038 - Touch
038.) Touch
Author: Jordan aka insane_pyro_fic
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock / John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,988
Disclaimer: John misses being touched. Any type of touch. Cuddling, kissing, sex, anything of the sort. What will happen when Sherlock begins touching him?
Warnings: Porn with a bit of a plot.
When John slept, he still only slept on one side of the bed. It was habit to sleep right against the wall, as if there were another person on the other side of the bed. But the other side of the bed always stayed cold.
After four weeks of breaking his neck sleeping on Sarah’s sofa, it was over. John needed more than a stiff neck in the morning; he needed to be touched, to hold someone, to feel something.
He had always been an affectionate person, always wanting to cuddle and hold his girlfriend as a teen. And even if they went no farther than that, John stayed content.
He missed being able to hold a woman, feel her heat colliding with him on a cold winter’s night. He missed supple breasts underneath his palms, soft curves beneath his fingers.
He couldn’t remember what it was like to be close to someone: to be so close to see their eyelashes fluttering, so close to feel their warm breath on his face. He couldn’t even remember what it was like to taste someone, to feel the smooth slide of tongues gliding over one another. Sarah had never let him get that close - they hadn’t kissed, hadn’t held hands. It was like dating his sister.
When John dreamed, he dreamed of holding someone, just lazily lying in bed, arms wrapped around them, chaste kisses placed anywhere.
He was so desperate that he didn’t even have sex dreams anymore. He just wanted to feel again. He wanted to touch and be touched.
He sounded like a woman. A needy woman.
So when he woke up one morning in the middle of his bed, his arms wrapped around a warm body, he thought he was still dreaming. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
But then the next time he woke, he still laid in the middle of the bed, arms still wrapped around a warm body.
He blinked a few times, the buttery sunshine streaming through his window, hurting his eyes. What the hell was going on?
He felt creepy doing so, but he ran his fingers up and down the body against him, his brain confused as soon as his palms ran over a flat chest. But then he soon saw the auburn curls begin to emerge from under the duvet. He screamed.
“Sherlock, what the HELL are you doing in my bed?” He roared, retreating back toward the wall, his hands retracting from the now awake, very male, body.
Sherlock rubbed his eyes, “Oh, good morning to you too, John,” he said groggily.
Sherlock ignored John’s question, wrapped himself back up in the duvet, curled up into a ball and closed his eyes again.
John took action and started hitting the bundle of blankets which was Sherlock Holmes.
“Oh no you don’t! Wake up and explain what the hell you’re doing cuddling with me.”
Sherlock’s head popped out of the mass of blankets and blinked a few times, “Do I really have to explain this? It’s quite an easy deduction, John.”
John ripped his blankets off of Sherlock, finding him in just his flannel pyjama pants, the mass of curls on his head messy from being crushed onto a pillow. He grabbed a pillow, lifted it high over his head and brought it down on Sherlock’s lethargic body with a smack.
“Not..” smack “so…” smack! “obvious…” wallop “to…” crack “me!” smack!
John punctuated his statement with hits from the pillow. Sherlock uncurled himself and sat up in the bed, edging away from John to make him more comfortable.
“You miss physical affection. It was obvious that you didn’t get that far with Sarah, it was almost like dating your cousin. You still only sleep on one side of the bed, waiting for someone to occupy the other side. One time I observed your sleeping, you held a pillow to your chest, holding it like you would a lover. I created a hypothesis that if I slipped into your bed, you would latch onto me and sleep soundly. Thus, last night I crept into your bed and you immediately wrapped your arms around me and began to lightly snore. Experiment: successful. The only reason you’re yelling is because I’m a man and you’ve had at least three sexuality crises in your life, and you don’t want another.”
John hit him upside the head with the pillow once again.
Sherlock snickered, “So can I get back to sleep now?”
John put the pillow down and crawled over Sherlock to get out of bed. There was a moment when he was straddling Sherlock’s body, both their eyes widening and both wondering if John was going to move. He moved quite quickly getting out of bed after that, his foot catching in some of the duvet on the floor, effectively tripping him.
Sherlock curled back up, grabbed the duvet off of the floor and shut his eyes. For someone who hated sleeping, he sure was comfortable sleeping in John’s bed.
John padded down the stairs and into the kitchen, busying himself with making a mug of tea. He looked at the clock on the wall - barely noon. After updating his blog - ‘Sherlock Holmes is the most annoying flat mate in the world’ - to which he knew Harry and everyone else he’d ever met would comment on, he went back up the stairs, refused to look at Sherlock sleeping in his bed as he collected clothes form his dresser and closet, and headed to the bathroom to shower.
He spent entirely too long in the shower - the windows and mirrors coated with a heavy film of condensation. John took the time to think about what had occurred. He hadn’t really minded Sherlock in his bed, basically spooning. Sherlock was right, he was always right - he had missed physical affection. He’d only flipped out because it was Sherlock of all people, and John wasn’t, he couldn’t possibly, be gay or bi or anything other than straight.
He was so inside his own mind that John didn’t hear the audible clicks of the bathroom door opening and shutting once again. He didn’t hear the quiet, cat-like steps that led to the shower. He didn’t hear the soft syllables of fabric hitting the tile floor. And he didn’t even hear the distinguishable noise of the cacophonic rustling of the shower curtain rings moving along their rod.
“Make that four sexuality crises,” said Sherlock from behind him.
John was so completely startled that he slipped on the wet porcelain, the only thing catching him was Sherlock’s strong hands on his biceps, setting him upright once more.
“What the HELL are you doing in the shower with me,” John’s eyes wandered lower, lower, lower, before he swallowed, “completely naked?!?”
“People don’t shower with clothes on, John.”
John wanted nothing more than to crack Sherlock’s skull against the tiles on the wall.
“Not the answer I was looking for,” John grinds out from between his teeth, jaw set in anger.
“I needed a shower, you were already in here using up all the hot water, why not conserve the rest of it?”
“You’re absolutely impossible.”
“And this is making you horny.”
“No it isn’t!” John roared at him.
Sherlock smirked, “Tell that to your engorged cock.”
John looked down to find his cock already half-hard, “God dammit.”
“Let me take care of that for you,” said Sherlock, his fist gravitating toward John’s cock, giving it a squeeze.
“No, Sherlock, no. I’m not gay, I’m not bi, you are my flat mate, this isn’t right.”
“Oh, do shut up, you want this just as much as I do. Just stop thinking and give into it.”
“So says the man who never stops thinking.”
“You miss physical affection, hell, you crave it. I’m willing to give you that, despite being uncomfortable with the idea, and yet you’re pulling away from me. There’s an underlying problem. It’s not that you don’t find me attractive, you do, that’s obvious by your widened pupils and erection. Sexuality crisis, yes, but that wouldn’t stop you from a sexual indulgence…”
John cut him off, “Is this really the time to deduce me - when we’re both naked in the shower?”
Sherlock breathed, “Oh…” the gears turning in his head at the answer.
John sighed.
“You don’t want things to change between us. You think that this could change us. And you like living here, you like the excitement of living here and solving cases. You don’t want to have to give that up if I get tired of you. Newsflash, John, I’m never going to want you to leave. I’m more worried about you leaving me for a quieter life and a wife.”
John replied in a small voice, “You’re brilliant and I’m just a stupid invalided army doctor. Why would you want to keep me around?”
Sherlock shoves him against the shower wall, water spraying onto both of their faces, “I am always going to want you around. You are the only one who has treated me as brilliant. You are the only one who I want by my side on a case. You are the only one I could ever live with. You are such an idiot sometimes.”
“Really?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes before answering the question with his lips - pressing them to John’s forcefully. John doesn’t pull away, just presses back, opening his mouth to accept Sherlock’s probing tongue. The slick heat of their mouths sends sensations all over John’s body, his cock hardening by the second. He bucks his hips into Sherlock’s, their cocks grinding together to create sweet friction.
John doesn’t suppress the moan that rumbled from the back of his throat, which tumbles from his mouth into Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hand reached around both of their cocks and began a steady rhythm as John’s mouth began to trail kissed from down his neck and onto his collar bone. His hips bucked as Sherlock’s left hand explored, wet fingers trailing from his thigh, to his hip, around his lower back, down lower to his ass and lower lower lower lower until John gasped.
Sherlock’s finger pushed into John, just slightly, and John could feel electricity shoot up his spine. Sherlock smiled at him as he pushed his index finger in a bit more to the second knuckle, wiggling it around a bit as John began to nibble on his collar bone.
“More?” Sherlock asked, his voice low, almost dripping with lust.
“Obviously,” gasped John, trying to mock Sherlock.
He began to slowly add a second finger, pushing his fingers in and out of John tediously slow, stretching him carefully, the water from the shower helping the twinges of pain he might have been feeling. Soon, both of his fingers were inside of John, and he curled them just so as to hit the spot inside of John.
John moaned and Sherlock continued to rub his prostate over and over again as he furiously pumped their cocks with his other hand. It didn’t take much before John came with a shout, cum spurting onto their stomachs, only to be washed away by the spray from the shower. Sherlock carefully withdrew his fingers from inside of John as he stroked his own cock. John continued the assault of kisses on Sherlock’s neck as he came, the water washing them clean once again.
“So much for conserving water,” John said with a laugh.
Sherlock retaliated John’s sarcasm with a bite to his collar bone - destined to leave a bruise.
He turned off the shower and grabbed a towel off the rack, carefully toweling John off, lingering at his cock to dry it off more roughly than other parts of his body.
“Back to bed?” Asked Sherlock with a smirk.
“Of course,” answered John, taking Sherlock’s hand and dragging him back to his bedroom.
John didn’t have to worry about missing physical affection much more.
Author: Jordan aka insane_pyro_fic
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Pairing: Sherlock / John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1,988
Disclaimer: John misses being touched. Any type of touch. Cuddling, kissing, sex, anything of the sort. What will happen when Sherlock begins touching him?
Warnings: Porn with a bit of a plot.
When John slept, he still only slept on one side of the bed. It was habit to sleep right against the wall, as if there were another person on the other side of the bed. But the other side of the bed always stayed cold.
After four weeks of breaking his neck sleeping on Sarah’s sofa, it was over. John needed more than a stiff neck in the morning; he needed to be touched, to hold someone, to feel something.
He had always been an affectionate person, always wanting to cuddle and hold his girlfriend as a teen. And even if they went no farther than that, John stayed content.
He missed being able to hold a woman, feel her heat colliding with him on a cold winter’s night. He missed supple breasts underneath his palms, soft curves beneath his fingers.
He couldn’t remember what it was like to be close to someone: to be so close to see their eyelashes fluttering, so close to feel their warm breath on his face. He couldn’t even remember what it was like to taste someone, to feel the smooth slide of tongues gliding over one another. Sarah had never let him get that close - they hadn’t kissed, hadn’t held hands. It was like dating his sister.
When John dreamed, he dreamed of holding someone, just lazily lying in bed, arms wrapped around them, chaste kisses placed anywhere.
He was so desperate that he didn’t even have sex dreams anymore. He just wanted to feel again. He wanted to touch and be touched.
He sounded like a woman. A needy woman.
So when he woke up one morning in the middle of his bed, his arms wrapped around a warm body, he thought he was still dreaming. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
But then the next time he woke, he still laid in the middle of the bed, arms still wrapped around a warm body.
He blinked a few times, the buttery sunshine streaming through his window, hurting his eyes. What the hell was going on?
He felt creepy doing so, but he ran his fingers up and down the body against him, his brain confused as soon as his palms ran over a flat chest. But then he soon saw the auburn curls begin to emerge from under the duvet. He screamed.
“Sherlock, what the HELL are you doing in my bed?” He roared, retreating back toward the wall, his hands retracting from the now awake, very male, body.
Sherlock rubbed his eyes, “Oh, good morning to you too, John,” he said groggily.
Sherlock ignored John’s question, wrapped himself back up in the duvet, curled up into a ball and closed his eyes again.
John took action and started hitting the bundle of blankets which was Sherlock Holmes.
“Oh no you don’t! Wake up and explain what the hell you’re doing cuddling with me.”
Sherlock’s head popped out of the mass of blankets and blinked a few times, “Do I really have to explain this? It’s quite an easy deduction, John.”
John ripped his blankets off of Sherlock, finding him in just his flannel pyjama pants, the mass of curls on his head messy from being crushed onto a pillow. He grabbed a pillow, lifted it high over his head and brought it down on Sherlock’s lethargic body with a smack.
“Not..” smack “so…” smack! “obvious…” wallop “to…” crack “me!” smack!
John punctuated his statement with hits from the pillow. Sherlock uncurled himself and sat up in the bed, edging away from John to make him more comfortable.
“You miss physical affection. It was obvious that you didn’t get that far with Sarah, it was almost like dating your cousin. You still only sleep on one side of the bed, waiting for someone to occupy the other side. One time I observed your sleeping, you held a pillow to your chest, holding it like you would a lover. I created a hypothesis that if I slipped into your bed, you would latch onto me and sleep soundly. Thus, last night I crept into your bed and you immediately wrapped your arms around me and began to lightly snore. Experiment: successful. The only reason you’re yelling is because I’m a man and you’ve had at least three sexuality crises in your life, and you don’t want another.”
John hit him upside the head with the pillow once again.
Sherlock snickered, “So can I get back to sleep now?”
John put the pillow down and crawled over Sherlock to get out of bed. There was a moment when he was straddling Sherlock’s body, both their eyes widening and both wondering if John was going to move. He moved quite quickly getting out of bed after that, his foot catching in some of the duvet on the floor, effectively tripping him.
Sherlock curled back up, grabbed the duvet off of the floor and shut his eyes. For someone who hated sleeping, he sure was comfortable sleeping in John’s bed.
John padded down the stairs and into the kitchen, busying himself with making a mug of tea. He looked at the clock on the wall - barely noon. After updating his blog - ‘Sherlock Holmes is the most annoying flat mate in the world’ - to which he knew Harry and everyone else he’d ever met would comment on, he went back up the stairs, refused to look at Sherlock sleeping in his bed as he collected clothes form his dresser and closet, and headed to the bathroom to shower.
He spent entirely too long in the shower - the windows and mirrors coated with a heavy film of condensation. John took the time to think about what had occurred. He hadn’t really minded Sherlock in his bed, basically spooning. Sherlock was right, he was always right - he had missed physical affection. He’d only flipped out because it was Sherlock of all people, and John wasn’t, he couldn’t possibly, be gay or bi or anything other than straight.
He was so inside his own mind that John didn’t hear the audible clicks of the bathroom door opening and shutting once again. He didn’t hear the quiet, cat-like steps that led to the shower. He didn’t hear the soft syllables of fabric hitting the tile floor. And he didn’t even hear the distinguishable noise of the cacophonic rustling of the shower curtain rings moving along their rod.
“Make that four sexuality crises,” said Sherlock from behind him.
John was so completely startled that he slipped on the wet porcelain, the only thing catching him was Sherlock’s strong hands on his biceps, setting him upright once more.
“What the HELL are you doing in the shower with me,” John’s eyes wandered lower, lower, lower, before he swallowed, “completely naked?!?”
“People don’t shower with clothes on, John.”
John wanted nothing more than to crack Sherlock’s skull against the tiles on the wall.
“Not the answer I was looking for,” John grinds out from between his teeth, jaw set in anger.
“I needed a shower, you were already in here using up all the hot water, why not conserve the rest of it?”
“You’re absolutely impossible.”
“And this is making you horny.”
“No it isn’t!” John roared at him.
Sherlock smirked, “Tell that to your engorged cock.”
John looked down to find his cock already half-hard, “God dammit.”
“Let me take care of that for you,” said Sherlock, his fist gravitating toward John’s cock, giving it a squeeze.
“No, Sherlock, no. I’m not gay, I’m not bi, you are my flat mate, this isn’t right.”
“Oh, do shut up, you want this just as much as I do. Just stop thinking and give into it.”
“So says the man who never stops thinking.”
“You miss physical affection, hell, you crave it. I’m willing to give you that, despite being uncomfortable with the idea, and yet you’re pulling away from me. There’s an underlying problem. It’s not that you don’t find me attractive, you do, that’s obvious by your widened pupils and erection. Sexuality crisis, yes, but that wouldn’t stop you from a sexual indulgence…”
John cut him off, “Is this really the time to deduce me - when we’re both naked in the shower?”
Sherlock breathed, “Oh…” the gears turning in his head at the answer.
John sighed.
“You don’t want things to change between us. You think that this could change us. And you like living here, you like the excitement of living here and solving cases. You don’t want to have to give that up if I get tired of you. Newsflash, John, I’m never going to want you to leave. I’m more worried about you leaving me for a quieter life and a wife.”
John replied in a small voice, “You’re brilliant and I’m just a stupid invalided army doctor. Why would you want to keep me around?”
Sherlock shoves him against the shower wall, water spraying onto both of their faces, “I am always going to want you around. You are the only one who has treated me as brilliant. You are the only one who I want by my side on a case. You are the only one I could ever live with. You are such an idiot sometimes.”
“Really?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes before answering the question with his lips - pressing them to John’s forcefully. John doesn’t pull away, just presses back, opening his mouth to accept Sherlock’s probing tongue. The slick heat of their mouths sends sensations all over John’s body, his cock hardening by the second. He bucks his hips into Sherlock’s, their cocks grinding together to create sweet friction.
John doesn’t suppress the moan that rumbled from the back of his throat, which tumbles from his mouth into Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hand reached around both of their cocks and began a steady rhythm as John’s mouth began to trail kissed from down his neck and onto his collar bone. His hips bucked as Sherlock’s left hand explored, wet fingers trailing from his thigh, to his hip, around his lower back, down lower to his ass and lower lower lower lower until John gasped.
Sherlock’s finger pushed into John, just slightly, and John could feel electricity shoot up his spine. Sherlock smiled at him as he pushed his index finger in a bit more to the second knuckle, wiggling it around a bit as John began to nibble on his collar bone.
“More?” Sherlock asked, his voice low, almost dripping with lust.
“Obviously,” gasped John, trying to mock Sherlock.
He began to slowly add a second finger, pushing his fingers in and out of John tediously slow, stretching him carefully, the water from the shower helping the twinges of pain he might have been feeling. Soon, both of his fingers were inside of John, and he curled them just so as to hit the spot inside of John.
John moaned and Sherlock continued to rub his prostate over and over again as he furiously pumped their cocks with his other hand. It didn’t take much before John came with a shout, cum spurting onto their stomachs, only to be washed away by the spray from the shower. Sherlock carefully withdrew his fingers from inside of John as he stroked his own cock. John continued the assault of kisses on Sherlock’s neck as he came, the water washing them clean once again.
“So much for conserving water,” John said with a laugh.
Sherlock retaliated John’s sarcasm with a bite to his collar bone - destined to leave a bruise.
He turned off the shower and grabbed a towel off the rack, carefully toweling John off, lingering at his cock to dry it off more roughly than other parts of his body.
“Back to bed?” Asked Sherlock with a smirk.
“Of course,” answered John, taking Sherlock’s hand and dragging him back to his bedroom.
John didn’t have to worry about missing physical affection much more.