock's shoulders down. But Sherlock is much stronger than he, even with a head full of junk; he arches up and claims John's open mouth with his own, shoving his tongue inside, almost gagging John with it. And again, John's cock follows its own counsel and slides in again, this time the angle better, nice and smooth and deep.
They groan in harmonic unison.
"Good," Sherlock whispers. "Now you're inside me. Now never stop. Never leave me."
"I can't. I won't. I won't."
They attempt a rhythm, John leaning his hips forward, and Sherlock arching up to join him; it's tight in the narrow space of Sherlock's hips, and jagged with pelvic bones, and it hurts, and is delicious. John's not done this with a man, and with a woman only once; this is nothing like that. Nothing like nice wet twat and nice open hips, or having his cock sucked, or rubbing or - Sherlock grabs a fistful of John's hair and pulls it. "More," he demands darkly. "Harder."
John's heart hammers so hard and fast that he can hardly breathe. "I can't - look, turn over."
Sherlock replies with a hissing litany. "No; no, not tonight, no. No. Need to face you, now I know about your tits. I need to see your face and your tits and your belly. Why don't you lie down, on your back. I will show you."
John almost laughs at the notion of Sherlock showing him how to fuck, as though he's never done it before; but it's true that he's never done it with Sherlock and his slim hips and immense strength. Obligingly, John gets on his back, and Sherlock straddles him, knees bent high and brushing against his own nipples, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. John watches with blurry admiration as Sherlock holds John's erection steady, and lowers himself down onto it, first slowly and tentatively, then with a mighty lunge that joins them utterly.
"Yes," Sherlock sighs to the ceiling, twirling John's nipples with both his hands, "that's better." He lifts and drops himself, first carefully, then faster and faster, the tip of John's cock impacting inside with a deliciously electric shock.
"My God - my God - oh!"
"Yes, it's perfect, isn't it? Of course it is. Of course your cock is perfect for fitting inside me. Of course. I knew our fuck would be genius. Utterly perfect. You're perfect."
John can't speak, reaching up to pinch one of Sherlock's nipples, now erect and still moist from before, rewarded with a plaintive moan and a renewed vigor from his hips. It's exactly tight enough, and ridiculously, worrisomely wonderful to feel all of Sherlock's insides directly on his bare cock, clenching and releasing at exactly the right moments to keep John's cock in tight at all points in the motion. John wants to thrust up, just to release some of the tension in his groin, but he risks driving in too hard, or at the wrong angle; he can only lie still and be instructed. Be driven, be ridden, have both hands close onto Sherlock's hands, and their fingers lock together.
And get off, intensely, helplessly, just letting it happen, letting Sherlock fuck the essence right out of him.
Sherlock doesn't stop until John holds up his hands against Sherlock's stomach and begs him to be still. Even then, Sherlock doesn't move away. He puts John's hands on his long, dark, overheated cock, and clasps his own hands over them. "Now, just hold like I taught you," Sherlock says, "just squeeze tight here and here. Yes. Now - oh, John - " And with a flutter and release inside him, Sherlock reaches orgasm with a low groan, his toes clenching the blanket at John's sides. John's cock slides wetly free at last, and Sherlock's emits three strong spurts onto John's chest and neck. Humming happily, Sherlock wipes up the spill, and slides his fingers into John's mouth. "That's all of it. Yes, lick it clean; there you go. All better."
"You do need a caning," John murmurs, licking his lips with a grimace. The taste is different, it's true; much improved, but still poisonously bitter.
Sherlock lies down beside John, taking him into his arms and holding him very close, legs wrapping round, toes curling into toes. "There," Sherlock sighs comfortably. "All better. You're here."
"It's all right, Sherlock," John murmurs. He seems to be saying that a lot these days.
"It's quite good," Sherlock says.
After a bit, blankets are pulled into service, draping over their bodies. Sherlock seems to be done with the front of John, instead holding tight in a spooned cuddle, warmer and closer than John's ever felt. Contained. Content. He belongs here. Sherlock kisses the back of his neck and his ear and his hair, and John holds Sherlock's arms even tighter around him. "Nice," John whispers.
"My dear John. My dear. We live a very dangerous life," Sherlock murmurs. "We are marked men. We throw ourselves into danger. We can only protect each other so far. But I just aim to enjoy you as much as possible while I can. I need you. I need you with me."
"So don't be a bastard," John advises.
"Easier said than done."
"The first step is to maybe even just say that you'll try."
Sherlock sighs thoughtfully. “You know, John, I will have to run some more tests, but I am reasonably certain that the experiment bore out its original hypothesis.”
"What are you on about now?"
"The experiment," Sherlock reiterates. "I do feel much more bonded to you, and if I'm not mistaken, you are more bonded to me."
"Amazing what science can prove," John says dryly, wondering if Sherlock can somehow hear him rolling his eyes. "You shag, and it brings you closer. No one's ever thought of that before. Hey, does that mean I don't have to taste your skeet anymore?"
"I'm not sure I like that word."
"Kandahar," John chuckles. "Learned a lot of bad habits."
"Undoubtedly," Sherlock replies, "as I did at school. Odd tastes are generated and reinforced under circumstances of stress and alienation. I also have a riding crop, as you know, and also a bullwhip, and a flogger. They have many varied uses as well."
"You're having me on," John murmurs. Sherlock hugs him.
"John, I feel peace with you," he says, his voice very serious. "It's so rare. It's never, in fact. That was the other part of the experiment; if I could prove that having sex with you consistently produced a calming effect in my mind, then . . . well, then I'd know that, at least. Now I just need to keep you here."
"I'm not planning on going anywhere," John tells him, covering up for how much his heart aches right now by kissing a wrist. It's scarred, too, but jaggedly; handcuffs, probably, or perhaps thin hemp rope. He'll have to see it in the light. "You have too many interesting scars to tell me about. I'm looking forward to knowing you better. I know there's a lot to know. Hm! Speaking of which," he adds. "That piece you were playing last night. On the violin. What is that?"
"It's Biber," says Sherlock.
"It's what?" John almost bursts himself with his cackle of surprise.
"Biber. Heinrich Biber von Bibern? Eighteenth-century composer? Precursor to Bach. Surely you've heard of him?" Sherlock sounds offended.
"Uh, no. I guess you've never heard of Justin Bieber."
"No, I have not," Sherlock says crisply.
"Sorry. It's funny."
"It's not funny. It is one of the Five Sorrowful Mysteries; the Agony in the Garden, for scordatura. It's really fucking difficult and I play it when I -" Sherlock sputtered himself into silence.
"When you feel bad and you want to punish yourself," John replies mildly. "It's all right. I understand. And I forgive myself for having strong feelings about you, one way or the other, and I will forgive you for violating my medical confidentiality when you apologize and say you'll ask me next time. Because - because, Sherlock, I have to trust you, and you have to trust that I'll tell you anything you want to know. I don't care if it makes me look bad, or could get me into trouble, or even make you not like me anymore. I have to trust that you trust me. Do you understand? Because I put my life in your hands. Willingly. Eagerly. You're cleverer than me, and stronger, and taller, and all that. I'm not jealous; I like myself just fine the way I am. But we work together, and we can't do that unless we trust each other."
John wishes he could see Sherlock's expression, but he remains on his side, facing away, holding Sherlock's hands up to his mouth for quick, dry, rapid, repeating kisses.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers faintly. "I'll ask next time."
"Good," says John, rolling his eyes to the ceiling again, shaking his head. He had pulled teeth that were easier than this. But worth it. Probably. He's willing to stick around and find out. "Now behave yourself."
His voice changes; sounds more like his old self. "No fear. I don't behave. There's no fun in that. Besides, I get to fuck you next time," Sherlock whispers to John's hair. "I'm quite excited."
John gives a long-suffering sigh. "Do I have to cane you first?"
Sherlock giggles. It's a strange, charming noise. "I left you a bun for your breakfast. I wanted to eat it, but I didn't."
"It's a start," says John, and he turns over, and they kiss. For a good long time.
END
description and disclaimer on part one.
John's phone alarm, which he'd had the forethought to set the afternoon before, wakes him at 7:30 the next morning. His reflexes hardened through military discipline, he gets right up, makes his bed, and is in the shower before his conscious mind comes on line.
Where's the song? The song was here, and then it was gone and I woke up.
He's got a full day shift at the surgery, starting at 8:30. No time to dwell on what might or might not have happened last night; only time to dress, consume breakfast, and get to work. He'd had plenty of sleep, really, and his mind is remarkably clear - almost too clear. Almost hollow.
Downstairs, in the sitting room, Sherlock sprawls over the sofa, as naked as the day he was born, limbs askew, mouth open, snoring softly. Hairy navel; ribs; long limp brown penis flung carelessly across his groin. In one hand he still holds his violin bow, though the instrument itself has been carefully placed back into its velvet-lined case.
John spares a moment to study the remarkable tableau of Sherlock actually asleep. John knows Sherlock does sleep, of course - after Moriarty, Sherlock had slept for almost 24 straight hours, but that was in his own room, with the door closed. For all John knew, he could have been reading or something. But here is Sherlock quite unconscious, his face appearing alarmingly young, vulnerable, pure, his quiet snores half wheeze, half grunt.
Taking the bow from Sherlock's unmoving hand, John tucks the Union Jack pillow under Sherlock's wild hair, and spreads an afghan over him from collarbone to toes. The detective is too deeply asleep to respond more than slightly flared nostrils.
Tempting to just sit beside Sherlock, and wait for him to wake up, but John envisions a corgi in a stripy jumper, waiting for Master to revive and take him out for walkies; he shakes his head and turns away. He is Dr. John Watson, adult male human, and he has a job to go to.
There's no point in breakfasting here. He'd finished everything off yesterday, and hadn't gone to the shops, being rather too busy dissecting a human liver and getting kicked in the face. John shoulders his jacket and heads out, down to the end of Baker Street, where the café provides him with strong tea and a bun promptly enough so that he's able to catch the 7:50 tube, arriving at the medical clinic a few minutes early.
He cheerfully greets the receptionist, who is always there first thing. "Morning, Gillian."
"Planning on staying awake today, are we, John? I'm just having you on, love. Coffee's made." Gillian has exact opposite moods from the usual; she's always friendly first thing, and a hell bitch on wheels by the end of the day.
"Thanks." John heads to the break room, pours a cup, drinks it black and plain. Looks up to see Sarah smiling at him from the doorway, her hair swept back into a sleek French braid. John goggles at it for a moment, wanting nothing more than to plunge his fingers into it, loosen it up. He pictures her in the shower, spray trained upwards, rubbing her clit with the opposite thumb.
"You all right?" she asks, forehead slightly furrowed with concern.
"Yeah, yeah," John assures her, rinsing his coffee mug. "If I look strange, it's because I got two full nights' sleep in a row."
Her smile is gently pitying. It so often is. "I was talking about your lip."
"What?" John reflexively licks the split. It's mostly healed. Sherlock kissed it better. With his penis. "Oh," he grumbles. "That. S'nothing really."
"He doesn't beat you, does he?" Sarah quips, arching her eyebrow.
"Oh, ha, ha."
She passes very close by him on her way to the coffee pot and says, "I don't know why you're sniffing me; I'm not wearing perfume, John."
"It's, uh, your shampoo," John mumbles, his face going hot. "Smells nice."
"It's unscented."
He can't win. "Well, I'd better get to it. Lunch at noon?"
Sarah takes a lot of milk in her coffee, no sugar. Her lips leave a glistening sheen of moisture on the rim of the cup; no lip color, just a gloss, or vaseline, or - "I'm at one; sorry. But if you're going to Pret, get me a croissant sandwich, would you?"
"Be delighted to," John says, and it's true. "Have a good day."
At five minutes to noon, the first text comes in. John ignores it, busy thumping the white-haired back of his current patient, but he can hear his phone even through the rattling of mucus in the old geezer's lungs. John takes his time getting to reading the text; it can only be Sherlock, and John's not in a hurry to read anything from him. The phone buzzes again - four times - before he reads.
Stop being offended. I don't like it. SH
Remember that I am a sociopath and an investigator by nature. It’s nothing personal. SH
You're being emotional. I know it's your lunchtime; you can't claim that you're busy working. Get back to me. SH
I’d never do this with anyone but you, so that should mean something. Doesn't it? RSVP. SH
Bring home milk, please. Mrs. Hudson won't give me any more. SH
John laughs, but sets his phone to silent until he's done eating. He brings the sandwich for Sarah, but can't find her, and has to shove the sandwich into the break room refrigerator and rush to his exam room to meet his next patient. Around four o'clock, John checks his phone again.
I am not averse to sharing sexual activities with you. SH
I don't understand. Where are you? SH
Did I force myself on you? Tell me candidly; I have no feelings to hurt. SH
John feels obligated to reply this time. To use your own language, I am not - and was not - averse to sharing sexual activities with you. Obviously. Grow up and sort it out. I'm at work.
The response comes almost instantly. Good; don’t forget milk. Dim Sum takeaway would also be good, particularly crab puffs. SH
John almost replies, Fuck you, but deletes it at the last minute and goes back to work.
He's done at six, and catches Sarah just as she's leaving. "Busy tonight?" he asks hopefully.
Sarah cocks her head a bit, examining him, and sighs. "I'm afraid so," she says. "I have a date."
John smiles and shrugs, trying to be harmless. "Good, good," he replies, too quickly, too smoothly. "Nice bloke?"
"Don't really know yet," she confesses. "Look, John, um-"
"You don't have to say anything," he cuts in hastily.
"John, I fancy you, all right?" Sarah states emphatically, if gently, softening it with a sheepish grin. "But right now, I am single, and enjoying that fact. And you . . ." She looks him up and down a bit more. "It's not as though you live a boring life, what with your flatmate. You're good together."
"We're not-"
She holds up her hand, silencing him. "I just want you to be absolutely sure what you want," she says, "and who with. In the meantime, don't get hung up. Remember to let things happen; don’t force them. I do want to see you again. Next weekend, maybe? Try the cinema again?"
John hardly knows what to think, what to feel. He likes her even more now, even as his doglike lust has cooled somewhat; in these last sixty seconds, she's become even more of a person to him, someone who, perhaps, he can believe cares about him. Perhaps, in this bizarre world he now lives in, it's even more valuable to have a good friend than to get a leg over. What he really needs right now is a friend. Sherlock is . . . well, he is definitely more, though he's not sure exactly what. More than a friend. And less, as well. Sherlock is (his) Sherlock, as vital and dangerous as the sun.
"Love to," John finally replies. "If you need anything, give me a call."
"Of course," she replies. She reaches over and gives his hand a little squeeze.
As he walks towards the tube station, he calls in the takeaway order to the Chinese place down Oxford Street, the dim sum that's not on the menu. The clerk asks if it's for Mr. Holmes, and John grits his teeth and admits that it is. "Crab rangoon," the clerk says knowledgeably. "Order of six. Your man like. Ready by quarter of eight. You pick up!"
After getting off the tube, John goes straight to the pub on Oxford Street rather than waiting in the restaurant, having an entire family of Cantonese tease him about his "man". John just can't face it. He drinks a pint and a whiskey, and when the pint outstrips the whiskey, he orders another shot. He's stalling. He's not much of a drinker, but tonight the whiskey seems necessary as a buffer. The phone in his pocket has been silent for hours, but it doesn't give him a sense of peace. Sherlock could be dead, or he could just be watching Friends with Mrs. Hudson.
John licks his lips, thinking of the shape of Sherlock's lips; tastes the hoppy foam at the corners of his mouth, and thinks of the flavor of Sherlock's foreskin and the delicate, damp bonbon of flesh inside it. Sighs and remembers the sound of Sherlock's sighs. He wills himself to be brave enough to be honest with himself.
With the whiskey burning the back of his throat, John whispers soundlessly to himself, I forgive you.
He picks up the greasy, steamy bags of takeaway, then, as he gets to the door of 221, groans and turns back to the corner shop to get milk.
At last, home. The stairwell's dark, Mrs. Hudson's flat silent. John flicks light switches and goes upstairs. 221b is dark, too, and quiet. He puts the food on the kitchen counter and the milk in the fridge next to the stripped skeleton of a rat vacuum-sealed in an evidence bag and the seemingly-ordinary can of beer that Sherlock had warned him that he must not, under any circumstances, touch.
"Sherlock?" John calls out. "You in?" He hears a faint splash, and a quiet tattoo of water dripping onto water. John moves toward the faint light glowing from the slightly open door to the bathroom; not bright enough to be the overhead bulbs. Candlelight, or . . .
A brass antique lantern, oil crackling faintly, rests on the closed lid of the toilet bowl. Sherlock lies, slumped and unmoving, in the bathtub, hair a chaos of dark wet curls, his eyes closed. John rushes in closer, holding his breath, heart pounding, and stares down into the bathwater; he completely expects it to be dark with blood from slashed wrists. Instead, it's whitish, faintly cloudy, steaming milky transparence against Sherlock's parchment-pale skin. And Sherlock is breathing, if shallowly.
"God," John exhales, frowning. "You gave me a turn."
Sherlock opens his eyes, pupils huge and black in the dim light. "Oh, there you are," he replies quietly. "You were ages."
"I brought the milk," John says. "And the takeaway."
"Yes, I can smell it," Sherlock murmurs. His voice is uncharacteristically slow and low. It is excruciatingly sexy. "Also, the pub." His nostrils quiver. "Bourbon whiskey," he adds. "And Hornbuckle's special bitter. Beer and a shot; something you picked up from your American colleagues in Kandahar." He closes his eyes again. Both knees and the floating tip of his cock break the water like islands, his body hair moist and smooth, nipples soft and relaxed in the warmth. John clenches his fists, resisting the urge to climb in. When Sherlock's voice comes again, it's distant and weary. "Don't worry; I'd never kill myself that way."
Of course Sherlock wouldn't say thank you. John's a fool for wanting it. "Food'll get cold," he says, turning away.
"I'll be round momentarily," Sherlock murmurs. "Won't hurt dim sum to be at room temperature. Would you put the kettle on, there's a dear . . . I'm feeling like the chrysanthemum tonight . . ."
"Wait a minute . . ." John turns back, making his own deductions. "Are you high?"
Sherlock smiles. "No more than you are drunk," he says, chuckling. "True, I took a morphine tablet. Only fifteen milligrams; hardly enough to get me high." At John's expression, he gives an impatient, weary sigh. "I was in pain," he explains softly. "They're prescribed. Originally for something else, but . . ." Grimacing, he shifts his body in the tub and vaguely waves a wet, wrinkly hand. "I'll be round; go on."
John returns to the kitchen, puts the kettle on, and sets out the dim sum onto a tray. Sherlock, barefoot, angular form wrapped in his indigo silk robe, shuffles in, and zeroes in on the food. "God, yes," he murmurs avidly, snatching up a crab puff and stuffing it into his mouth. It's the first time John's seen Sherlock eat anything in days. "Brilliant. Crab rangoon is one of mankind's greatest achievements. Simultaneously exotic, hopelessly bastardized, and dreadful for you; it is - mmmm - modernity in a won ton."
"Eat, don't talk," John says, pouring clear tea into the last two clean cups in the house. At the table, Sherlock sinks down onto a chair, eating all six rangoon one after the other, washing them down with a gulp of the scalding tea.
John sits down too, and plucks at the food with chopsticks. Sherlock soldiers on through three-quarters of the order, devouring buns and dumplings with excellent appetite, occasionally pausing to thoroughly savor some taste or texture, rolling it sensuously round his mouth and moaning quietly with pleasure. The whiskey has blunted John's appetite, and a red-bean-paste bun and a few shrimp dumplings with plenty of tea is enough to satisfy his belly.
But as the silence stretches out between them, soundtracked only with Sherlock's childish humming, John grows tense again. He can't sit still. They have to talk about this - but which "this"? There's so much. The sex, the drugs, the selfishness. Too much. He considers getting his jacket back on, leaving the flat, running back down to the pub for a few more drinks and a chance to pull someone uncomplicated.
Instead, he rises, circles around Sherlock, standing behind him, smoothing his crazy hair. Curly, but drying shaggy; and John just hadn't noticed before that the near-black of it has undertones of the darkest, most sinister red.
He hadn't hurt himself. He hadn't hurt John. It's all okay. John is home and Sherlock is all right and they're together; it's all okay. And this is the happiest John has ever been in his life.
John bends down and kisses Sherlock's hair, behind the ear. Sherlock just keeps chewing and humming, and when he takes a gulp of tea, John feels the muscles in Sherlock's neck jump and respond. John kisses the ear itself, the perfect pale patch of skin under it. Sherlock slowly, dreamlike, turns and finds John's lips with his own. They kiss, lightly, four times, five times; John loses count. They are some of the most intimate kisses he's ever had, though their mouths never open; every molecule of breath, every vibrating cell of skin that joins them, the fact that Sherlock is still humming, groaning softly; it's almost unbearably sweet.
"I like to kiss you," John whispers. "I won't do without that."
Sherlock's eyes are closed, a slight smile on his ruddy lips. "You shouldn't have to," he replies, shaking his head. His hands slide all over John's arms, stroking them up and down, as if they are the only part of John's body he's allowed to touch. John takes one of the hands and rests it against his belly, slides it up to his chest, and his breath shudders as Sherlock's palm brushes against his nipple. Sherlock's eyes open in mild surprise; John can practically hear the gears spinning in his brain. Chuckling softly, John unbuttons his shirt and pulls it off, and replaces Sherlock's hand on his chest, rubbing the palm back and forth. With a sardonic twist to his lip and an arched eyebrow, Sherlock grasps the nipple between his fingertips and gives it a squeeze. As his grip tightens, he muses, "You said you'd fuck me . . . will you?"
"Yes," John whispers, first lovingly and comfortably, then, yelping faintly from the unexpected pressure on his tit, he half-shouts, "Yes, yes." The grip releases, and John gasps for breath. "Okay, yes. God." He tips his lips against Sherlock's again, but Sherlock draws back, still smiling. "When? Now?" Want more kisses.
"Yes," Sherlock says. "Now."
Even if he should have been expecting it, John's still caught off guard. Does this count as letting something happen to him? "All right; just let me, um, pop out and pick up a couple of things we'll need."
"We don't need anything," Sherlock says.
"Oh, we do, though."
"We've got everything we need here," Sherlock clarifies. "I keep a supply of personal lubricant on hand at all times; it's a very useful substance. What?"
John grins. "I'm sure it is."
"Don't look at me like that; you're a doctor; you know. Towels. Water. Interest. What else would you need?" Sherlock's eyebrow quirks again.
"Condoms," John mentions quietly.
To his surprise, Sherlock just shakes his head patiently. "No," he says. "Unless you're squeamish. And even if you are, I've got some. They have many uses as well. I don't tend to have much cause to use them for their traditional purpose."
That vocal tic again, this time a hiss at the end of the word. John kisses Sherlock on the chin. "I'm not squeamish," he says. "I'm . . . careful."
"Did you read my dossier?"
John's confused for a moment, then shakes his head, remembering. "Oh. I didn't." He'd forgotten all about it, in fact.
"If you had, you'd have seen confirmation of my STI-free status."
"If I'd wanted to know, I'd have asked. Like you should've."
There it was; the whole Talk. In a nutshell. Sherlock just shrugs and rolls his eyes. "It's irrelevant now," he replies.
"Do you understand why I'm upset?"
"You made that quite -" Qui-TAH. "- clear." Sherlock rolls John's nipple between his fingertips.
"You're distracting me," John says, stroking Sherlock's eyebrow.
"Good," Sherlock says. The other hand cups John's crotch. "Pay no further attention to the matter; this is a far more interesting learning opportunity. Now. Bed? Where you can kiss me more? I'm all lovely and clean and I don't mind that you're not."
"Yeah," John sighs, resigned and delighted. "All right."
In the dark, this time, into John's bedroom. Once again, Sherlock is nude almost effortlessly; all he does is shrug off his robe and leave it in the middle of the floor, too engaged in simultaneously dragging and groping John and pulling him down onto the bed. "Lie down," Sherlock tells him. He slowly, carefully pulls off John's shoes and socks and unzips his trousers. "Underpants are so pointless," he says snobbishly, pulling John's half-hard dick out the front hole and bending over it for a lick. "I mean, it's just another step, isn't it."
"It's . . . for protection," John protests breathlessly.
"You care about protection a lot, don't you?" Sherlock muses. "Of course you do. You're a soldier; you're obsessed with it." He pulls the underwear down, and John obligingly wriggles out of it, hungry for the touch of Sherlock's legs along his bare hips. It's as if Sherlock knows how fascinated John is with his swinging cock and low-hanging balls, and how delicious it is to feel them brushing against his thighs. "You try to protect yourself from me. That's . . . wise, I guess."
"There's a funny thing called common sense," John agrees.
"Never bother with it." Sherlock arches his back, dropping his balls in a cool puddle against John's inner thigh. "Touch them. Touch them with your hands. And your mouth. Or is it that you want me to keep you from it?"
"No . . . I'm just . . . letting things happen. Not forcing them. Do you understand that?" John asks.
It makes Sherlock withdraw, if not physically, back into himself; eyes vague, chin drawn in. He looks chastened, a touch ashamed of himself. It's unbearable; Sherlock should always be gleaming with arrogant pride. "It's all right," John says soothingly, kissing Sherlock's forehead and his clavicle, rubbing his lips against the prominent veins in his forearms, so similar to the ones twining around his cock. "Distract me."
Once Sherlock is lying down, John drops kisses across his neck and belly, lies half on top, crosswise, chin balanced on Sherlock's chest and his left hand full of cock and balls. He squeezes. Sherlock likes that; he arches comfortably, like a cat. John asks conversationally, "Are your nipples sensitive?"
Sherlock gives the matter some thought. "Not . . . especially," he replies, stroking John's hair.
"Really?" John wonders, and set his teeth at the edge of one nipple. Rather than biting, he draws his lower teeth across, giving the whole system a light but thorough scrape, over and over. At first Sherlock just lies still, then he heaves a great heavy breath, as if settling in for something dull but pleasant. "Be patient," John takes a moment to say, "just feel it. Concentrate on the sensation."
No sucking, no biting; just the hypnotic scraping of the teeth, and the saliva that John makes no attempt to slow or hold in, rapidly wetting the flesh of Sherlock's chest. Eventually, soon, Sherlock quivers all over underneath him, his skin gone rough with gooseflesh. "Hhhmmm," he groans.
So John does the other one. By the time he thinks Sherlock might have had enough, the detective's belly is rigid, his thighs wide open, involuntary grunts working their way out of his throat, and John's handful of genitalia is so wet he wonders if Sherlock popped off and didn't realize it. Sherlock sweaty. How divine.
"It seems that . . . they can be," Sherlock breathes. "That's a first. Well done, you."
"Thank you." John beams. "I'm going to relax you up a bit," he says, giving a kiss over the intense thudding of Sherlock's pulse. "For that, I will use a glove. If you don't mind."
"No, I only want your come," Sherlock says, his voice so impatiently breathy that John's cock jumps like it's been shocked.
"I assume that there's lube in the pocket of your robe."
"Correct," Sherlock replies. “You’re learning.”
As much as he doesn’t want to, John has to leave the warmth of Sherlock's body to fetch a surgical glove from his medical kit, and a few towels from the cupboard. On the bed, Sherlock masturbates, breath deep and unsteady, his right hand curled around his cock, gently stretching the wet skin to and fro. Dropping towels, glove, and packets onto the bed, John kneels on the floor beside it and takes the glistening, salty-sweet glans in his mouth. Has to. Like a moth to a lightbulb. "Exquisite torture," Sherlock groans, trailing his damp, musky fingers across John's cheek. "Oh, I craved this all day; it was horrible. And no tea. No John and no tea."
John chuckles at him, mounting his narrow bed again, moving Sherlock over to the edge against the wall. "Lie on your side," John commands. "Have you ever done this before?"
"Of course I have," Sherlock replies, turning but reaching behind him to keep one hand on John.
"How long has it been?" John pulls the tight glove on, and opens one of the single-use packets of silicone lubricant he'd fished out of Sherlock's robe.
"Four years or thereabouts," Sherlock shrugs. "It's not something I find important to remember."
Sherlock's ass is narrow, tight, and deliciously rounded, fleshier than John had imagined, marked with intriguing scars that look like marks left by a metal whip, perhaps a car antenna, or perhaps a sharp cane. The marks go all the way down Sherlock's thighs, too many and too regular to have come from any other source but from having been struck. John doesn't resist the urge to kiss his way down one ladder and back up the next. "Did you enjoy it? Being fucked."
Sherlock shivers all over, and his hand strokes his penis harder and faster. John reaches over and stops him. "I didn't mind it," Sherlock says, "but I enjoyed what led up to it more."
"This? This beating?"
"No . . . that's from something else. I quite liked that too, though."
"God, Sherlock." John parts the buttocks, and leaves another kiss at the top of the join.
"I don't mind a good caning when it's deserved."
"You deserve it all the time," John remarks, and kisses the hypersensitive crease between gluteus and hamstring.
Sherlock chuckles lazily. "I know I do," he replies. "But I love meting it out even more. Bit of an art form. Pity you don't deserve it."
"Posh toff," John says. "With the usual vice. Probably got it in school, didn't you?" He slides the dry glove along until he locates the entry point, lubricates his first two fingers, and slides inside. "Bend over and take six of the best, right?"
"I've got the cane in question in the front room, you know. Mycroft used to thrash me with it," Sherlock breathes. He doesn't flinch at the touch of the cold gel, nor at the gentle violation, but shifts his hips to accommodate. "It's a family heirloom. Grandfather was a h-h-headmaster."
"Heh . . . I can see that. Did you ever get Mycroft a few licks back?"
"Never."
"No wonder," says John.
"Deeper, please." Sherlock is so very hot inside; he's almost forgotten this locus of intense heat, the tight but yielding space. He's had his fingers up the bum of dozens, hundreds of people, patients, since the last time he did this for the express purpose of bringing pleasure, but he remembers how, the particular corkscrewing motion of the digits to relax the rings of muscle inside. Sherlock's breath quickens; his hand on John's thigh tightens, holding on. John's fingertip circles the firm tissue of the prostate, evincing a low groan from Sherlock's throat and a slight twisting of his hips.
"Yes . . . keep milking it, ingest what results . . . I want to know it's inside you. I'll need to fuck you, too, to ejaculate inside you. But not tonight. Tonight, you need this. And I want it." At once, Sherlock shudders and bends half forward, hips jerking back, driving John's fingers in. "Ah, go on, give me all of it, as much as you dare."
One hand balanced on Sherlock's hip, doing nothing to keep the man still, John thrusts his fingers in, twists them, withdraws them to add more lube, and another finger joins the two. When Sherlock tries to reach for his own cock, John reaches over and slaps his wrist, hard. Sherlock groans, does not lie still, bucking hard against John's hand, fumbling for himself. John sets his teeth; so they're going to fight, are they? He's up for it. He grabs Sherlock's cock away from him and stabs his fingers inside, bumping against some interior fold of flesh. Sherlock cries out, a strangled noise combining lust and pain.
"Stop it," John mutters. "Or I'll hurt you."
"Don't care. Enough stalling," Sherlock hisses, grabbing John's wrist, forcing him in even harder, forcing John to slide his pinky in too so that it won't get broken against Sherlock's pubic bone. In retaliation, John yanks his hand away completely, leaving Sherlock empty, his cock trapped and squeezed in John's hand. "Stop denying yourself. Stop denying me. Come on."
The old bedsprings squeak. The glove is pulled off and flung away, the lube packet squashed between them, leaking and plastic and jagged. Sherlock scrapes it away with his sharp fingernails. John's on top of Sherlock, both men sweating now, breath coming in hard grunts and moans, arms sloppily grappling at each other. Sherlock gets hold of John's nipple and pinches, just roughly enough.
"Ow! Fuck."
"Come on, John," Sherlock grumbles, legs splayed, hips angled up, grabbing John's cock and banging it hard against his thigh. John's cock slides across the groin, against Sherlock's juice-slick balls, up, and inside, too fast, too hard, desperate and painful. "Ah, God. Fuck. I need it."
"Stop it," John says again, pulling out, trying to force Sherlock's shoulders down. But Sherlock is much stronger than he, even with a head full of junk; he arches up and claims John's open mouth with his own, shoving his tongue inside, almost gagging John with it. And again, John's cock follows its own counsel and slides in again, this time the angle better, nice and smooth and deep.
They groan in harmonic unison.
"Good," Sherlock whispers. "Now you're inside me. Now never stop. Never leave me."
"I can't. I won't. I won't."
They attempt a rhythm, John leaning his hips forward, and Sherlock arching up to join him; it's tight in the narrow space of Sherlock's hips, and jagged with pelvic bones, and it hurts, and is delicious. John's not done this with a man, and with a woman only once; this is nothing like that. Nothing like nice wet twat and nice open hips, or having his cock sucked, or rubbing or - Sherlock grabs a fistful of John's hair and pulls it. "More," he demands darkly. "Harder."
John's heart hammers so hard and fast that he can hardly breathe. "I can't - look, turn over."
Sherlock replies with a hissing litany. "No; no, not tonight, no. No. Need to face you, now I know about your tits. I need to see your face and your tits and your belly. Why don't you lie down, on your back. I will show you."
John almost laughs at the notion of Sherlock showing him how to fuck, as though he's never done it before; but it's true that he's never done it with Sherlock and his slim hips and immense strength. Obligingly, John gets on his back, and Sherlock straddles him, knees bent high and brushing against his own nipples, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. John watches with blurry admiration as Sherlock holds John's erection steady, and lowers himself down onto it, first slowly and tentatively, then with a mighty lunge that joins them utterly.
"Yes," Sherlock sighs to the ceiling, twirling John's nipples with both his hands, "that's better." He lifts and drops himself, first carefully, then faster and faster, the tip of John's cock impacting inside with a deliciously electric shock.
"My God - my God - oh!"
"Yes, it's perfect, isn't it? Of course it is. Of course your cock is perfect for fitting inside me. Of course. I knew our fuck would be genius. Utterly perfect. You're perfect."
John can't speak, reaching up to pinch one of Sherlock's nipples, now erect and still moist from before, rewarded with a plaintive moan and a renewed vigor from his hips. It's exactly tight enough, and ridiculously, worrisomely wonderful to feel all of Sherlock's insides directly on his bare cock, clenching and releasing at exactly the right moments to keep John's cock in tight at all points in the motion. John wants to thrust up, just to release some of the tension in his groin, but he risks driving in too hard, or at the wrong angle; he can only lie still and be instructed. Be driven, be ridden, have both hands close onto Sherlock's hands, and their fingers lock together.
And get off, intensely, helplessly, just letting it happen, letting Sherlock fuck the essence right out of him.
Sherlock doesn't stop until John holds up his hands against Sherlock's stomach and begs him to be still. Even then, Sherlock doesn't move away. He puts John's hands on his long, dark, overheated cock, and clasps his own hands over them. "Now, just hold like I taught you," Sherlock says, "just squeeze tight here and here. Yes. Now - oh, John - " And with a flutter and release inside him, Sherlock reaches orgasm with a low groan, his toes clenching the blanket at John's sides. John's cock slides wetly free at last, and Sherlock's emits three strong spurts onto John's chest and neck. Humming happily, Sherlock wipes up the spill, and slides his fingers into John's mouth. "That's all of it. Yes, lick it clean; there you go. All better."
"You do need a caning," John murmurs, licking his lips with a grimace. The taste is different, it's true; much improved, but still poisonously bitter.
Sherlock lies down beside John, taking him into his arms and holding him very close, legs wrapping round, toes curling into toes. "There," Sherlock sighs comfortably. "All better. You're here."
"It's all right, Sherlock," John murmurs. He seems to be saying that a lot these days.
"It's quite good," Sherlock says.
After a bit, blankets are pulled into service, draping over their bodies. Sherlock seems to be done with the front of John, instead holding tight in a spooned cuddle, warmer and closer than John's ever felt. Contained. Content. He belongs here. Sherlock kisses the back of his neck and his ear and his hair, and John holds Sherlock's arms even tighter around him. "Nice," John whispers.
"My dear John. My dear. We live a very dangerous life," Sherlock murmurs. "We are marked men. We throw ourselves into danger. We can only protect each other so far. But I just aim to enjoy you as much as possible while I can. I need you. I need you with me."
"So don't be a bastard," John advises.
"Easier said than done."
"The first step is to maybe even just say that you'll try."
Sherlock sighs thoughtfully. “You know, John, I will have to run some more tests, but I am reasonably certain that the experiment bore out its original hypothesis.”
"What are you on about now?"
"The experiment," Sherlock reiterates. "I do feel much more bonded to you, and if I'm not mistaken, you are more bonded to me."
"Amazing what science can prove," John says dryly, wondering if Sherlock can somehow hear him rolling his eyes. "You shag, and it brings you closer. No one's ever thought of that before. Hey, does that mean I don't have to taste your skeet anymore?"
"I'm not sure I like that word."
"Kandahar," John chuckles. "Learned a lot of bad habits."
"Undoubtedly," Sherlock replies, "as I did at school. Odd tastes are generated and reinforced under circumstances of stress and alienation. I also have a riding crop, as you know, and also a bullwhip, and a flogger. They have many varied uses as well."
"You're having me on," John murmurs. Sherlock hugs him.
"John, I feel peace with you," he says, his voice very serious. "It's so rare. It's never, in fact. That was the other part of the experiment; if I could prove that having sex with you consistently produced a calming effect in my mind, then . . . well, then I'd know that, at least. Now I just need to keep you here."
"I'm not planning on going anywhere," John tells him, covering up for how much his heart aches right now by kissing a wrist. It's scarred, too, but jaggedly; handcuffs, probably, or perhaps thin hemp rope. He'll have to see it in the light. "You have too many interesting scars to tell me about. I'm looking forward to knowing you better. I know there's a lot to know. Hm! Speaking of which," he adds. "That piece you were playing last night. On the violin. What is that?"
"It's Biber," says Sherlock.
"It's what?" John almost bursts himself with his cackle of surprise.
"Biber. Heinrich Biber von Bibern? Eighteenth-century composer? Precursor to Bach. Surely you've heard of him?" Sherlock sounds offended.
"Uh, no. I guess you've never heard of Justin Bieber."
"No, I have not," Sherlock says crisply.
"Sorry. It's funny."
"It's not funny. It is one of the Five Sorrowful Mysteries; the Agony in the Garden, for scordatura. It's really fucking difficult and I play it when I -" Sherlock sputtered himself into silence.
"When you feel bad and you want to punish yourself," John replies mildly. "It's all right. I understand. And I forgive myself for having strong feelings about you, one way or the other, and I will forgive you for violating my medical confidentiality when you apologize and say you'll ask me next time. Because - because, Sherlock, I have to trust you, and you have to trust that I'll tell you anything you want to know. I don't care if it makes me look bad, or could get me into trouble, or even make you not like me anymore. I have to trust that you trust me. Do you understand? Because I put my life in your hands. Willingly. Eagerly. You're cleverer than me, and stronger, and taller, and all that. I'm not jealous; I like myself just fine the way I am. But we work together, and we can't do that unless we trust each other."
John wishes he could see Sherlock's expression, but he remains on his side, facing away, holding Sherlock's hands up to his mouth for quick, dry, rapid, repeating kisses.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispers faintly. "I'll ask next time."
"Good," says John, rolling his eyes to the ceiling again, shaking his head. He had pulled teeth that were easier than this. But worth it. Probably. He's willing to stick around and find out. "Now behave yourself."
His voice changes; sounds more like his old self. "No fear. I don't behave. There's no fun in that. Besides, I get to fuck you next time," Sherlock whispers to John's hair. "I'm quite excited."
John gives a long-suffering sigh. "Do I have to cane you first?"
Sherlock giggles. It's a strange, charming noise. "I left you a bun for your breakfast. I wanted to eat it, but I didn't."
"It's a start," says John, and he turns over, and they kiss. For a good long time.
END