FIC: A Study In Reflexology 1/1 (Sherlock/John, NC-17) Sherlock BBC
Title: A Study In Reflexology
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount: 3500
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Warning(s): Fairly light foot kink
Beta(s): l0stmyrel1g10n, to whom I am very grateful!
Summary: For all the dangerous situations Sherlock tended to run into with nary a consideration to the risks, it always astonished John how often he managed to escape without a scratch or a bruise.
~~*~~
For all the dangerous situations Sherlock tended to run into with nary a consideration to the risks, it always astonished John how often he managed to escape without a scratch or a bruise. Bombs, guns, knives, even the occasional sword and Sherlock managed to slither through without needing so much as a plaster. Frankly, it was a waste of John's skill as a doctor, not that he was complaining. Some skills were better left unused.
So it was a first for them to end up chasing the criminal in their bare feet. He was a proclaimed self-help guru and his house had been filled with an assortment of so-called confidence builders; board-breaking, firewalking and the like. John had been stymied at the first hallway, unwilling to slash his feet on a carpet of shattered bottles.
Trust Sherlock to run through half a ballroom of broken glass without a nick and then cut his foot on the single piece of glass lying in the filthy alleyway outside.
They'd stood there afterward talking to Lestrade, John watching the slow transition from white to crimson of the handkerchief Sherlock had wrapped around his foot until his doctorly hackles had risen to levels that could no longer stand it. This unnecessary chatting about a case in the middle of a dirty alley, God knew what kind of germs and disease he was picking up, grinding into that barely bound cut. Sherlock could probably tell him and add in the incubation rates on the side but all John could think of was tetanus and the need for a good dose of antibiotics before his foot rotted off.
For once, he'd been the one to call it off, tell Lestrade he'd have to wait to get the rest of his questions answered. John had cut off his protests with military sharpness that the local London police force hadn't often seen, familiar as slipping into an old glove for him. Sherlock only raised one curious eyebrow and allowed John to collect him up. Couldn't very well disobey a direct order from his personal physician, now could he, or at least that's what he'd tossed over his shoulder at Lestrade, one arm over John's shoulder as they limped up to the main road to hail a cab.
The ride back to Baker Street had been filled with an exhausted, uncommon silence, John glancing at Sherlock from time to time, gauging the faint tightness around his lips. Now that the thrill of the chase was wearing off, it probably hurt. John kept his peace about it for now, unwilling to draw the cabbie's attention to the fact that one of his passengers was currently bleeding on his already less-than-pristine floorboards, though he did make sure to give him a hefty tip from Sherlock's billfold.
Interesting, he supposed, that they had enough experience in limping up the stairwell that they managed it with perfect choreography. Perhaps he needed to rethink their list of injuries, John decided, trying not to let Sherlock leak any more blood on the carpet than was strictly necessary. They already owed extra on the rent for the sewer incident, or was that last month? Honestly, he was going to have to start reading his own blog. Perhaps he just needed a good night's sleep, stop his thoughts from running in giddy circles.
"Shower first," John ordered, taking a moment to gather their coats, and Sherlock went without protest, door still half-open as he turned the water up as hot as the rickety old pipes allowed, steam pouring out to fog the mirror.
He waited until Sherlock was in it, curtain pulled, before stepping into the toilet after him. The sink in here didn't require a thorough cleaning like the one in the kitchen usually did after Sherlock poured his vile concoctions down the drain. John scrubbed his hands up to the elbows, lathered them well and made sure to get under the nails. Old habits, Christ, yes, old, rarely used anymore since he'd become more blogger than doctor.
It didn't bother him often and just now he was happy to have the skills and the equipment, what with Sherlock's general dislike of doctors that he didn't live with, or really, his general dislike of all people. Made the evening a little easier and after shrapnel wounds and bullet holes, John could deal with a simple cut.
He got out his kit while Sherlock was still in the loo, pulling bandages out of their sterile wrappings and laying them out on the table, setting up the sutures. Puttering about until Sherlock came out in his dressing gown with a limp nearly as generous as John's former. He frowned at neat supplies on the table and whether it was because there was no pot of tea included, John wasn't sure.
"Come on then, let's see it," John gestured at the chair. He hooked a short stool with one foot, tugging it over to sit down.
"I've already looked at it; it's fine, allowing it to bleed freely will help clean the wound," Sherlock said, eyeing the chair with a deep distrust that had John blinking in confusion.
"No, allowing it to bleed freely will invite infection, scarring, possible nerve damage, and it will make a mess. Sit down and let me have a look."
For a moment, John was sure Sherlock was going to storm away, possibly lock himself in his bedroom in a bewildering attempt to keep John from doing something as simple as looking at his feet. If he had done, John would have dug out the door keys if only because it would be quite high on his mental list of boorishly childish things Sherlock had done. He was standing there bleeding, for pity's sake, and he was trying to come up with a reason to keep doing it.
Whatever John was thinking was surely quite visible on his face, certainly to Sherlock and after a moment, Sherlock gave an aggrieved sigh, flinging himself into the chair and holding his foot up in resentful offering.
"Cheers," John muttered, cupping the heel in both hands and tilting it so he could get a proper look. It was a deep cut, straight across the pad on the ball of his foot. It was still bleeding sluggishly but the edges were clean and there was no indication of severed arteries or tendons. Must be painful; as gentle as he had been, Sherlock had gone rigid the moment John had moved his foot.
"Right," John said. Carefully, he propped Sherlock's foot on his knee, reaching for the antiseptic swabs. "You got it clean enough, I think, needs a few stitches and for you to be careful for a couple of days-"
"I don't need stitches," Sherlock said tightly and John paused, just about to tear into the little packet of disinfecting wipes. To his surprise, Sherlock was gripping the arms of the chair with whitened fingers, his lips a tightly pressed line, every muscle in his body quivering, as if he was only just suppressing his urge to yank his foot away.
Biting off his somewhat more scathing retort of just who was the doctor here, John managed a somewhat gentler, "It really does so it can heal properly. Is it paining you that badly, I can give you a shot of lidocaine--
"Just get on with it," Sherlock snapped out impatiently and with a bit of a worried glance, John did.
In a proper surgery, he'd be wearing gloves, not just relying on the cleaning properties of antibacterial hand soap. But then, he'd treated much more complicated injuries covered in filth and ducking from explosions overhead. It wasn't a flashback he was getting now from his bare hands on Sherlock's bare feet, though, it was…John wasn't entirely sure what it was.
He shook it off and went to work, the task so familiar it was almost by rote. Antiseptic first, then stitches, gauging the distance between each carefully, bottom of the foot was a delicate place for a scar. Too much tension in the suture and the skin would tear, not enough and it wouldn't hold closed. John was utterly focused, barely noticing each tiny flinch as the needle penetrated skin. A sudden jerk caught him off guard and he tightened his grip almost too late, holding Sherlock's foot immobile.
"Sherlock, you need to hold still," John said, gripping one bony ankle firmly to ensure it. "I'm nearly done."
He managed another stitch before Sherlock gritted out, "I don't like people to touch my feet."
"Never would have guessed," John said wryly. Two stitches left, maybe three. "But I'm hardly 'people', am I?" A long silence followed and John was knotting the end when Sherlock spoke again.
"No, you're not." The low, dark tone made John look up, met stormy gray eyes with his own. The silence hung between them, palpable, until John finally tore his gaze away, back down to the foot still resting in his lap.
"Right then," John said, clearing his throat against a sudden hoarseness "Let's just get this bandaged up."
Automatic to say but the moment he did, John expected Sherlock to protest that he was perfectly able to bandage his own foot, thank you very much, and John was very welcome to let him go and let him be, and should be off to make them some tea.
Nothing. No words, only a soft, indrawn breath followed by an equally soft exhale and after a moment, John put words to action, dabbing on a little ointment and covering it with a sterile bandage, winding the gauze precisely around to hold it in place.
The bare skin against his own caught John's attention again, a pale contrast to his hands. Sherlock was still warm from the shower, John noted absently, the chill of the floor hadn't had a chance to seep in. Soft, soft skin, thin and delicate as a baby's bum over the strong, slim lines of his bones, their structure visible with every involuntary flex of his foot. Sherlock had long, narrow feet and John realized he was stroking this one almost meditatively, tracing the bluish lines visible beneath the nearly translucent paleness. Sherlock was as motionless as a statue cast in porcelain.
John forced his hands to still, one cupping Sherlock's heel and the other wrapped around, his thumb resting on the tender skin beneath the bandage. He could feel Sherlock's pulse or perhaps it was his own, the thin, rapid beat of it in his thumb, throbbing in his ears. Oh, John Watson, what are you doing, what are you thinking of doing…
Mycroft had once compared bravery to stupidity, called it the noblest form of it. John couldn't say which it was that made him look up again, made him stroke his thumb down the line of Sherlock's foot, back up again, just to see that touch crackle in Sherlock's eyes.
In his eyes, those eyes that saw entirely too much with far too little effort, darkened and resting on John right now but it was his mouth that had John's attention, his lower lip was reddened, faintly swollen, the indent of his teeth still visible from him biting it.
"You know, some people believe that all the parts of the body are connected through the feet," John said conversationally. Inanely, Sherlock would probably say.
He didn't, his tongue a flicker of pink over his lips as he wet them. "Reflexology. Applied pressure causes a reaction in the part of the body that reflects its image in the feet or hands."
"Interesting."
"Ridiculous," Sherlock corrected. "A thousand years of placebo effect transference into belief-" his voice rose sharply, hitting an octave that John was sure he hadn't managed since before puberty, dissolving into a groan as John pressed both thumbs into sole of his foot, working against the tense muscles and watched as Sherlock squirmed in his seat, the leather chair creaking as he sank down, those knowing eyes squeezing shut for the briefest of moments.
They opened again the instant John let up on the pressure, boring down on him. "John."
It was only his name, just a word, simple enough, but in that tone it became a warning, almost a plea, and John felt like he was sinking into quicksand, threads of reality and sense snapping away.
Decisions, right, bravery or stupidity, and John didn't care which as he leaned in and pressed his lips against the soft, clean skin at the arch of Sherlock's foot. He had to hold on as Sherlock abruptly thrashed against him, nearly tearing his foot away and from the sound he made it would have been entirely unintentional. Lovely sounds, a deep, guttural moan coupled with almost graceless squirming, trying to get away, not trying, John didn't know, didn't care, couldn't care as he licked that soft skin, tasting soap and the bitter tang of antiseptic. Helplessly, John buried his face against the sole of his foot, inhaling deeply and blowing his breath back out into it, and Christ, the sounds Sherlock could make.
"John…" His name again, a thin, reedy little gasp that he rewarded by sinking his teeth into Sherlock's heel, sucking the tougher skin hard as Sherlock gasped over him, curling over John's bowed head. A strong hand scrabbled against his own, painfully tight as it tore his grip away from Sherlock's ankle and he didn't have a moment to consider where it had been relocated, the briefest second of hot, stretched skin against his hand before a spurt of liquid heat scorched against his palm and Sherlock groaned deep in his ear, leaning against him heavily.
Oh, dear Christ.
John swallowed hard against the sudden thickness in his throat, mind awhirl as he tried to take this all in. All right, he'd started with basic first aid and ended in…he wasn't even sure. Sherlock was nearly in his lap, both arms around John, clinging, his head against John's shoulder as he panted. His foot was still between them, propped on the footstool between John's legs in a way that would be an awkward contortion even if Sherlock wasn't a tall man. John still had one hand curled around it and the other was…ah, yes, he hastily withdrew it from beneath Sherlock's dressing gown, scrubbing it against the leg of his jeans to wipe away the dampness.
Like a marionette suddenly brought to life by its puppeteer, Sherlock snapped upright, fingers digging in to John's shoulders. His face was close enough that John could see the faint threads of red in the sclera of his eyes, tiredness echoed in the faint shadows beneath. And his mouth, lips parted as he breathed, still heavily, still panting, oh, right, panting because he'd just come, John had just made him come, made Sherlock, and his mouth was so close to John's, and Sherlock had just come but John was still hard as a stone, thoughts running in white rabbit circles and he just-
"Oh," John said, helplessly, and leaned in to kiss him.
He felt as much as heard Sherlock draw in a sharp breath, his mouth was open and wet against John's and tasted like mint, toothpaste, John registered dimly. His tongue was lax against John's, unmoving, and John didn't care, didn’t care, only kissed him harder, wanted to memorize this. He didn't have Sherlock's memory or his mind but right now, John had his mouth and he wanted, fuck, he wanted.
He hadn't even decided what he wanted when Sherlock's mouth abruptly came to life, moving against his own with sharp, deliberate pressure. The world tilted and it wasn't until the floor was hard and cold under him that John realized it wasn't the world falling, only him, off the footstool and onto the heavy rug. Would have cracked his head on the hearth if a large hand hadn't been cradling it, protecting it, no, not only him falling, Sherlock was with him, sprawled over him, his thin dressing gown no barrier at all.
Wait, wait, I just-But the words were only in John's head, never even close to his lips and it wouldn't have mattered if they were. Sherlock held his mouth, owned it with slick precision, and while John might have wanted a moment to try to think, Sherlock didn't seem willing to allow it.
Not when he could push John down, no, hold him down, John realized dimly, Sherlock's hands on his shoulders were nearly pinning him to the floor, his long legs straddling John, not quite right and then he twisted his hips just so.
"Augh," John yelped out, muffled between their mouths as most of Sherlock's not inconsiderable weight pressed perfectly against the hard length of his cock and just like that, he gave up on thinking, let Sherlock do the thinking for them, he was better at it. It was easier to concentrate on rocking his hips up, grinding against the hard line of Sherlock's hip, obvious even through his trousers.
Sherlock pulled back from the kiss and the whine of protest that escaped John might have been, was actually, humiliating, only Sherlock pressed his lips against John's chin, down the line of his jaw to his ear.
"Let me," Sherlock whispered, demanded, and John mindlessly agreed, already nodding foolishly even before he felt the waist of his trousers loosened, his belt gone in a flash and his fly tugged open. Long, clever fingers against him, drawing his cock free with unexpected, obvious expertise, drawing down the length over and over, tracing unknown symbols against hot, taut skin until John sobbed out a protesting moan, trying to thrust up against Sherlock's weight.
"That's it, that's it, John," Sherlock crooned, oh, that lovely voice, hot and deep against John's ear. It was unfair in all the best ways, Sherlock so brilliant and aloof, sensual and yet untouchable. Only not now, not now because he was touching, he was, his grip circling John's cock, hands tight and quick with sweet, perfect friction. "Let me see it, let me."
With a low curse, John turned towards that voice, blindly searching for and finding Sherlock's mouth, cutting off the dark flow of words just as John shuddered and came, spilling hot over the tight clasp of Sherlock's hands. Dimly glad for the gag in the shape of Sherlock's soft, swollen lips, stifling his whimpering of oh, oh, god, oh, oh, yes, oh…
It took a moment, a few moments really, for it to sink in but when it did, the knowledge was inescapable. The floor was cold and hard, rug notwithstanding, Sherlock was heavy, they were both a sticky mess and, oh, yes, let's not forget that Sherlock had just given him a wank in the middle of their sitting room floor.
Opening his eyes seemed like more of a chore than it was worth at the moment and while the temptation was there to simply stay on the floor until perhaps one of the above issues changed, the coldness of the floor itself was starting to make unpleasant aches known.
A deep, heartfelt sigh was all he could spare and then John opened his eyes to find Sherlock watching him-- and that was no surprise at all.
"Look…"John started, hesitantly.
"Are you going to have some kind of heterosexual crisis just now?" Sherlock interrupted, tapping his fingers in an impatient rhythm on John's chest. "Because if so, I'd like to remind you that I specifically told you I don't like people touching my feet-"
"You did, yes," John mumbled.
"It's also getting quite late, you're exhausted, you haven't slept in over twenty hours and you should at the very least wash up before going to bed, preferably showering otherwise you're going to be quite uncomfortable in the morning-"
"Might just, you're right-" John considered again staying on the floor for the rest of the night.
"Therefore, I think you should wait and have your crisis in the morning when you're better rested," Sherlock finished. He twisted into a stretch that John could only envy and finally slid off John's lap to his feet. The floor was no less spectacularly hard while he watched Sherlock straighten his dressing gown but the strange ache that spread in his chest when Sherlock reached out a hand to help him up wasn't quite unpleasant.
"Go take a shower, John," Sherlock steadied him when John wobbled, his eyes dropping down to the floor, catching on the whiteness of the gauze on Sherlock's foot as he stepped towards the desk with a bare limp. "And do stop thinking so loudly."
"Right, right," John mumbled, wondering how his thoughts could possibly be loud when it felt like his brain had been replaced by an overcooked pudding. Surely a feeble plop was the only sound it was capable of at the moment, "Don't like people touching your feet."
There was sudden warmth against his back, silken touch of a dressing gown coupled with hands on his upper arms, gripping, as Sherlock leaned down to murmur against his ear in a wash of warm breath, "You're hardly 'people', John."
"Oh," John whispered, voice cracking as he blinked too much in the dim light, and to bloody hell with a crisis, any crisis as he turned towards that voice, tipped up his head and let Sherlock kiss him.
fin
Read The Sequel
Author: Keelywolfe
Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Wordcount: 3500
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John
Warning(s): Fairly light foot kink
Beta(s): l0stmyrel1g10n, to whom I am very grateful!
Summary: For all the dangerous situations Sherlock tended to run into with nary a consideration to the risks, it always astonished John how often he managed to escape without a scratch or a bruise.
~~*~~
For all the dangerous situations Sherlock tended to run into with nary a consideration to the risks, it always astonished John how often he managed to escape without a scratch or a bruise. Bombs, guns, knives, even the occasional sword and Sherlock managed to slither through without needing so much as a plaster. Frankly, it was a waste of John's skill as a doctor, not that he was complaining. Some skills were better left unused.
So it was a first for them to end up chasing the criminal in their bare feet. He was a proclaimed self-help guru and his house had been filled with an assortment of so-called confidence builders; board-breaking, firewalking and the like. John had been stymied at the first hallway, unwilling to slash his feet on a carpet of shattered bottles.
Trust Sherlock to run through half a ballroom of broken glass without a nick and then cut his foot on the single piece of glass lying in the filthy alleyway outside.
They'd stood there afterward talking to Lestrade, John watching the slow transition from white to crimson of the handkerchief Sherlock had wrapped around his foot until his doctorly hackles had risen to levels that could no longer stand it. This unnecessary chatting about a case in the middle of a dirty alley, God knew what kind of germs and disease he was picking up, grinding into that barely bound cut. Sherlock could probably tell him and add in the incubation rates on the side but all John could think of was tetanus and the need for a good dose of antibiotics before his foot rotted off.
For once, he'd been the one to call it off, tell Lestrade he'd have to wait to get the rest of his questions answered. John had cut off his protests with military sharpness that the local London police force hadn't often seen, familiar as slipping into an old glove for him. Sherlock only raised one curious eyebrow and allowed John to collect him up. Couldn't very well disobey a direct order from his personal physician, now could he, or at least that's what he'd tossed over his shoulder at Lestrade, one arm over John's shoulder as they limped up to the main road to hail a cab.
The ride back to Baker Street had been filled with an exhausted, uncommon silence, John glancing at Sherlock from time to time, gauging the faint tightness around his lips. Now that the thrill of the chase was wearing off, it probably hurt. John kept his peace about it for now, unwilling to draw the cabbie's attention to the fact that one of his passengers was currently bleeding on his already less-than-pristine floorboards, though he did make sure to give him a hefty tip from Sherlock's billfold.
Interesting, he supposed, that they had enough experience in limping up the stairwell that they managed it with perfect choreography. Perhaps he needed to rethink their list of injuries, John decided, trying not to let Sherlock leak any more blood on the carpet than was strictly necessary. They already owed extra on the rent for the sewer incident, or was that last month? Honestly, he was going to have to start reading his own blog. Perhaps he just needed a good night's sleep, stop his thoughts from running in giddy circles.
"Shower first," John ordered, taking a moment to gather their coats, and Sherlock went without protest, door still half-open as he turned the water up as hot as the rickety old pipes allowed, steam pouring out to fog the mirror.
He waited until Sherlock was in it, curtain pulled, before stepping into the toilet after him. The sink in here didn't require a thorough cleaning like the one in the kitchen usually did after Sherlock poured his vile concoctions down the drain. John scrubbed his hands up to the elbows, lathered them well and made sure to get under the nails. Old habits, Christ, yes, old, rarely used anymore since he'd become more blogger than doctor.
It didn't bother him often and just now he was happy to have the skills and the equipment, what with Sherlock's general dislike of doctors that he didn't live with, or really, his general dislike of all people. Made the evening a little easier and after shrapnel wounds and bullet holes, John could deal with a simple cut.
He got out his kit while Sherlock was still in the loo, pulling bandages out of their sterile wrappings and laying them out on the table, setting up the sutures. Puttering about until Sherlock came out in his dressing gown with a limp nearly as generous as John's former. He frowned at neat supplies on the table and whether it was because there was no pot of tea included, John wasn't sure.
"Come on then, let's see it," John gestured at the chair. He hooked a short stool with one foot, tugging it over to sit down.
"I've already looked at it; it's fine, allowing it to bleed freely will help clean the wound," Sherlock said, eyeing the chair with a deep distrust that had John blinking in confusion.
"No, allowing it to bleed freely will invite infection, scarring, possible nerve damage, and it will make a mess. Sit down and let me have a look."
For a moment, John was sure Sherlock was going to storm away, possibly lock himself in his bedroom in a bewildering attempt to keep John from doing something as simple as looking at his feet. If he had done, John would have dug out the door keys if only because it would be quite high on his mental list of boorishly childish things Sherlock had done. He was standing there bleeding, for pity's sake, and he was trying to come up with a reason to keep doing it.
Whatever John was thinking was surely quite visible on his face, certainly to Sherlock and after a moment, Sherlock gave an aggrieved sigh, flinging himself into the chair and holding his foot up in resentful offering.
"Cheers," John muttered, cupping the heel in both hands and tilting it so he could get a proper look. It was a deep cut, straight across the pad on the ball of his foot. It was still bleeding sluggishly but the edges were clean and there was no indication of severed arteries or tendons. Must be painful; as gentle as he had been, Sherlock had gone rigid the moment John had moved his foot.
"Right," John said. Carefully, he propped Sherlock's foot on his knee, reaching for the antiseptic swabs. "You got it clean enough, I think, needs a few stitches and for you to be careful for a couple of days-"
"I don't need stitches," Sherlock said tightly and John paused, just about to tear into the little packet of disinfecting wipes. To his surprise, Sherlock was gripping the arms of the chair with whitened fingers, his lips a tightly pressed line, every muscle in his body quivering, as if he was only just suppressing his urge to yank his foot away.
Biting off his somewhat more scathing retort of just who was the doctor here, John managed a somewhat gentler, "It really does so it can heal properly. Is it paining you that badly, I can give you a shot of lidocaine--
"Just get on with it," Sherlock snapped out impatiently and with a bit of a worried glance, John did.
In a proper surgery, he'd be wearing gloves, not just relying on the cleaning properties of antibacterial hand soap. But then, he'd treated much more complicated injuries covered in filth and ducking from explosions overhead. It wasn't a flashback he was getting now from his bare hands on Sherlock's bare feet, though, it was…John wasn't entirely sure what it was.
He shook it off and went to work, the task so familiar it was almost by rote. Antiseptic first, then stitches, gauging the distance between each carefully, bottom of the foot was a delicate place for a scar. Too much tension in the suture and the skin would tear, not enough and it wouldn't hold closed. John was utterly focused, barely noticing each tiny flinch as the needle penetrated skin. A sudden jerk caught him off guard and he tightened his grip almost too late, holding Sherlock's foot immobile.
"Sherlock, you need to hold still," John said, gripping one bony ankle firmly to ensure it. "I'm nearly done."
He managed another stitch before Sherlock gritted out, "I don't like people to touch my feet."
"Never would have guessed," John said wryly. Two stitches left, maybe three. "But I'm hardly 'people', am I?" A long silence followed and John was knotting the end when Sherlock spoke again.
"No, you're not." The low, dark tone made John look up, met stormy gray eyes with his own. The silence hung between them, palpable, until John finally tore his gaze away, back down to the foot still resting in his lap.
"Right then," John said, clearing his throat against a sudden hoarseness "Let's just get this bandaged up."
Automatic to say but the moment he did, John expected Sherlock to protest that he was perfectly able to bandage his own foot, thank you very much, and John was very welcome to let him go and let him be, and should be off to make them some tea.
Nothing. No words, only a soft, indrawn breath followed by an equally soft exhale and after a moment, John put words to action, dabbing on a little ointment and covering it with a sterile bandage, winding the gauze precisely around to hold it in place.
The bare skin against his own caught John's attention again, a pale contrast to his hands. Sherlock was still warm from the shower, John noted absently, the chill of the floor hadn't had a chance to seep in. Soft, soft skin, thin and delicate as a baby's bum over the strong, slim lines of his bones, their structure visible with every involuntary flex of his foot. Sherlock had long, narrow feet and John realized he was stroking this one almost meditatively, tracing the bluish lines visible beneath the nearly translucent paleness. Sherlock was as motionless as a statue cast in porcelain.
John forced his hands to still, one cupping Sherlock's heel and the other wrapped around, his thumb resting on the tender skin beneath the bandage. He could feel Sherlock's pulse or perhaps it was his own, the thin, rapid beat of it in his thumb, throbbing in his ears. Oh, John Watson, what are you doing, what are you thinking of doing…
Mycroft had once compared bravery to stupidity, called it the noblest form of it. John couldn't say which it was that made him look up again, made him stroke his thumb down the line of Sherlock's foot, back up again, just to see that touch crackle in Sherlock's eyes.
In his eyes, those eyes that saw entirely too much with far too little effort, darkened and resting on John right now but it was his mouth that had John's attention, his lower lip was reddened, faintly swollen, the indent of his teeth still visible from him biting it.
"You know, some people believe that all the parts of the body are connected through the feet," John said conversationally. Inanely, Sherlock would probably say.
He didn't, his tongue a flicker of pink over his lips as he wet them. "Reflexology. Applied pressure causes a reaction in the part of the body that reflects its image in the feet or hands."
"Interesting."
"Ridiculous," Sherlock corrected. "A thousand years of placebo effect transference into belief-" his voice rose sharply, hitting an octave that John was sure he hadn't managed since before puberty, dissolving into a groan as John pressed both thumbs into sole of his foot, working against the tense muscles and watched as Sherlock squirmed in his seat, the leather chair creaking as he sank down, those knowing eyes squeezing shut for the briefest of moments.
They opened again the instant John let up on the pressure, boring down on him. "John."
It was only his name, just a word, simple enough, but in that tone it became a warning, almost a plea, and John felt like he was sinking into quicksand, threads of reality and sense snapping away.
Decisions, right, bravery or stupidity, and John didn't care which as he leaned in and pressed his lips against the soft, clean skin at the arch of Sherlock's foot. He had to hold on as Sherlock abruptly thrashed against him, nearly tearing his foot away and from the sound he made it would have been entirely unintentional. Lovely sounds, a deep, guttural moan coupled with almost graceless squirming, trying to get away, not trying, John didn't know, didn't care, couldn't care as he licked that soft skin, tasting soap and the bitter tang of antiseptic. Helplessly, John buried his face against the sole of his foot, inhaling deeply and blowing his breath back out into it, and Christ, the sounds Sherlock could make.
"John…" His name again, a thin, reedy little gasp that he rewarded by sinking his teeth into Sherlock's heel, sucking the tougher skin hard as Sherlock gasped over him, curling over John's bowed head. A strong hand scrabbled against his own, painfully tight as it tore his grip away from Sherlock's ankle and he didn't have a moment to consider where it had been relocated, the briefest second of hot, stretched skin against his hand before a spurt of liquid heat scorched against his palm and Sherlock groaned deep in his ear, leaning against him heavily.
Oh, dear Christ.
John swallowed hard against the sudden thickness in his throat, mind awhirl as he tried to take this all in. All right, he'd started with basic first aid and ended in…he wasn't even sure. Sherlock was nearly in his lap, both arms around John, clinging, his head against John's shoulder as he panted. His foot was still between them, propped on the footstool between John's legs in a way that would be an awkward contortion even if Sherlock wasn't a tall man. John still had one hand curled around it and the other was…ah, yes, he hastily withdrew it from beneath Sherlock's dressing gown, scrubbing it against the leg of his jeans to wipe away the dampness.
Like a marionette suddenly brought to life by its puppeteer, Sherlock snapped upright, fingers digging in to John's shoulders. His face was close enough that John could see the faint threads of red in the sclera of his eyes, tiredness echoed in the faint shadows beneath. And his mouth, lips parted as he breathed, still heavily, still panting, oh, right, panting because he'd just come, John had just made him come, made Sherlock, and his mouth was so close to John's, and Sherlock had just come but John was still hard as a stone, thoughts running in white rabbit circles and he just-
"Oh," John said, helplessly, and leaned in to kiss him.
He felt as much as heard Sherlock draw in a sharp breath, his mouth was open and wet against John's and tasted like mint, toothpaste, John registered dimly. His tongue was lax against John's, unmoving, and John didn't care, didn’t care, only kissed him harder, wanted to memorize this. He didn't have Sherlock's memory or his mind but right now, John had his mouth and he wanted, fuck, he wanted.
He hadn't even decided what he wanted when Sherlock's mouth abruptly came to life, moving against his own with sharp, deliberate pressure. The world tilted and it wasn't until the floor was hard and cold under him that John realized it wasn't the world falling, only him, off the footstool and onto the heavy rug. Would have cracked his head on the hearth if a large hand hadn't been cradling it, protecting it, no, not only him falling, Sherlock was with him, sprawled over him, his thin dressing gown no barrier at all.
Wait, wait, I just-But the words were only in John's head, never even close to his lips and it wouldn't have mattered if they were. Sherlock held his mouth, owned it with slick precision, and while John might have wanted a moment to try to think, Sherlock didn't seem willing to allow it.
Not when he could push John down, no, hold him down, John realized dimly, Sherlock's hands on his shoulders were nearly pinning him to the floor, his long legs straddling John, not quite right and then he twisted his hips just so.
"Augh," John yelped out, muffled between their mouths as most of Sherlock's not inconsiderable weight pressed perfectly against the hard length of his cock and just like that, he gave up on thinking, let Sherlock do the thinking for them, he was better at it. It was easier to concentrate on rocking his hips up, grinding against the hard line of Sherlock's hip, obvious even through his trousers.
Sherlock pulled back from the kiss and the whine of protest that escaped John might have been, was actually, humiliating, only Sherlock pressed his lips against John's chin, down the line of his jaw to his ear.
"Let me," Sherlock whispered, demanded, and John mindlessly agreed, already nodding foolishly even before he felt the waist of his trousers loosened, his belt gone in a flash and his fly tugged open. Long, clever fingers against him, drawing his cock free with unexpected, obvious expertise, drawing down the length over and over, tracing unknown symbols against hot, taut skin until John sobbed out a protesting moan, trying to thrust up against Sherlock's weight.
"That's it, that's it, John," Sherlock crooned, oh, that lovely voice, hot and deep against John's ear. It was unfair in all the best ways, Sherlock so brilliant and aloof, sensual and yet untouchable. Only not now, not now because he was touching, he was, his grip circling John's cock, hands tight and quick with sweet, perfect friction. "Let me see it, let me."
With a low curse, John turned towards that voice, blindly searching for and finding Sherlock's mouth, cutting off the dark flow of words just as John shuddered and came, spilling hot over the tight clasp of Sherlock's hands. Dimly glad for the gag in the shape of Sherlock's soft, swollen lips, stifling his whimpering of oh, oh, god, oh, oh, yes, oh…
It took a moment, a few moments really, for it to sink in but when it did, the knowledge was inescapable. The floor was cold and hard, rug notwithstanding, Sherlock was heavy, they were both a sticky mess and, oh, yes, let's not forget that Sherlock had just given him a wank in the middle of their sitting room floor.
Opening his eyes seemed like more of a chore than it was worth at the moment and while the temptation was there to simply stay on the floor until perhaps one of the above issues changed, the coldness of the floor itself was starting to make unpleasant aches known.
A deep, heartfelt sigh was all he could spare and then John opened his eyes to find Sherlock watching him-- and that was no surprise at all.
"Look…"John started, hesitantly.
"Are you going to have some kind of heterosexual crisis just now?" Sherlock interrupted, tapping his fingers in an impatient rhythm on John's chest. "Because if so, I'd like to remind you that I specifically told you I don't like people touching my feet-"
"You did, yes," John mumbled.
"It's also getting quite late, you're exhausted, you haven't slept in over twenty hours and you should at the very least wash up before going to bed, preferably showering otherwise you're going to be quite uncomfortable in the morning-"
"Might just, you're right-" John considered again staying on the floor for the rest of the night.
"Therefore, I think you should wait and have your crisis in the morning when you're better rested," Sherlock finished. He twisted into a stretch that John could only envy and finally slid off John's lap to his feet. The floor was no less spectacularly hard while he watched Sherlock straighten his dressing gown but the strange ache that spread in his chest when Sherlock reached out a hand to help him up wasn't quite unpleasant.
"Go take a shower, John," Sherlock steadied him when John wobbled, his eyes dropping down to the floor, catching on the whiteness of the gauze on Sherlock's foot as he stepped towards the desk with a bare limp. "And do stop thinking so loudly."
"Right, right," John mumbled, wondering how his thoughts could possibly be loud when it felt like his brain had been replaced by an overcooked pudding. Surely a feeble plop was the only sound it was capable of at the moment, "Don't like people touching your feet."
There was sudden warmth against his back, silken touch of a dressing gown coupled with hands on his upper arms, gripping, as Sherlock leaned down to murmur against his ear in a wash of warm breath, "You're hardly 'people', John."
"Oh," John whispered, voice cracking as he blinked too much in the dim light, and to bloody hell with a crisis, any crisis as he turned towards that voice, tipped up his head and let Sherlock kiss him.
fin
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