Sherlock Fic: That Which Sustains (NOT Gen, R)
Title: That Which Sustains
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC 2010)
Rating/Warnings: Slash, Sherlock/John. R. KINK: Blood, knives, non-vampiric hemophagia.
A/N: First time I've ever written anything like this. Originally posted anonymously on Saturday here. De-anoning, even though I said I wouldn't be. *is brave* Light editing from original post. [LJ-Only]
Summary: It's not like he hasn't tasted blood before, but this is John's, and that makes it different.
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That Which Sustains
by CaffieneKitty
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The first time is an accident, a nip too hard, teeth too eager, then a tang of warm metal as John's lip bleeds into the kiss.
John pulls away with a soft 'ow', Sherlock's 'sorry' really isn't as he pursues the retreating warm iron.
It's not like he hasn't tasted blood before, but this is John's, and that makes it different.
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The next time is after the conclusion of another successful case, and the giggles turn into sighs and looks and touching and they're back at the flat again. This case was rough and bruising, particularly for John; the murderer had thought him an easy target due to his stature and as a result had his assumptions kicked around the abandoned warehouse.
John's knuckles are bruised, scraped raw, they are kissed in the cab, in-drawn breath at the sting of Sherlock's licking. Inside behind closed doors, other scrapes and wounds are revealed under clothes. A wide scrape up the side of John's ribs, from sliding on the concrete floor, coat and shirt pushed up dragging away skin on the rough surface. Sherlock licks there too, tasting the blood. John's blood, that he seems astoundingly willing to give up for the sake of a case, for Sherlock.
Licking isn't enough, he needs more. He spreads his mouth wide and kisses, sucking hard to raise the blood to the raw flesh along John's ribs. John cries out, inarticulate, like an animal. Sherlock breaks off, looks up to meet John's startled eyes.
For a hanging moment he thinks he's miscalculated, that of all that they've shared, of all the blood John's spilled for him, he won't want to share it like this, that John will run now, call him freak as the rest do. If he does, Sherlock feels he might literally die.
John's eyes slide half-closed and he bares his teeth in a lascivious smile. "Gentle now." He says, fingers combing through the curls on the back of Sherlock's head, drawing him back to where blood is seeping out fresh.
Something loosens inside Sherlock and he bows his head in, reverent, suckling at the blood as John hisses and moans, cradling Sherlock's head in his hand.
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Soon it's not enough, never enough, John is his and he is John's but the taste of blood, fresh from the chase, red and warm makes everything so much clearer, crystalline. The knife comes out with the excuse of a case, experimentation, but once out it can't be put away. He draws the tip along, fresh lines where no one will see, blood welling up and he drinks like John is wine, he's more than wine, he is John and carries their souls combined in his veins.
John knows it's more than accident, or an experiment or a perversion of the flesh; he must. Sherlock for once can't deduce John's thoughts on the matter. He doesn't protest Sherlock's appetites, but how can a medical man understand this need to drink his life blood from him?
He hopes John understands, but he can't tell for certain. Until he is given proof.
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Another crime scene, murder, something interesting but easily solved if only Anderson would stop twitching and rabbiting on and Donovan would cease staring at him. He can feel her eyes, burning. John is watching him too, but his gaze is never unwelcome, especially when it burns.
Lestrade is not here, neither is Dimmock and Sherlock does not have the time to train yet another Detective Inspector out of the most base levels of stupidity, especially when the woman would not even come to the scene herself. It's late afternoon, and the streets outside are filled with noise and traffic and it's all too much to focus. Sherlock shouts everyone away from the scene, and they retreat from the room but stand muttering and rustling in the hall because Lestrade isn't here and Dimmock isn't here and Sherlock has no authority and will have none unless he provides some useful information about the case but even the traffic will not shut up.
His hands are on his own ears, focus, focus, focus, idiot, when the door behind him slams shut and John pushes him up against the wall, hands fisted into Sherlock's coat. John searches Sherlock's eyes for a moment and Sherlock has in the exceedingly small part of his mind reserved for propriety the words 'John, now is hardly the time', but John steps back, sliding his sleeve up his arm.
Sherlock's breath freezes as John draws his clasp-knife, flicks it open and slashes into his own arm, eyes never leaving Sherlock's. Blood wells up from the cut readily, redly and before John can offer, Sherlock falls to his knees to have the cut at his mouth, pulling in the blood. His eyes close, tasting John, iron, salt, John, and he feels John's other hand, stroking his hair, his back.
"Ignore them," John is whispering, breath hot as blood in his ear. "Ignore it all. Just you and me and a murderer's secrets here. Nothing more."
Sherlock shakes, a small whimper rising unbidden from his throat as John's blood slides down it.
"Shh," John whispers, fingers twining in the hair at the back of Sherlock's neck, "I'm here. I'm here."
And then Sherlock knows everything.
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(that's it. *koff* so... yeah.)