Fic for Purplesnowball: Feeling it Out
Title: Feeling it Out
Recipient: purplesnowball
Author: bootsnblossoms
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: n/a
Summary: John is rendered temporarily blind during a case, and Sherlock reads him The Hobbit as a way to distract him.
Notes: Thank you to Kryptaria for the beta.
John sat on the couch struggling to keep his breathing in check. He dug his hands into the textured fabric, toed off his shoes and dug his feet into the carpet, and concentrated on the sensations. It helped, but not enough - he could still feel himself edging closer and closer to a panic attack.
John considered himself a reasonably well-adjusted individual, thanks in no small part to his habit of being introspective. He didn't shirk his problems, knowing full well that ignoring them wouldn't make them go away. Doctor John Watson was a man of action, a soldier, a former surgeon, and the flatmate of a mad genius. He didn't avoid the tough issues.
This is why he was caught so completely off guard by his current situation. He thought he knew all his triggers, his fears, the things that made him shudder. There weren't too many. Like anyone who had spent time in Iraq, he hated camel spiders with a passion. And Afghanistan had instilled in him a serious dislike of the bengal monitor lizard. He didn't much care for cats or small spaces, and the surest way to get him to hyperventilate was to stick him in an elevator with too many people.
But it wasn't the lack of space that was drowning him in fear at the moment. It was his inability to find his place in it. He had been temporarily blinded during his and Sherlock's last case when a fool of child-porn producing uni professor had hit him in the head with a laptop to keep him from following. It worked -- John had gone down quickly, totally blinded, and Sherlock had stopped the chase to help John.
As it turns out, the minor traumatic brain injury (TBI, his doctor's mind automatically called it) he'd suffered in an explosion during one of his tours had left him with a sensitive spot which, when he got winged by the laptop, had been triggered. Fortunately, his doctors were 99% certain that it was only temporary. But that reassurance wasn't helping John right now.
Sherlock had left immediately after bringing John home in the pre-dawn morning to help the police catch the sick bastard. Though John was sure that Sherlock had only been gone an hour or two, he was struggling.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Do. Not. Panic.
John was so absorbed in his internal struggle that he almost jumped at the voice that seemingly came out of the void.
“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”
John gasped, breaking the surface of his terror and found that he could breathe again.
“It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened onto a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with paneled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats.”
"Sherlock?" he choked out before he could stop himself. He braced for the inevitable ridicule -- Yes John, of course it's me, I'd think that after a year together you'd know my voice by now -- but it never came.
Instead, he felt the couch dip and was overwhelmed with the scent of wet wool and bitter chemicals as his friend sat down beside him. "You may want to get comfortable, John. This is a fairly long book, so it may take a while. Perhaps all day. And if I am still in the mood for a distraction by the end of it, there are at least three more following. A trilogy, I'm told."
John shuffled, pulling his belt off and settling in a reclining position on the couch. He didn't even try to be subtle about leaning into Sherlock -- he needed the contact to keep him grounded, to keep the panic at bay.
Sherlock didn't hesitate to wrap his free arm around John's shoulders, either, which truly shocked John. Though he and Sherlock shared the occasional friendly touch, John had never thought him to be physically demonstrative. Not that John was either, but at least he hugged family members, bumped shoulders with his mates, cuddled with his lovers. But beyond hugging Mrs. Hudson and tugging John along on their adventures, Sherlock's body language screamed "Hands off!"
John pressed his forehead into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock didn't object.
It took nearly an hour for John's breathing to settle, and another for his heart rate to calm. Much to his surprise, Sherlock was an absolutely amazing narrator. He changed inflections for each character so John could always tell which one was talking, and his voice took on a dreamy, lyrical quality that wrapped around him. Lush images of grand green landscapes and rich characters curled around his imagination like pipe smoke on a light breeze.
"Gollum was disappointed once more; and now he was getting angry, and also tired of the game. It had made him very hungry indeed. This time he did not go back to the boat. He sat down in the dark by Bilbo. That made the hobbit most dreadfully uncomfortable and scattered his wits."
Sherlock set the book down on the arm of the couch and stretched mightily, dislodging John from his comfortable perch against his flatmate's side. "About time for dinner and tea, and my voice could surely use it. What are you in the mood for?'
John clutched Sherlock's forearm as he stood, unwilling to let go of what had become his lifeline. He didn't want to be left alone in the dark.
"Something with a lot of spice. Something aromatic."
Sherlock chuckled as he pulled out his phone. "Very well. Schezuan with enough garlic to clear your sinuses it is." John listened as Sherlock speed-dialed their favorite take away place.
John hadn't let go of Sherlock and was subsequently pulled toward the kitchen uncomfortably quickly for a blind man. He wasn't at all surprised when tripped over a stack of books in what had to have been a comical-looking flail. "Goddamn mother fucker!" he shouted, trying to catch himself on the wall so as not to take Sherlock down with him. It didn't work -- apparently the wall was several inches farther to his right than he anticipated, and they landed in a tangled mess of bony elbows and knees on the floor. He became truly alarmed when he felt Sherlock shaking under him, and he ran his hands over his friend frantically, looking for breaks. "Sherlock, are you all right? I'm sorry, I just couldn't reach..."
Sherlock rolled face-up, and John immediately realized that he was laughing, the bastard.
"You have mouth that could turn a troll to stone!" Sherlock gasped in between fits of laughter.
"I apologize for offending you posh little virgin ears," John grumbled as he shoved Sherlock away.
"And feet fit for hobbit!" Sherlock continued, rolling to up and pulling John with him.
"I do not have big, hairy feet! Besides, it's fine to have stacks of books everywhere when I can see, but it's damn dangerous when I can't. Your fault, not mine."
Sherlock didn't stop chuckling, merely wrapped his arm around John's waist, led him the final short distance into the kitchen, and set him down (rather indelicately) into a chair. "And anyway, if I'm like a hobbit, than you're like Smaug -- collecting all sorts of random shiny bits into your big treasure pile here at Baker Street."
"Are you calling me a crow, John?"
"Dragon, actually. Wait, you haven't actually read The Hobbit before?"
"I'm sure it was read to me as child, but I've long since deleted it."
John hesitated with the obvious question while Sherlock cleared the table. He didn't want to make Sherlock uncomfortable with a "why now" question in case it meant that he would stop. But he was curious. Sherlock didn't care for fiction. So why was he reading John The Hobbit now instead of some medical journal or forensic pathology textbook?
Sherlock was generous with his noise level as he went about moving chemistry equipment and setting out plates and cups. John listened as he washed the necessary silverware and made the tea, and slid his hands up and down his own thighs in effort to continue the grounding Sherlock's touch had provided him with before.
"You have some hearing loss in your right ear." Sherlock announced as he cracked a beer and set it in front of John.
John nodded, feeling around in front of him to find the source of the fizzing, barley-scented drink. "An IED went off early on in my second tour in Iraq. The hearing loss isn't as bad as it could have been -- thirty percent, I think -- but I still compensate for it."
"I hadn't noticed it before."
John smiled.
"I didn't know you'd been hit by an IED."
John's smile disappeared.
"You don't talk about it much."
Normally, John would have looked away, or got up to do something in order to keep himself physically occupied when confronted with the not-quite-question. But he felt oddly free in his blindness, able to talk without having to watch Sherlock's reactions for responses he didn't want to have to tolerate, such as sympathy, pity, or eager curiosity.
"My first tour was actually pretty boring. I spent a lot of time in a hospital on base. Not that doing surgery was boring, but a hospital is a hospital. But so many of the people I worked on came to me too late. I decided that for my second tour I wanted to go to the soldiers rather than sit waiting for them to come to me. It was great, but it didn't take long for me to experience my first IED. Hearing loss, some lacerations on my side, and a nick in the brain."
Sherlock didn't give away any reactions that John could detect, so he decided to go on. "But the experience didn't scare me back to the relative safety of base hospitals. No one died from the blast because I was there to help. It was" -- he paused, searching for the right word -- "reaffirming."
"I'm sorry that you can't be a surgeon anymore," came Sherlock's voice from the darkness.
John smiled. "I like what I do now well enough."
The doorbell rang as Sherlock chuckled in response. "I assume you mean chasing criminals, not wiping noses as a GP."
Sherlock scraped his chair as he got up to get the food, stomping his feet and generally making a lot more noise than he normally would. The scent of garlic and curry and crab wafted up the stairs, and John smiled as Sherlock came back in. "I'm pretty sure Sarah is going to fire me soon. I'm really OK with that. Mike mentioned that a part time job at Bart's A&E is opening up soon, and I make one hell of a trauma doc."
"I won't object to the extended access to Bart's it would provide me." Sherlock's voice was saturated in overtones of plotting and scheming. John grinned.
The rest of dinner passed quickly, John reveling in the sensations of really spicy food. True to his word, Sherlock had made sure John's order had lots of garlic, and he would chuckle when John was forced to use a tissue to dry his nose.
When they were finished, Sherlock put away the leftovers and plopped the dishes in the sink with an alarming crash. John jolted at the sudden touch of a warm, damp cloth to his hands, more than a little surprised that Sherlock was wiping his hands for him. "Easier than trying to trying to keep you from knocking over my experiment by the sink, I assure you." Sherlock murmured near John's ear.
"I wonder, Sherlock," John asked as they walked back towards the couch, his forearm clutched tightly in Sherlock's long, callused, and chemically pock-marked fingers. "If you were temporarily blinded, would you have any trouble navigating the flat? Or is the layout completely stored in that mind palace of yours?"
"Sometimes, when I'm bored, I blindfold myself and practice walking around. It's both an exercise and a test."
"Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because you're rarely bored."
John thought about this statement as he again settled against Sherlock on the couch. It was true. John was very rarely bored. Still, yes. He often occupied himself with quieter activities such as reading, writing, and doing the occasional sketch. And when it was all too much -- when the silence of the flat was overwhelming, or the burden of memories too much -- he would go for a walk, letting the sights and sounds and smells of London occupy his full attention.
It took an extra moment's thought to decide that Sherlock hadn't, in fact, meant it as an insult.
Sherlock pulled them down to settle on the couch and continued reading.
"'It's got to ask uss a question, my preciouss, yes, yess, yesss. Jusst one more quesstion to guess, yes, yess,'” hissed Sherlock. “But Bilbo simply could not think of any question with that nasty wet cold thing sitting next to him, and pawing and poking him. He scratched himself, he pinched himself; still he could not think of anything.”
Hours passed as John was swept into Tolkien's stunning world of imagery. He found himself looking forward to the long passages of song which he had skipped as child. Sherlock didn't sing them, of course, but recited them as prose. He played the notes of the words like he would a song on his violin, letting the highs and lows roll sensuously off his tongue. John thought it was a very good thing he was so tired and that the niggling sense of panic was still in the periphery of his worries, otherwise he'd be very inappropriately turned on. As much as his flatmate was currently tolerating his need for physical contact, he was certain he'd huff off in a disgusted sulk immediately if John started sporting an erection.
Rather against his conscious will, he found himself shifting ever so slightly against Sherlock.
"So it was that Bilbo was able to take secretly Thorin's message to each of the other imprisoned dwarves, telling them that Thorin their chief was also in prison close at hand, and that no one was to reveal their errand to the king, not yet, nor before Thorin gave the word."
A good while later, when Sherlock unfolded himself from John's embrace to refill his water glass, John decided in his sleepy comfort he really did want to risk it, after all. "Why The Hobbit? You've never been a fan of fiction."
The sound of the tap filled his ears and it ran for longer than necessary to fill the cup. John held his breath.
"I was very close to my mother's mother, Grandmere Rose. Glaucoma took her sight when she was in her seventies when I was in uni. She took it very hard. I tried to help by coming back nearly every weekend to read to her. We made our way through most of C.S. Lewis' library, and she expressed an interest in Tolkien as the next author she wanted me to tackle. She said I had the perfect voice for bringing those worlds to life."
"You do," John agreed as Sherlock sat back down. "You really do have an amazing voice. If you hadn't decided to become the world's only consulting detective, you could have had a splendid career in narration."
"Can you imagine? Me, reading a radio drama for the BBC?" Sherlock chuckled.
John laughed before realizing that Sherlock choosing the The Hobbit for him could only mean one thing.
"You didn't get a chance to read it for her, did you?"
"No."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She'd lived a full life, full of grand adventures. You would have like her."
John smiled at the idea of a plucky French grandmother leading a younger Sherlock on an imaginary pirate mission. "If you're anything like her, I'm sure I would have adored her."
Sherlock's quiet chuckle came just as John realized what he'd said. Oops. But Sherlock only pulled him closer.
"There he lay, a vast red-golden dragon, fast asleep; thrumming came from his jaws and nostrils, and wisps of smoke, but his fires were low in slumber. Beneath him, under all his limbs and his huge coiled tail, and about him on all sides stretching away across the unseen floors, lay countless piles of precious things, gold wrought and unwrought, gems and jewels, and silver red-stained in the ruddy light."
~~*~~
It was odd how John had completely lost track of time. He didn't realize how many visual cues he relied on the figure out what time it was; the brightness of the light outside, the direction of shadows, the patterns of traffic, and the types of pedestrians he saw on the street were all sights he'd come to rely on. In this darkness there was nothing but Sherlock's voice and Sherlock's heartbeat. Feeling his eyes grow heavy was an odd sensation when he had no sight, but it did make him realize it was probably getting late.
As much as he didn't want to break the spell, he did want to go to bed and let rest help bring healing. He was reluctant to bring it up, however, because he really, really, really didn't want to go to bed and face the darkness by himself.
Suck it up, Watson he thought to himself. You've inconvenienced your friend enough.
Sherlock paused his reading when John tried unsuccessfully to stifle a stretch. "John?"
"Sorry. Getting tired. I bet your throat could use a rest after reading for so long. Thank you, by the way. You're amazing, Sherlock, truly. May I see, that is, hold the book so I can see, uh, feel how much further we've got to go?” He reached across Sherlock's waist to grasp the book he sensed from the position of Sherlock's arms was in his lap.
Sherlock's breath stuttered and stopped as John's arm brushed against something distinctly hard below his stomach. John froze when he realized what it was.
"John," Sherlock breathed. There was a thunk as he let his head fall back against the couch in what John assumed was embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I know you aren't... that's you're not... Just ignore that."
John froze for a moment as he processed. Sherlock was attracted to him. Sherlock was attracted to him? How had John not noticed that before? Was it there before, or was Sherlock only interested now because John was so completely dependent on him? Or did it have nothing to do with John at all? Sherlock seemed to be celibate, but he was still a man. If he were gay, as John suspected, then maybe it was simply a reaction to having another man pressed up against him for so long.
It took only moments for John to decide to hell with it. He had never been more grateful to another human being in his life as he was to Sherlock. And he couldn't keep a girlfriend to save his life thanks to his odd lifestyle (which he shared with Sherlock anyway). Though he hadn't had a male lover since uni (and he had never actually had a boyfriend), he didn't think that much would really change between them. He'd leave it up to Sherlock. Friend with benefits? Lover? Partner? He was fine with any of it.
He leaned up, pressed his face into Sherlock's neck, and dragged his hand up Sherlock's erection. "I don't mind." He stayed motionless for a moment, all but his gently massaging hand held still, waiting for a reaction.
Sherlock sighed and pressed his hips forward into John's hand.
Thank god, John thought as he pressed a kiss into Sherlock's neck. He pressed himself more tightly along Sherlock's side and gently maneuvered into place to kiss him. He moved slowly, and carefully, feeling his way along with his nose in an effort to not miss the mark. The slowness added to the anticipation, and when they finally moved from nuzzling to actually kissing, it was slow, sensual, and marvelous. Sherlock's mouth was a little dry from his narration, and as John slid his tongue along Sherlock's all he could think about was how grateful he was for this muscle that had so wonderfully kept the madness at bay.
Sherlock groaned under him and his hips twitched. John smiled and carefully started to undo the buttons and zip of Sherlock's trousers, pushing them slowly out of the way so he could slide his hand into the waiting hard heat.
It didn't take long. John knew it wouldn't. Sherlock broke the kiss as his concentration shattered, thrusting his hips ups into John's steady and firm hand. John for his part felt drunk on the sounds Sherlock was making, the same voice that had previously had been so controlled now released into fantastic lasciviousness. John wished badly that he could see Sherlock's face.
In a flash of insight, John made a few adjustments. He slid his right hand up to feel Sherlock's mouth, carefully tracing the edges to discover that it was wide open in an expression of ecstasy. He slid down a bit, pulling his left hand away from Sherlock and into his own trousers, then quickly dipped his head down to take Sherlock in his mouth.
The shocked gasp and long moan he got in return was one of the most erotic things John had ever heard.
He worked himself and Sherlock quickly, trying to take Sherlock in as deeply as possible without gagging. He'd never really learned to appreciate the gummy texture of ejaculate in his mouth, so he pressed his tongue flat and let Sherlock slide deeply in.
“Oh god, John. Oh fuck yes, god yes!” Sherlock's hands came down to hold painfully tightly to John's head and hair, which he only allowed because he knew it would be momentary. Indeed, Sherlock's grip tightened and he thrust once, twice, three times into John's throat before coming with a loud cry.
John swallowed best he could as his mouth filled with semen, gently tonguing Sherlock through his orgasm. When Sherlock fell back against the couch breathlessly, John sat up, swung his leg over Sherlock's lap, and sat facing him. He pulled himself off within seconds, breathing out Sherlock's name, curling over him in euphoria.
Their breathing settled, and John again cursed his temporary blindness. If ever there was a moment he wanted to see Sherlock's face, it would be now. Just as he started to worry that he'd made a monumental mistake, he felt the beginnings of speech rumble where his ear was pressed against Sherlock's chest.
“God I need a cigarette. You know, I hope you don't take offence, but if this the way we're going to pass your few days' worth of sightlessness, I'm actually quite thankful for the angle that laptop hit your head at.”
John pressed his grin to the corner of Sherlock's own happy smile.
“We have about two hours worth of text yet, John. Care to finish the reading in the bedroom?”
“Thank goodness,” John said laughing, and handed him a box of nicotine patches.
Recipient: purplesnowball
Author: bootsnblossoms
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: n/a
Summary: John is rendered temporarily blind during a case, and Sherlock reads him The Hobbit as a way to distract him.
Notes: Thank you to Kryptaria for the beta.
John sat on the couch struggling to keep his breathing in check. He dug his hands into the textured fabric, toed off his shoes and dug his feet into the carpet, and concentrated on the sensations. It helped, but not enough - he could still feel himself edging closer and closer to a panic attack.
John considered himself a reasonably well-adjusted individual, thanks in no small part to his habit of being introspective. He didn't shirk his problems, knowing full well that ignoring them wouldn't make them go away. Doctor John Watson was a man of action, a soldier, a former surgeon, and the flatmate of a mad genius. He didn't avoid the tough issues.
This is why he was caught so completely off guard by his current situation. He thought he knew all his triggers, his fears, the things that made him shudder. There weren't too many. Like anyone who had spent time in Iraq, he hated camel spiders with a passion. And Afghanistan had instilled in him a serious dislike of the bengal monitor lizard. He didn't much care for cats or small spaces, and the surest way to get him to hyperventilate was to stick him in an elevator with too many people.
But it wasn't the lack of space that was drowning him in fear at the moment. It was his inability to find his place in it. He had been temporarily blinded during his and Sherlock's last case when a fool of child-porn producing uni professor had hit him in the head with a laptop to keep him from following. It worked -- John had gone down quickly, totally blinded, and Sherlock had stopped the chase to help John.
As it turns out, the minor traumatic brain injury (TBI, his doctor's mind automatically called it) he'd suffered in an explosion during one of his tours had left him with a sensitive spot which, when he got winged by the laptop, had been triggered. Fortunately, his doctors were 99% certain that it was only temporary. But that reassurance wasn't helping John right now.
Sherlock had left immediately after bringing John home in the pre-dawn morning to help the police catch the sick bastard. Though John was sure that Sherlock had only been gone an hour or two, he was struggling.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Do. Not. Panic.
John was so absorbed in his internal struggle that he almost jumped at the voice that seemingly came out of the void.
“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.”
John gasped, breaking the surface of his terror and found that he could breathe again.
“It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened onto a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with paneled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats.”
"Sherlock?" he choked out before he could stop himself. He braced for the inevitable ridicule -- Yes John, of course it's me, I'd think that after a year together you'd know my voice by now -- but it never came.
Instead, he felt the couch dip and was overwhelmed with the scent of wet wool and bitter chemicals as his friend sat down beside him. "You may want to get comfortable, John. This is a fairly long book, so it may take a while. Perhaps all day. And if I am still in the mood for a distraction by the end of it, there are at least three more following. A trilogy, I'm told."
John shuffled, pulling his belt off and settling in a reclining position on the couch. He didn't even try to be subtle about leaning into Sherlock -- he needed the contact to keep him grounded, to keep the panic at bay.
Sherlock didn't hesitate to wrap his free arm around John's shoulders, either, which truly shocked John. Though he and Sherlock shared the occasional friendly touch, John had never thought him to be physically demonstrative. Not that John was either, but at least he hugged family members, bumped shoulders with his mates, cuddled with his lovers. But beyond hugging Mrs. Hudson and tugging John along on their adventures, Sherlock's body language screamed "Hands off!"
John pressed his forehead into Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock didn't object.
It took nearly an hour for John's breathing to settle, and another for his heart rate to calm. Much to his surprise, Sherlock was an absolutely amazing narrator. He changed inflections for each character so John could always tell which one was talking, and his voice took on a dreamy, lyrical quality that wrapped around him. Lush images of grand green landscapes and rich characters curled around his imagination like pipe smoke on a light breeze.
"Gollum was disappointed once more; and now he was getting angry, and also tired of the game. It had made him very hungry indeed. This time he did not go back to the boat. He sat down in the dark by Bilbo. That made the hobbit most dreadfully uncomfortable and scattered his wits."
Sherlock set the book down on the arm of the couch and stretched mightily, dislodging John from his comfortable perch against his flatmate's side. "About time for dinner and tea, and my voice could surely use it. What are you in the mood for?'
John clutched Sherlock's forearm as he stood, unwilling to let go of what had become his lifeline. He didn't want to be left alone in the dark.
"Something with a lot of spice. Something aromatic."
Sherlock chuckled as he pulled out his phone. "Very well. Schezuan with enough garlic to clear your sinuses it is." John listened as Sherlock speed-dialed their favorite take away place.
John hadn't let go of Sherlock and was subsequently pulled toward the kitchen uncomfortably quickly for a blind man. He wasn't at all surprised when tripped over a stack of books in what had to have been a comical-looking flail. "Goddamn mother fucker!" he shouted, trying to catch himself on the wall so as not to take Sherlock down with him. It didn't work -- apparently the wall was several inches farther to his right than he anticipated, and they landed in a tangled mess of bony elbows and knees on the floor. He became truly alarmed when he felt Sherlock shaking under him, and he ran his hands over his friend frantically, looking for breaks. "Sherlock, are you all right? I'm sorry, I just couldn't reach..."
Sherlock rolled face-up, and John immediately realized that he was laughing, the bastard.
"You have mouth that could turn a troll to stone!" Sherlock gasped in between fits of laughter.
"I apologize for offending you posh little virgin ears," John grumbled as he shoved Sherlock away.
"And feet fit for hobbit!" Sherlock continued, rolling to up and pulling John with him.
"I do not have big, hairy feet! Besides, it's fine to have stacks of books everywhere when I can see, but it's damn dangerous when I can't. Your fault, not mine."
Sherlock didn't stop chuckling, merely wrapped his arm around John's waist, led him the final short distance into the kitchen, and set him down (rather indelicately) into a chair. "And anyway, if I'm like a hobbit, than you're like Smaug -- collecting all sorts of random shiny bits into your big treasure pile here at Baker Street."
"Are you calling me a crow, John?"
"Dragon, actually. Wait, you haven't actually read The Hobbit before?"
"I'm sure it was read to me as child, but I've long since deleted it."
John hesitated with the obvious question while Sherlock cleared the table. He didn't want to make Sherlock uncomfortable with a "why now" question in case it meant that he would stop. But he was curious. Sherlock didn't care for fiction. So why was he reading John The Hobbit now instead of some medical journal or forensic pathology textbook?
Sherlock was generous with his noise level as he went about moving chemistry equipment and setting out plates and cups. John listened as he washed the necessary silverware and made the tea, and slid his hands up and down his own thighs in effort to continue the grounding Sherlock's touch had provided him with before.
"You have some hearing loss in your right ear." Sherlock announced as he cracked a beer and set it in front of John.
John nodded, feeling around in front of him to find the source of the fizzing, barley-scented drink. "An IED went off early on in my second tour in Iraq. The hearing loss isn't as bad as it could have been -- thirty percent, I think -- but I still compensate for it."
"I hadn't noticed it before."
John smiled.
"I didn't know you'd been hit by an IED."
John's smile disappeared.
"You don't talk about it much."
Normally, John would have looked away, or got up to do something in order to keep himself physically occupied when confronted with the not-quite-question. But he felt oddly free in his blindness, able to talk without having to watch Sherlock's reactions for responses he didn't want to have to tolerate, such as sympathy, pity, or eager curiosity.
"My first tour was actually pretty boring. I spent a lot of time in a hospital on base. Not that doing surgery was boring, but a hospital is a hospital. But so many of the people I worked on came to me too late. I decided that for my second tour I wanted to go to the soldiers rather than sit waiting for them to come to me. It was great, but it didn't take long for me to experience my first IED. Hearing loss, some lacerations on my side, and a nick in the brain."
Sherlock didn't give away any reactions that John could detect, so he decided to go on. "But the experience didn't scare me back to the relative safety of base hospitals. No one died from the blast because I was there to help. It was" -- he paused, searching for the right word -- "reaffirming."
"I'm sorry that you can't be a surgeon anymore," came Sherlock's voice from the darkness.
John smiled. "I like what I do now well enough."
The doorbell rang as Sherlock chuckled in response. "I assume you mean chasing criminals, not wiping noses as a GP."
Sherlock scraped his chair as he got up to get the food, stomping his feet and generally making a lot more noise than he normally would. The scent of garlic and curry and crab wafted up the stairs, and John smiled as Sherlock came back in. "I'm pretty sure Sarah is going to fire me soon. I'm really OK with that. Mike mentioned that a part time job at Bart's A&E is opening up soon, and I make one hell of a trauma doc."
"I won't object to the extended access to Bart's it would provide me." Sherlock's voice was saturated in overtones of plotting and scheming. John grinned.
The rest of dinner passed quickly, John reveling in the sensations of really spicy food. True to his word, Sherlock had made sure John's order had lots of garlic, and he would chuckle when John was forced to use a tissue to dry his nose.
When they were finished, Sherlock put away the leftovers and plopped the dishes in the sink with an alarming crash. John jolted at the sudden touch of a warm, damp cloth to his hands, more than a little surprised that Sherlock was wiping his hands for him. "Easier than trying to trying to keep you from knocking over my experiment by the sink, I assure you." Sherlock murmured near John's ear.
"I wonder, Sherlock," John asked as they walked back towards the couch, his forearm clutched tightly in Sherlock's long, callused, and chemically pock-marked fingers. "If you were temporarily blinded, would you have any trouble navigating the flat? Or is the layout completely stored in that mind palace of yours?"
"Sometimes, when I'm bored, I blindfold myself and practice walking around. It's both an exercise and a test."
"Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because you're rarely bored."
John thought about this statement as he again settled against Sherlock on the couch. It was true. John was very rarely bored. Still, yes. He often occupied himself with quieter activities such as reading, writing, and doing the occasional sketch. And when it was all too much -- when the silence of the flat was overwhelming, or the burden of memories too much -- he would go for a walk, letting the sights and sounds and smells of London occupy his full attention.
It took an extra moment's thought to decide that Sherlock hadn't, in fact, meant it as an insult.
Sherlock pulled them down to settle on the couch and continued reading.
"'It's got to ask uss a question, my preciouss, yes, yess, yesss. Jusst one more quesstion to guess, yes, yess,'” hissed Sherlock. “But Bilbo simply could not think of any question with that nasty wet cold thing sitting next to him, and pawing and poking him. He scratched himself, he pinched himself; still he could not think of anything.”
Hours passed as John was swept into Tolkien's stunning world of imagery. He found himself looking forward to the long passages of song which he had skipped as child. Sherlock didn't sing them, of course, but recited them as prose. He played the notes of the words like he would a song on his violin, letting the highs and lows roll sensuously off his tongue. John thought it was a very good thing he was so tired and that the niggling sense of panic was still in the periphery of his worries, otherwise he'd be very inappropriately turned on. As much as his flatmate was currently tolerating his need for physical contact, he was certain he'd huff off in a disgusted sulk immediately if John started sporting an erection.
Rather against his conscious will, he found himself shifting ever so slightly against Sherlock.
"So it was that Bilbo was able to take secretly Thorin's message to each of the other imprisoned dwarves, telling them that Thorin their chief was also in prison close at hand, and that no one was to reveal their errand to the king, not yet, nor before Thorin gave the word."
A good while later, when Sherlock unfolded himself from John's embrace to refill his water glass, John decided in his sleepy comfort he really did want to risk it, after all. "Why The Hobbit? You've never been a fan of fiction."
The sound of the tap filled his ears and it ran for longer than necessary to fill the cup. John held his breath.
"I was very close to my mother's mother, Grandmere Rose. Glaucoma took her sight when she was in her seventies when I was in uni. She took it very hard. I tried to help by coming back nearly every weekend to read to her. We made our way through most of C.S. Lewis' library, and she expressed an interest in Tolkien as the next author she wanted me to tackle. She said I had the perfect voice for bringing those worlds to life."
"You do," John agreed as Sherlock sat back down. "You really do have an amazing voice. If you hadn't decided to become the world's only consulting detective, you could have had a splendid career in narration."
"Can you imagine? Me, reading a radio drama for the BBC?" Sherlock chuckled.
John laughed before realizing that Sherlock choosing the The Hobbit for him could only mean one thing.
"You didn't get a chance to read it for her, did you?"
"No."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She'd lived a full life, full of grand adventures. You would have like her."
John smiled at the idea of a plucky French grandmother leading a younger Sherlock on an imaginary pirate mission. "If you're anything like her, I'm sure I would have adored her."
Sherlock's quiet chuckle came just as John realized what he'd said. Oops. But Sherlock only pulled him closer.
"There he lay, a vast red-golden dragon, fast asleep; thrumming came from his jaws and nostrils, and wisps of smoke, but his fires were low in slumber. Beneath him, under all his limbs and his huge coiled tail, and about him on all sides stretching away across the unseen floors, lay countless piles of precious things, gold wrought and unwrought, gems and jewels, and silver red-stained in the ruddy light."
~~*~~
It was odd how John had completely lost track of time. He didn't realize how many visual cues he relied on the figure out what time it was; the brightness of the light outside, the direction of shadows, the patterns of traffic, and the types of pedestrians he saw on the street were all sights he'd come to rely on. In this darkness there was nothing but Sherlock's voice and Sherlock's heartbeat. Feeling his eyes grow heavy was an odd sensation when he had no sight, but it did make him realize it was probably getting late.
As much as he didn't want to break the spell, he did want to go to bed and let rest help bring healing. He was reluctant to bring it up, however, because he really, really, really didn't want to go to bed and face the darkness by himself.
Suck it up, Watson he thought to himself. You've inconvenienced your friend enough.
Sherlock paused his reading when John tried unsuccessfully to stifle a stretch. "John?"
"Sorry. Getting tired. I bet your throat could use a rest after reading for so long. Thank you, by the way. You're amazing, Sherlock, truly. May I see, that is, hold the book so I can see, uh, feel how much further we've got to go?” He reached across Sherlock's waist to grasp the book he sensed from the position of Sherlock's arms was in his lap.
Sherlock's breath stuttered and stopped as John's arm brushed against something distinctly hard below his stomach. John froze when he realized what it was.
"John," Sherlock breathed. There was a thunk as he let his head fall back against the couch in what John assumed was embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I know you aren't... that's you're not... Just ignore that."
John froze for a moment as he processed. Sherlock was attracted to him. Sherlock was attracted to him? How had John not noticed that before? Was it there before, or was Sherlock only interested now because John was so completely dependent on him? Or did it have nothing to do with John at all? Sherlock seemed to be celibate, but he was still a man. If he were gay, as John suspected, then maybe it was simply a reaction to having another man pressed up against him for so long.
It took only moments for John to decide to hell with it. He had never been more grateful to another human being in his life as he was to Sherlock. And he couldn't keep a girlfriend to save his life thanks to his odd lifestyle (which he shared with Sherlock anyway). Though he hadn't had a male lover since uni (and he had never actually had a boyfriend), he didn't think that much would really change between them. He'd leave it up to Sherlock. Friend with benefits? Lover? Partner? He was fine with any of it.
He leaned up, pressed his face into Sherlock's neck, and dragged his hand up Sherlock's erection. "I don't mind." He stayed motionless for a moment, all but his gently massaging hand held still, waiting for a reaction.
Sherlock sighed and pressed his hips forward into John's hand.
Thank god, John thought as he pressed a kiss into Sherlock's neck. He pressed himself more tightly along Sherlock's side and gently maneuvered into place to kiss him. He moved slowly, and carefully, feeling his way along with his nose in an effort to not miss the mark. The slowness added to the anticipation, and when they finally moved from nuzzling to actually kissing, it was slow, sensual, and marvelous. Sherlock's mouth was a little dry from his narration, and as John slid his tongue along Sherlock's all he could think about was how grateful he was for this muscle that had so wonderfully kept the madness at bay.
Sherlock groaned under him and his hips twitched. John smiled and carefully started to undo the buttons and zip of Sherlock's trousers, pushing them slowly out of the way so he could slide his hand into the waiting hard heat.
It didn't take long. John knew it wouldn't. Sherlock broke the kiss as his concentration shattered, thrusting his hips ups into John's steady and firm hand. John for his part felt drunk on the sounds Sherlock was making, the same voice that had previously had been so controlled now released into fantastic lasciviousness. John wished badly that he could see Sherlock's face.
In a flash of insight, John made a few adjustments. He slid his right hand up to feel Sherlock's mouth, carefully tracing the edges to discover that it was wide open in an expression of ecstasy. He slid down a bit, pulling his left hand away from Sherlock and into his own trousers, then quickly dipped his head down to take Sherlock in his mouth.
The shocked gasp and long moan he got in return was one of the most erotic things John had ever heard.
He worked himself and Sherlock quickly, trying to take Sherlock in as deeply as possible without gagging. He'd never really learned to appreciate the gummy texture of ejaculate in his mouth, so he pressed his tongue flat and let Sherlock slide deeply in.
“Oh god, John. Oh fuck yes, god yes!” Sherlock's hands came down to hold painfully tightly to John's head and hair, which he only allowed because he knew it would be momentary. Indeed, Sherlock's grip tightened and he thrust once, twice, three times into John's throat before coming with a loud cry.
John swallowed best he could as his mouth filled with semen, gently tonguing Sherlock through his orgasm. When Sherlock fell back against the couch breathlessly, John sat up, swung his leg over Sherlock's lap, and sat facing him. He pulled himself off within seconds, breathing out Sherlock's name, curling over him in euphoria.
Their breathing settled, and John again cursed his temporary blindness. If ever there was a moment he wanted to see Sherlock's face, it would be now. Just as he started to worry that he'd made a monumental mistake, he felt the beginnings of speech rumble where his ear was pressed against Sherlock's chest.
“God I need a cigarette. You know, I hope you don't take offence, but if this the way we're going to pass your few days' worth of sightlessness, I'm actually quite thankful for the angle that laptop hit your head at.”
John pressed his grin to the corner of Sherlock's own happy smile.
“We have about two hours worth of text yet, John. Care to finish the reading in the bedroom?”
“Thank goodness,” John said laughing, and handed him a box of nicotine patches.