Remix Fic: Shivers Down My Spine (1/1)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, slash.
Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Beta: lady_t_220
Notes: This was my entry to the second round of
sherlock_remix. It is a remix of Clothes by
unovis_lj.
Summary: John doesn’t understand Sherlock’s newfound obsession with the pleat in the back of his jacket.
The first time it happens, John is caught completely off-guard. They are sitting outside Lestrade’s office, waiting for the man himself to return, and John leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he scans the corridor. The last thing he expects (and he should probably know better by now) is a finger - Sherlock's gloved finger - sliding into the pleat at the back of his jacket. It's a firm pressure, right in the middle of his back, and it provokes a full body shudder. It's his body’s helpless reaction to that unexpected touch.
He whirls round to confront Sherlock and Sherlock levels him with an even gaze. His veiled expression gives no clue as to his thoughts and before John can say anything, Lestrade appears. John follows Lestrade and Sherlock into the DI’s office and tries to ignore the tingling sensation in his spine. He doesn’t know what Sherlock’s intention was, and he probably never will.
****
The second time it happens, John manages to control himself somewhat better. They are both perched on a low wall, catching their breath after a mad chase. Sherlock's finger slides into the pleat, brushes up, down, and then disappears. A moment later Sherlock is moving again and John follows him with a sigh, resigned to this new madness. He still doesn't know what it means. He still doesn’t know why it makes his skin hum.
****
The third time it happens, John is half-expecting it. Sherlock has been hovering behind him for several minutes, doing an awful job of pretending to listen to Lestrade. When John feels that finger at his spine again, he goes still. It sits at the centre of his back for several long moments, not moving, and then slides away quickly when Lestrade jumps up from his desk to start pacing and shouting. Sherlock starts shouting back, all hell breaks lose and, in the midst of mediating, John forgets about Sherlock’s newfound obsession.
****
John has just got back from the supermarket and is unpacking the bags in the kitchen when Sherlock comes into the room. John is still wearing his jacket, hasn’t had time to take it off yet, and on cue he feels Sherlock's finger slide into the pleat. For the first time, Sherlock’s hands are bare and John can feel the warmth of his skin even through the heavy fabric of his coat. When John doesn’t move or object, Sherlock adds a second finger, then a third, in an infuriatingly light touch.
John still doesn't know what this means but he leans back into the touch and Sherlock lets out an almost inaudible gasp, trailing his fingers back up the pleat. John leans into it even more, until he can feel the solidity of Sherlock's body at his back. Sherlock's breath ghosts over his neck and John holds his breath, waiting to see what he will do.
Sherlock slides his fingers back down the vent and then keeps going, until he can slip his hand underneath and rest it on John’s shirt. John closes his eyes at the simple, intimate touch. It’s been a long time since anyone touched him like this - curiously, tenderly, familiarly. Sherlock’s hand is a warm pressure against his back and he is surprised at how much he is affected by it. He feels Sherlock’s breath at his ear now; feels the press of that long body against the length of his and, above all of it, the searing contact at his spine.
“Sherlock,” he whispers, unsure, afraid of shattering the moment.
Sherlock hums against his ear, lips just catching his skin, and brushes his thumb against John’s tailbone. John cannot prevent the full body shudder it provokes.
“Bedroom,” Sherlock murmurs, and then he is gone.
****
John is spread out on his bed, naked, his face buried in the pillow as he lets out a long moan. Long, thin fingers glide over his bare skin, tracing patterns down the length of his back. He feels the heat of a warm mouth right at the base of his spine and gasps, arching into the caress as strong hands pin him to the bed again.
“Sherlock,” he pleads.
Sherlock shushes him, warm breath skittering over John’s sensitive skin. He skims his fingers over John’s sides, skirting his ribs, tracing the outline of his shoulder blades. His mouth rests briefly at John’s nape and John tries not to rear back, overwhelmed by the sensation. Sherlock hovers over him and slides his index finger down the length of John’s spine again. John groans and rubs his throbbing erection against the sheets below him. Sherlock’s sensual attack is almost too much to bear.
Sherlock rests against him for a moment and John realises with a start that Sherlock is still dressed. He can feel Sherlock's trousers rubbing against the backs of his legs and the buttons of Sherlock's shirt pressing into his skin. It makes him feel exposed and vulnerable, but it is also undeniably erotic. The brush of luxuriously soft fabric - God forbid Sherlock wear anything synthetic - feels heavenly against his skin and his breath catches for a moment, before evening out again when Sherlock pulls away.
“Turn over,” Sherlock orders, his voice slightly rough-edged.
John complies and spreads out on his back, finally getting a good look at Sherlock. He is flushed and for once he looks far from composed, shirt buttons half-undone and an almost wild expression in his eyes. He looks stunning. His lips are swollen and red and John wants to kiss him, wants to taste him, but he doesn’t know the rules of this encounter. Sherlock has been completely in control so far and John doesn’t want to push; won’t risk crossing some invisible line and losing this wonderful moment of madness.
Sherlock is watching John just as closely as John is watching him, and John thinks he sees the hint of a smile before Sherlock leans in close and passes his tongue over the scar on John’s shoulder. John gasps and before he can stop himself his hands reach out and cling to Sherlock’s arms. The scar is still sensitive, almost two years on, and the swipe of Sherlock’s tongue sends mixed messages of pain and pleasure to his already scrambled brain. A moment later, he jerks at the added sensation caused by the sudden electrifying pressure of Sherlock’s clothed thigh against his erection. He chokes out a gasp and pushes into the contact, his cock desperate for friction.
“Fuck,” he blurts out when Sherlock pushes back into his desperate bucking. His head arches back and he closes his eyes, fighting the urge to come right there and then.
“Another time,” Sherlock murmurs, and suddenly the warmth of his mouth is at John’s hip, his tongue tracing the bone. John jerks his head up and falls back again just as quickly at the sight of Sherlock’s lips only inches from his aching cock. Sherlock mouths at the junction between leg and hip, breath ghosting over John’s skin before he drops his mouth to the inside of John’s thigh. John moans desperately, his whole body humming with sensation, with the need for release. He is at the limit of his control and he feels like he’s about to burst into a million pieces.
“Sher- Sherlock,” he gets out. “Please. Fuck, please.”
He doesn’t care that he’s begging, doesn’t care that he can feel Sherlock’s smile against his skin. He needs more. Sherlock withdraws completely and John bolts up, wide eyes meeting Sherlock’s just as the other man gives him a smug smile and slides his open mouth around the head of John’s cock.
“Fuuuck.”
John is too close, too soon, and he wants this to last but Sherlock takes him deeper. Already on the edge, he no longer has the sense to control himself and his hands twist in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock sucks harder, his cheeks hollowing, and John arches back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Sherlock, I’m - fuck, I’m close.”
He can’t help it now, he’s rocking into Sherlock’s mouth, his breath coming faster and faster. He’s so close, almost there, just needs something - He starts at the brush of Sherlock’s fingers up the outside of his thigh, sliding under him and finally coming to rest right in the middle of his back; on that same spot that started all this. John cries out and before he even realises it he’s coming, his hips bucking helplessly, his vision blurring.
When he comes back to himself, Sherlock is leaning on his elbows, watching him.
“Interesting,” he says, pushing himself up to his knees. “Very interesting.”
A beat later Sherlock climbs off the bed and before John can say anything, he’s gone, leaving John staring at his bedroom door in bewilderment.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, slash.
Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Beta: lady_t_220
Notes: This was my entry to the second round of
sherlock_remix. It is a remix of Clothes by
unovis_lj.
Summary: John doesn’t understand Sherlock’s newfound obsession with the pleat in the back of his jacket.
The first time it happens, John is caught completely off-guard. They are sitting outside Lestrade’s office, waiting for the man himself to return, and John leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he scans the corridor. The last thing he expects (and he should probably know better by now) is a finger - Sherlock's gloved finger - sliding into the pleat at the back of his jacket. It's a firm pressure, right in the middle of his back, and it provokes a full body shudder. It's his body’s helpless reaction to that unexpected touch.
He whirls round to confront Sherlock and Sherlock levels him with an even gaze. His veiled expression gives no clue as to his thoughts and before John can say anything, Lestrade appears. John follows Lestrade and Sherlock into the DI’s office and tries to ignore the tingling sensation in his spine. He doesn’t know what Sherlock’s intention was, and he probably never will.
****
The second time it happens, John manages to control himself somewhat better. They are both perched on a low wall, catching their breath after a mad chase. Sherlock's finger slides into the pleat, brushes up, down, and then disappears. A moment later Sherlock is moving again and John follows him with a sigh, resigned to this new madness. He still doesn't know what it means. He still doesn’t know why it makes his skin hum.
****
The third time it happens, John is half-expecting it. Sherlock has been hovering behind him for several minutes, doing an awful job of pretending to listen to Lestrade. When John feels that finger at his spine again, he goes still. It sits at the centre of his back for several long moments, not moving, and then slides away quickly when Lestrade jumps up from his desk to start pacing and shouting. Sherlock starts shouting back, all hell breaks lose and, in the midst of mediating, John forgets about Sherlock’s newfound obsession.
****
John has just got back from the supermarket and is unpacking the bags in the kitchen when Sherlock comes into the room. John is still wearing his jacket, hasn’t had time to take it off yet, and on cue he feels Sherlock's finger slide into the pleat. For the first time, Sherlock’s hands are bare and John can feel the warmth of his skin even through the heavy fabric of his coat. When John doesn’t move or object, Sherlock adds a second finger, then a third, in an infuriatingly light touch.
John still doesn't know what this means but he leans back into the touch and Sherlock lets out an almost inaudible gasp, trailing his fingers back up the pleat. John leans into it even more, until he can feel the solidity of Sherlock's body at his back. Sherlock's breath ghosts over his neck and John holds his breath, waiting to see what he will do.
Sherlock slides his fingers back down the vent and then keeps going, until he can slip his hand underneath and rest it on John’s shirt. John closes his eyes at the simple, intimate touch. It’s been a long time since anyone touched him like this - curiously, tenderly, familiarly. Sherlock’s hand is a warm pressure against his back and he is surprised at how much he is affected by it. He feels Sherlock’s breath at his ear now; feels the press of that long body against the length of his and, above all of it, the searing contact at his spine.
“Sherlock,” he whispers, unsure, afraid of shattering the moment.
Sherlock hums against his ear, lips just catching his skin, and brushes his thumb against John’s tailbone. John cannot prevent the full body shudder it provokes.
“Bedroom,” Sherlock murmurs, and then he is gone.
****
John is spread out on his bed, naked, his face buried in the pillow as he lets out a long moan. Long, thin fingers glide over his bare skin, tracing patterns down the length of his back. He feels the heat of a warm mouth right at the base of his spine and gasps, arching into the caress as strong hands pin him to the bed again.
“Sherlock,” he pleads.
Sherlock shushes him, warm breath skittering over John’s sensitive skin. He skims his fingers over John’s sides, skirting his ribs, tracing the outline of his shoulder blades. His mouth rests briefly at John’s nape and John tries not to rear back, overwhelmed by the sensation. Sherlock hovers over him and slides his index finger down the length of John’s spine again. John groans and rubs his throbbing erection against the sheets below him. Sherlock’s sensual attack is almost too much to bear.
Sherlock rests against him for a moment and John realises with a start that Sherlock is still dressed. He can feel Sherlock's trousers rubbing against the backs of his legs and the buttons of Sherlock's shirt pressing into his skin. It makes him feel exposed and vulnerable, but it is also undeniably erotic. The brush of luxuriously soft fabric - God forbid Sherlock wear anything synthetic - feels heavenly against his skin and his breath catches for a moment, before evening out again when Sherlock pulls away.
“Turn over,” Sherlock orders, his voice slightly rough-edged.
John complies and spreads out on his back, finally getting a good look at Sherlock. He is flushed and for once he looks far from composed, shirt buttons half-undone and an almost wild expression in his eyes. He looks stunning. His lips are swollen and red and John wants to kiss him, wants to taste him, but he doesn’t know the rules of this encounter. Sherlock has been completely in control so far and John doesn’t want to push; won’t risk crossing some invisible line and losing this wonderful moment of madness.
Sherlock is watching John just as closely as John is watching him, and John thinks he sees the hint of a smile before Sherlock leans in close and passes his tongue over the scar on John’s shoulder. John gasps and before he can stop himself his hands reach out and cling to Sherlock’s arms. The scar is still sensitive, almost two years on, and the swipe of Sherlock’s tongue sends mixed messages of pain and pleasure to his already scrambled brain. A moment later, he jerks at the added sensation caused by the sudden electrifying pressure of Sherlock’s clothed thigh against his erection. He chokes out a gasp and pushes into the contact, his cock desperate for friction.
“Fuck,” he blurts out when Sherlock pushes back into his desperate bucking. His head arches back and he closes his eyes, fighting the urge to come right there and then.
“Another time,” Sherlock murmurs, and suddenly the warmth of his mouth is at John’s hip, his tongue tracing the bone. John jerks his head up and falls back again just as quickly at the sight of Sherlock’s lips only inches from his aching cock. Sherlock mouths at the junction between leg and hip, breath ghosting over John’s skin before he drops his mouth to the inside of John’s thigh. John moans desperately, his whole body humming with sensation, with the need for release. He is at the limit of his control and he feels like he’s about to burst into a million pieces.
“Sher- Sherlock,” he gets out. “Please. Fuck, please.”
He doesn’t care that he’s begging, doesn’t care that he can feel Sherlock’s smile against his skin. He needs more. Sherlock withdraws completely and John bolts up, wide eyes meeting Sherlock’s just as the other man gives him a smug smile and slides his open mouth around the head of John’s cock.
“Fuuuck.”
John is too close, too soon, and he wants this to last but Sherlock takes him deeper. Already on the edge, he no longer has the sense to control himself and his hands twist in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock sucks harder, his cheeks hollowing, and John arches back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Sherlock, I’m - fuck, I’m close.”
He can’t help it now, he’s rocking into Sherlock’s mouth, his breath coming faster and faster. He’s so close, almost there, just needs something - He starts at the brush of Sherlock’s fingers up the outside of his thigh, sliding under him and finally coming to rest right in the middle of his back; on that same spot that started all this. John cries out and before he even realises it he’s coming, his hips bucking helplessly, his vision blurring.
When he comes back to himself, Sherlock is leaning on his elbows, watching him.
“Interesting,” he says, pushing himself up to his knees. “Very interesting.”
A beat later Sherlock climbs off the bed and before John can say anything, he’s gone, leaving John staring at his bedroom door in bewilderment.