[Fic] Triune, chapter 5/??
Title: Triune
Rating: NC17
Warnings: TGG spoilers, vampirism, bloodplay, wip
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Notes: Unbeta'd. This is an AU fusion with "Fledgling" by Octavia Butler, with some details modified. Also available on AO3.
John left the flat early so he could make two stops on his way to work. The first was at a coffee shop across from New Scotland Yard.
John did not miss the way Lestrade's eyes widened slightly as he opened the door to his office. He only had to stand there for about half a second, a cup of coffee steaming in each hand, before Lestrade's expression cleared.
"Sorry," John said, depositing one of the cups onto the desk. "Donovan said to go right in."
"It's fine," said Lestrade. He massaged his forehead with one hand; there were bags under his eyes.
Jumpy, hadn't slept...John's lips pursed into a grim line, and he cursed his own observational skills. "He came here last night, didn't he." Lestrade shrugged. "Shit. I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't mean to sic him on you. Just...sometimes I forget he doesn't have an iota of common sense, and I didn't specifically tell him not to come harass you, so- can I sit down?" John shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. He felt a right idiot standing here, babbling.
"Help yourself." Lestrade gestured at the guest chair in front of the desk, and John sat. "Sherlock said you kicked him out, but I assumed he was being dramatic."
"Yeah," John said. He rolled his eyes. "We had a- not a fight. I don't know. A moment of disconnect?" A lot of those, lately. But strangely, they didn't make John feel like something was coming apart, but that it was coming together. "Look, I'm sorry for yesterday, period. For storming out like that."
Lestrade smiled, just a tiny bit, and picked up the cup of coffee John had brought. "My mistake, probably. You're a grown man."
"Sometimes I don't act like one," John admitted. Lestrade chuckled a bit at that. "I didn't realize what you were actually saying until much later."
"I probably could have been clearer," Lestrade admitted. "Old habits. And- well. What happened...it's not something I talk about." Lestrade looked out the window, not making eye contact again.
More pieces snapped together in John's head. "Did Sherlock threaten you when he was here?" he said, frowning. "Because if he did-"
"No. Well, yes. But it wasn't exactly one-sided," Lestrade said. He shifted in his chair and looked back at John. "The offer still stands, just so you know. I mean, if-"
"Stop," John said. He massaged his temples. "Just stop there. Because we're friends, or I like to think we are, and if we're going to stay friends I need you to understand something."
"Okay," Lestrade said evenly, his face impassive.
"Sherlock is a prick with an immense ego who probably should have failed primary school on the basis of poor socialization," John said. "But he's not a sociopath."
"I know that," Lestrade said.
"I trust him," John said firmly.
"You're insane," Lestrade said. There was a longish pause while he sipped his coffee and looked up at the ceiling meditatively. "But then, I said that when you moved in with him, too."
Last night John had realized that as reluctant to listen to him as Sherlock usually was, Sherlock listened when John told him stop, don't touch me, get out of the room. He listened and he complied immediately, without argument or hesitation. And that had to mean something. "I think," he carefully told Lestrade, "that if I told him to forget the whole thing and never come near me again, that he would do it."
Lestrade suddenly looked very, very distant. "Yeah," he said. "He would."
"Well," said John, rubbing the back of his neck. "Subject closed then, I think." Please God let it be closed. This was probably the most unbearably stilted conversation he'd had since he was a teenager.
"Right." Lestrade chugged more coffee and ran his fingers over his lips, looking as awkward as John felt. "Fuck," he said. "What I wouldn't give for a cigarette right now."
"You don't smoke any more," John reminded him.
"Seven months," Lestrade acknowledged. "But now I really fucking want one. That's how awful that conversation was."
John couldn't help laughing.
**
The front door opened at precisely 6:03 pm. It took John 11 seconds to climb the stairs, which was 3 less than normal. Sherlock was focusing on the display of his mobile, so that he would not be staring at the sitting room doorway when John came in.
"Hi," John said, going straight into the kitchen. Sherlock said nothing in return, pretending a deep and abiding interest in the mobile. "I don't suppose there's any curry left? Well, all right, I want Chinese anyway, I think." Most people were annoyed by Sherlock's occasional abstention from conversation; John simply carried on as if he didn't notice. Sherlock found it rather endearing.
"Where'd you put the menu last time we ordered from Great Wall? I fancy their spring rolls. Ah, here we are." Sherlock kept his eyes on his phone and considered John's scent and his voice. He was calm, utterly calm. That could be very good- it could mean that John's conversation with Lestrade and his day at work had gone well, and he was not angry with Sherlock. Or it could mean that he had nerved himself to sever things with Sherlock and had put the calm on in order to get through it. Damn his soldier's nerves, anyway.
John finally wandered into the room and flopped into his armchair. "Do you want anything?" he asked. Direct question, probably he should answer. Sherlock finally sneaked a look at John, who was studying the menu and digging his mobile out of his jacket pocket. "Some of those teriyaki chicken things, maybe?"
"No," Sherlock said. "I'm not hungry."
John hummed briefly in the back of his throat. "Really. That's a shame." His lips quirked up and he darted a look at Sherlock that was almost- teasing. Sherlock was flooded with relief so vast he almost shivered with it. John was fine, he had forgiven Sherlock. He wasn't just calm, he was relaxed, he was displaying fondness.
Then Sherlock had to spoil it by daring to say, "Does Lestrade still think that I'm abusing you?"
To his surprise, John took that in stride. "I think Lestrade now has a better understanding of the situation," he said delicately.
"You should know," Sherlock said slowly. "That you're almost bound to me, but not quite." So very, very close though. Once more, one more proper meal from John, and he would belong to Sherlock. He would smell like Sherlock, he would crave Sherlock, and Sherlock was sure that once they'd reached that point he could make John stay, make him happy. He was positive. But now, this moment, required John to consciously choose.
"You can still leave without serious physical consequence," Sherlock added. "I could assist you with the psychological aspect." He could, though he felt that it might well destroy him to help John leave. He would do it, if John asked. He would do virtually anything that John asked, short of giving up his work.
"I'm not leaving," John said, and even though Sherlock had known already, hearing the words unexpectedly filled him with a sweet pleasure that made him smile. Sherlock wanted to go over there and rub his hands across John's face, using his thumbs to press the crow's feet back to smoothness and trace the edge of his lips. Sherlock's fingers twitched and he schooled them to stillness. "I do want dinner though. I'm starving."
"Order extra," Sherlock said, pitching his voice lower than normal because he enjoyed the flush that crept up John's cheeks as a result. Sherlock knew John took his meaning, because the blush stayed on his face as he ordered twice as much food as he could reasonably be expected to eat. He went upstairs and changed into his night clothes before he met the delivery driver at the door.
Sherlock crossed his legs and watched John impatiently while he plowed through his cashew chicken. He didn't bother to put up a pretense that he was doing anything besides staring. "You're creeping me out," John complained, shifting in his chair.
"Well, then." Sherlock stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He arched an eyebrow at John in a very suggestive way, and sauntered back towards his room. John was happy and vaguely excited and not at all fearful or displeased; Sherlock could afford to tease a bit. He didn't need a light in his room but he had a lamp on the desk, for the look of the thing, and he flicked it on so that John would be comfortable. He stretched out on the bed to listen to John moving around in the sitting room and enjoyed the deep twisting of pleasurable anticipation in his gut.
He did not have to wait long for John to finish his meal and take the leftovers to the kitchen to be stored away. His footsteps were even and unhesitating as he walked to Sherlock's room, but his smile as he paused in the doorway was a little shy. "Hi," he said. His scent had been muted when he was in the kitchen, but now that John was mere feet away, it was so powerful as to be overwhelming. He smelled so sumptuous that just inhaling made Sherlock feel more full; he almost thought that he could become intoxicated, just on John's scent. And beneath and around the smell of his blood was John's arousal, which was now exciting Sherlock in a very specific way. He began to feel a purely sexual desire for the first time in many, many years.
John stepped into the room and approached the bed, but Sherlock moved much faster to get up and go to him. He virtually pounced, wrapping John in his arms and pressing a hard and insistent kiss to his mouth. They had not kissed very much since that first aborted attempt on the sofa, and Sherlock found himself wondering why not. He very much enjoyed the intimacy involved in this sort of kissing, the interplay of tongues and lips and teeth that could be soft and sweet or hard and invasive. John evidently did too, because he was quick to open his mouth when Sherlock probed with his tongue. Sherlock kissed John thoroughly, possessively, and John eventually rebeled because he could never be entirely passive. He fought his way between Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock managed to deepen the kiss still further by nicking John's tongue very slightly with one of his canines.
John gasped very prettily, Sherlock found, so he slid his hands down and squeezed John's arse to see if he could be compelled to do it again. He pulled back from the kiss, as they were both panting for breath, and began to press slightly more chaste kisses against various parts of John's anatomy: behind the ear, under his adam's apple, the join between neck and shoulder. As he did so, John shifted his hip against Sherlock's groin, where his trousers did little to restrain his erection.
"You're hard," John said with surprise.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge John's feelings from his scent.
"Of course not," John said. Sherlock's eyes drifted half-closed as John gently ran his fingers across the bulge in Sherlock's trousers. "It's just- you haven't been, before. I thought maybe you didn't get aroused by this."
"I'm aroused because you're aroused," Sherlock said. "I can smell your pheromones."
"That doesn't even make sense," John protested. "We're a different species, and the same gender."
"Of course it makes sense," Sherlock said, reaching down to fondle John's cock through his pajama bottoms, as much to distract him from this ridiculous line of questioning as anything. "It's not a generalized response, but a specific one. I'm especially sensitive to your scent." He sucked on John's pulse point for a moment and teased it with his tongue, encouraging another one of those lovely gasps, before speaking again. "I told you the first time, we can have sex if you'd like."
"Not if you don't want it," John gasped as Sherlock stroked him more firmly. "If it's just some kind of- christ- reaction, like waking up with a hard-on or something."
"Don't be dull, John," Sherlock chided, restraining the urge to roll his eyes. He thought he had made it perfectly clear just how eager he was for this encounter; his erection should provide confirmatory evidence, not cause for doubt. He released his grip on John's erection so that he could drag John's t-shirt up over his head, then started unbuttoning his own shirt as he kissed and sucked at John's nipples. He sucked the right nipple to hardness and then nipped it sharply, drawing a single drop of blood and making John arch his back and shout. Sherlock took advantage of the moment to shed his shirt and kick off his shoes, then went back to sucking on the tiny bite mark while dexterously unfastening his own belt and trousers, He switched to the left nipple and bit that one too; John's hands, stroking firmly up and down Sherlock's sides and sometimes sliding around to brush the very top of his arse, gripped so hard in response that a human man would have received severe bruises.
Sherlock simply slid free and took advantage of John's moment of distraction to push him back onto the bed and divest him of his pajama bottoms with a swift yank. He smiled in satisfaction at the sight of John's erection bobbing up against his stomach; he had barely touched the man, and he was already achingly hard. Sherlock waited until John's eyes refocused before he slid his trousers and pants off his narrow hips and down to the ground, where he could simply step out of them. His own cock stood out long and lean and flushed.
John squinted at him. "You're- shaved?" he said.
Sherlock huffed a laugh. "I don't grow pubic hair. Species trait, not individual. Try not to get distracted." He could smell John's arousal spiking, so Sherlock took a moment to tease, sliding one hand down his nearly-hairless chest to the base of his cock, and then brushing the first two fingers gently along the underside from root to tip. John's pupils widened and he sucked air in through his mouth and nose at once. "Look how hard I am, John," he said, dropping his voice even lower than normal. "Look what you do to me."
Sherlock knelt up on the bed, straddling John's calves. "No one else could arouse me this way. No one else could even hold my attention." Sherlock could tell he had judged John's responses correctly, his cock was leaking pre-come onto his belly now.
"I'm glad you find me so- ah- interesting," John grated.
"Interesting," Sherlock scoffed. "Not hardly." Sherlock bent over and gently mouthed the underside of John's cock, extremely careful not to graze with his teeth. "Engrossing. Tantalizing." Sherlock lapped up the drops of liquid splashed across his stomach, and John groaned, his hands coming up to card gently through Sherlock's hair. He rather liked that sensation, and he badly wanted to take John in his mouth and suck him again, while those hands stroked his scalp and tugged his curls. But that was for another time, because in this state it would bring John off too quickly. He wanted John to remain aroused during what came next.
Sherlock shifted himself upward so their hips aligned. John brought his hands up to touch, but Sherlock pinned them to the duvet with his own. He leaned forward again, this time to murmur next to John's ear, "I want to fuck you. Will you let me?" John gasped and rolled his hips upward, sliding his and Sherlock's cocks against each other. They both groaned at that, and the sensation apparently distracted John so much that he forgot to answer. Sherlock nipped his ear lightly to focus his attention, and repeated, "Will you let me fuck you?"
"Yes- Christ- yes," John panted, apparently having forgotten any earlier suggestion that Sherlock might not want to engage in sex with him. Sherlock did not mind at all, since making John forget was in fact the entire point of the exercise. Sherlock stretched out one arm to open the bedside table and fish inside, then drew out the bottle of lubricant that he had himself placed there the previous week. He was not optimistic by anyone's rubric, but he was generally quite well-prepared for contingencies.
Sherlock popped the lid open and coated the first two fingers of his right hand, then braced with his left so he could shift and resettle with his knees between John's thighs. John obligingly spread his legs. He reached again to touch Sherlock, who slapped his hands away. "Stop that," he said.
"I'm not allowed to do anything?" John asked, raising one eyebrow. He looked absurd, lying there flushed and hard and panting, with his legs spread wantonly but that expression of polite disbelief on his face; Sherlock felt a surge of affection.
"Not just now, no," Sherlock said, and slid his forefinger into John's arsehole up to the first joint.
John gasped again, and his cock jerked against his stomach. "Christ, that's cold, you bastard!"
Sherlock chuckled and eased his finger out slightly, then moved it from side to side, stretching and playing with his entrance. "Have you been penetrated before?" he asked, deeming John sufficiently relaxed to allow the finger in deeper.
John canted his hips to improve the angle. "Surely you can deduce," he said cheekily, and Sherlock responded by sliding his finger in far enough to press against John's prostate. John whimpered.
"Yes, then," Sherlock said, taking John at his word. "But not for some time. Not while you have lived here." Sherlock steadily mapped out John's rectum with his probing finger before withdrawing it and adding a second. "Unless perhaps it was penetration in some less orthodox manner." He thrust the fingers in a few times and then spread them slightly, massaging John's prostate. "Manual stimulation? Dildos? Root vegetables?" He raised an eyebrow and John laughed, until Sherlock thrust fully into him with three fingers and he threw his head back and made a noise like a man being strangled.
"Why are you fingers so long?" John gasped as Sherlock withdrew them. Sherlock thrust back inside and stroked as far inward as he could reach with the pads of his fingers. "It is ridiculous."
Sherlock smirked to himself and gave John several more thrusts before he withdrew his hand entirely. He sat back for a moment and took up the bottle of lubricant again. He slicked his own cock, keeping his touch light and breathing slowly to center himself and maintain control. His hunger was growing more pronounced, and John smelled absolutely incredible. It had been four days since Sherlock had taken a full meal from him, and his odor was rich and heady. Sherlock was struck by an absurdly fanciful image of red blood cells hanging thick and plump like ripe fruit, ready to burst juicily under Sherlock's teeth. He moaned softly and drove the image away with a savage effort of will.
Then he leaned forward and guided his cock to John's entrance, lining up the tip with precision.
"Wait," John said. He grabbed Sherlock's other hand, still braced on the bed, and squeezed the wrist warningly. "Condoms. Are you- I mean, STIs aren't usually zoonotic, but-"
"I don't have anything," Sherlock said simply. He inhaled slowly, filtering John's various scents; there wasn't even a whiff of anxiety. The question was pro forma then, John following a long-established personal protocol.
Sherlock drew his cock up across John's perineum and rubbed the tip against the underside of his balls. John groaned and his cock jerked out another small stream of pre-come. "Stop thinking about biology," Sherlock said, and lined himself back up.
"But what about-" John seemed to lose his train of thought as Sherlock slowly and smoothly pushed his cock in until he bottomed out. "Sherlock. Sherlock. I- ha." Sherlock put his right hand back on the bed and released his breath in a long sigh. He discovered that he loved the sound of John lost and incoherent with Sherlock's cock buried inside of him. But even better was the way John forced himself back into lucidity to squeeze Sherlock's wrist again, this time also bringing up his left hand to brace against Sherlock's chest. "I haven't been tested," John gasped out, and now Sherlock did smell the sharp tang of worry emanating from his partner.
Sherlock had to restrain a laugh because John was still not thinking clearly, even if he had recovered his power of speech. "Idiot," he said fondly. "We've been exchanging fluids for weeks. I can estimate your red blood cell count from the way you smell right now. You think I can't tell that you're healthy?"
Comprehension, then embarrassment on his face. Sherlock pulled up John's left leg and wrapped it around his waist, leaning into the new angle to distract him. Then he drew back and began to slowly, smoothly thrust, grazing John's prostate on every third stroke or so and trying to touch his cock as little as possible.
John's arms were too short for him to grip Sherlock's hips from this angle; he grabbed for Sherlock's shoulders instead, and tugged as if trying to drag him closer. Sherlock resisted and John grumbled in frustration, "Can't you go any faster?"
Sherlock smirked again, knowing how maddening the intermittent stimulation must be. Enough to be interesting for John, but not enough to make him come. "I could," he admitted, but he kept the same steady pace.
"Then bite me," John urged. He tipped his head sideways and tensed his neck so that the veins stood out even further. It was a move calculated to incite Sherlock, and it made his heart rate speed up even as he grinned to himself at the obviousness of it.
"Soon," was all he said. He released John's hip to teasingly drag one finger across the tip of his cock, collecting pre-come. He licked his finger, curling his tongue around the tip, and returned his hand to the bed.
John's head thrashed on the pillow. "Hate you," he groaned.
Sherlock just laughed. "Patience," he said lightly. John cursed at him. Sherlock was quite enjoying this anticipation: the slow build of his own orgasm and the decadent scents rolling off John. But teasing aside, his hunger pangs were becoming a distraction, and he was almost ready to begin this properly.
He shifted position again, pushing his knees up beside John's hips so that the shorter man was practically in his lap. He bent over John so that their chests touched and John's cock was trapped between their stomachs. Close enough to reach John's throat now, Sherlock licked his neck and then blew on the cooling saliva while his hips made several shorter, quicker thrusts. John's grip on his shoulders tightened even further.
"Now," John said, panting. "Please, please, now." His voice was both commanding and pleading, and the mixed signals were dizzying.
Sherlock bit deep.
Blood welled in his mouth and John tasted as fantastic as he smelled, perhaps even better. He was warm and sweet and salty and rich; like eating a gourmet five-course dinner after three days of sub-standard takeaway. Sherlock drank and drank and wished that he could have this from John every day; he knew that John wouldn't say no to him if he asked. He would give of himself to Sherlock until he was pale and weak and his heart stopped functioning, which of course was why Sherlock would never ask. He'd just savor these meals all the more for their intense, brilliant rarity. John groaned- creating a vibration that Sherlock could feel through to the roots of his canines- and ground himself against Sherlock, which reminded him that he was meant to be fucking John as well.
He divided his attention somewhat, so that he could work his cock in and out of John with short, rapid thrusts that hit his prostate on every inward trip while he continued to drink. John muttered nonsense- mostly Sherlock's name, and variations on the theme of "fuck yes, do that some more"- while he squeezed Sherlock's shoulders in his grip. Sherlock was certainly developing bruises, but he did not care; they would be healed within a few hours anyway. Even if they had lasted days, it wouldn't have stopped him from taking as much pleasure as he could from having his teeth and his cock both sunk into John at once. If Sherlock had been able to speak and drink simultaneously, he would have been chanting John's name.
John's breaths came faster and shorter, and finally he was climaxing, shuddering with it as Sherlock's continued thrusting pushed their stomachs together and smeared them both with John's come. The steady pleasure of the feeding and the squeezing of John's muscles around Sherlock was abruptly too much stimulation for him to bear, and he came himself. His thrusts degenerated and became juddering and uneven, and he involuntarily tried to cry out with a mouthful of John's blood and almost choked. He pulled back from the wound and licked it a bit to retard the blood flow while he fought his breathing back under control.
Orgasm over, Sherlock forgot his cock entirely, leaving it to slip out of John on its own when it became too soft to stay inside. He returned his mouth to John's neck: no teeth, just gently sucking at the bite wound now. Finishing his meal. The tight, hot euphoria had subsided in the aftershocks of orgasm, but the taste was just as satisfying. And it was very fine, if not as intense, to lie there relaxed and pleasantly sore in his thighs, drinking ambrosia while John wrapped his arms around him and murmured quietly into his hair.
Some well-trained internal censor alerted Sherlock that he had taken a full pint now. He forced himself to disengage, with a groan of regret at having the feeding end. As he returned to a closer awareness of himself, he realized that he was lying heavily on top of John, and shifted himself off to one side. "Sorry," he muttered. He tilted John's head to examine the bite mark critically, then laid his head on John's right shoulder with a satisfied sigh.
John chuckled a little. "S'allright," he said, slurring a bit with exhaustion. "I can forgive a lot after sex like that, I think." He was rubbing his fingers over Sherlock's side, feeling the notches of his ribs. His touch was just firm enough to avoid being ticklish. Sherlock rested one hand over John's heart, so he could feel it beat as well as hear it.
"You belong to me now," Sherlock murmured, half to himself. John tensed up slightly at that, and Sherlock was quick to add, "And I belong to you."
"But you're not physically addicted to me," John said, the lightness of his tone masking concern in a way his scent couldn't hide.
"Just psychologically," Sherlock said to John's shoulder.
"Oh," John said in surprise, relaxing again. "Well. That's all right then."
Author's Note: I totally made up that shit about pheromones.
The thing about body hair is in the book though; Ina don't seem to get much in the way of secondary sexual characteristics. And the book does specifically note that Ina and human diseases are not transmissible between species. The book doesn't get into specifics about the Ina ability to detect health problems in their prey/partners, but it states at several points that the protagonist is able to identify people as healthy by their scent. I don't think it's too much of a stretch to say that they can sniff out the presence of disease.
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Rating: NC17
Warnings: TGG spoilers, vampirism, bloodplay, wip
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Notes: Unbeta'd. This is an AU fusion with "Fledgling" by Octavia Butler, with some details modified. Also available on AO3.
John left the flat early so he could make two stops on his way to work. The first was at a coffee shop across from New Scotland Yard.
John did not miss the way Lestrade's eyes widened slightly as he opened the door to his office. He only had to stand there for about half a second, a cup of coffee steaming in each hand, before Lestrade's expression cleared.
"Sorry," John said, depositing one of the cups onto the desk. "Donovan said to go right in."
"It's fine," said Lestrade. He massaged his forehead with one hand; there were bags under his eyes.
Jumpy, hadn't slept...John's lips pursed into a grim line, and he cursed his own observational skills. "He came here last night, didn't he." Lestrade shrugged. "Shit. I'm sorry, Greg. I didn't mean to sic him on you. Just...sometimes I forget he doesn't have an iota of common sense, and I didn't specifically tell him not to come harass you, so- can I sit down?" John shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. He felt a right idiot standing here, babbling.
"Help yourself." Lestrade gestured at the guest chair in front of the desk, and John sat. "Sherlock said you kicked him out, but I assumed he was being dramatic."
"Yeah," John said. He rolled his eyes. "We had a- not a fight. I don't know. A moment of disconnect?" A lot of those, lately. But strangely, they didn't make John feel like something was coming apart, but that it was coming together. "Look, I'm sorry for yesterday, period. For storming out like that."
Lestrade smiled, just a tiny bit, and picked up the cup of coffee John had brought. "My mistake, probably. You're a grown man."
"Sometimes I don't act like one," John admitted. Lestrade chuckled a bit at that. "I didn't realize what you were actually saying until much later."
"I probably could have been clearer," Lestrade admitted. "Old habits. And- well. What happened...it's not something I talk about." Lestrade looked out the window, not making eye contact again.
More pieces snapped together in John's head. "Did Sherlock threaten you when he was here?" he said, frowning. "Because if he did-"
"No. Well, yes. But it wasn't exactly one-sided," Lestrade said. He shifted in his chair and looked back at John. "The offer still stands, just so you know. I mean, if-"
"Stop," John said. He massaged his temples. "Just stop there. Because we're friends, or I like to think we are, and if we're going to stay friends I need you to understand something."
"Okay," Lestrade said evenly, his face impassive.
"Sherlock is a prick with an immense ego who probably should have failed primary school on the basis of poor socialization," John said. "But he's not a sociopath."
"I know that," Lestrade said.
"I trust him," John said firmly.
"You're insane," Lestrade said. There was a longish pause while he sipped his coffee and looked up at the ceiling meditatively. "But then, I said that when you moved in with him, too."
Last night John had realized that as reluctant to listen to him as Sherlock usually was, Sherlock listened when John told him stop, don't touch me, get out of the room. He listened and he complied immediately, without argument or hesitation. And that had to mean something. "I think," he carefully told Lestrade, "that if I told him to forget the whole thing and never come near me again, that he would do it."
Lestrade suddenly looked very, very distant. "Yeah," he said. "He would."
"Well," said John, rubbing the back of his neck. "Subject closed then, I think." Please God let it be closed. This was probably the most unbearably stilted conversation he'd had since he was a teenager.
"Right." Lestrade chugged more coffee and ran his fingers over his lips, looking as awkward as John felt. "Fuck," he said. "What I wouldn't give for a cigarette right now."
"You don't smoke any more," John reminded him.
"Seven months," Lestrade acknowledged. "But now I really fucking want one. That's how awful that conversation was."
John couldn't help laughing.
**
The front door opened at precisely 6:03 pm. It took John 11 seconds to climb the stairs, which was 3 less than normal. Sherlock was focusing on the display of his mobile, so that he would not be staring at the sitting room doorway when John came in.
"Hi," John said, going straight into the kitchen. Sherlock said nothing in return, pretending a deep and abiding interest in the mobile. "I don't suppose there's any curry left? Well, all right, I want Chinese anyway, I think." Most people were annoyed by Sherlock's occasional abstention from conversation; John simply carried on as if he didn't notice. Sherlock found it rather endearing.
"Where'd you put the menu last time we ordered from Great Wall? I fancy their spring rolls. Ah, here we are." Sherlock kept his eyes on his phone and considered John's scent and his voice. He was calm, utterly calm. That could be very good- it could mean that John's conversation with Lestrade and his day at work had gone well, and he was not angry with Sherlock. Or it could mean that he had nerved himself to sever things with Sherlock and had put the calm on in order to get through it. Damn his soldier's nerves, anyway.
John finally wandered into the room and flopped into his armchair. "Do you want anything?" he asked. Direct question, probably he should answer. Sherlock finally sneaked a look at John, who was studying the menu and digging his mobile out of his jacket pocket. "Some of those teriyaki chicken things, maybe?"
"No," Sherlock said. "I'm not hungry."
John hummed briefly in the back of his throat. "Really. That's a shame." His lips quirked up and he darted a look at Sherlock that was almost- teasing. Sherlock was flooded with relief so vast he almost shivered with it. John was fine, he had forgiven Sherlock. He wasn't just calm, he was relaxed, he was displaying fondness.
Then Sherlock had to spoil it by daring to say, "Does Lestrade still think that I'm abusing you?"
To his surprise, John took that in stride. "I think Lestrade now has a better understanding of the situation," he said delicately.
"You should know," Sherlock said slowly. "That you're almost bound to me, but not quite." So very, very close though. Once more, one more proper meal from John, and he would belong to Sherlock. He would smell like Sherlock, he would crave Sherlock, and Sherlock was sure that once they'd reached that point he could make John stay, make him happy. He was positive. But now, this moment, required John to consciously choose.
"You can still leave without serious physical consequence," Sherlock added. "I could assist you with the psychological aspect." He could, though he felt that it might well destroy him to help John leave. He would do it, if John asked. He would do virtually anything that John asked, short of giving up his work.
"I'm not leaving," John said, and even though Sherlock had known already, hearing the words unexpectedly filled him with a sweet pleasure that made him smile. Sherlock wanted to go over there and rub his hands across John's face, using his thumbs to press the crow's feet back to smoothness and trace the edge of his lips. Sherlock's fingers twitched and he schooled them to stillness. "I do want dinner though. I'm starving."
"Order extra," Sherlock said, pitching his voice lower than normal because he enjoyed the flush that crept up John's cheeks as a result. Sherlock knew John took his meaning, because the blush stayed on his face as he ordered twice as much food as he could reasonably be expected to eat. He went upstairs and changed into his night clothes before he met the delivery driver at the door.
Sherlock crossed his legs and watched John impatiently while he plowed through his cashew chicken. He didn't bother to put up a pretense that he was doing anything besides staring. "You're creeping me out," John complained, shifting in his chair.
"Well, then." Sherlock stood up and put his hands in his pockets. He arched an eyebrow at John in a very suggestive way, and sauntered back towards his room. John was happy and vaguely excited and not at all fearful or displeased; Sherlock could afford to tease a bit. He didn't need a light in his room but he had a lamp on the desk, for the look of the thing, and he flicked it on so that John would be comfortable. He stretched out on the bed to listen to John moving around in the sitting room and enjoyed the deep twisting of pleasurable anticipation in his gut.
He did not have to wait long for John to finish his meal and take the leftovers to the kitchen to be stored away. His footsteps were even and unhesitating as he walked to Sherlock's room, but his smile as he paused in the doorway was a little shy. "Hi," he said. His scent had been muted when he was in the kitchen, but now that John was mere feet away, it was so powerful as to be overwhelming. He smelled so sumptuous that just inhaling made Sherlock feel more full; he almost thought that he could become intoxicated, just on John's scent. And beneath and around the smell of his blood was John's arousal, which was now exciting Sherlock in a very specific way. He began to feel a purely sexual desire for the first time in many, many years.
John stepped into the room and approached the bed, but Sherlock moved much faster to get up and go to him. He virtually pounced, wrapping John in his arms and pressing a hard and insistent kiss to his mouth. They had not kissed very much since that first aborted attempt on the sofa, and Sherlock found himself wondering why not. He very much enjoyed the intimacy involved in this sort of kissing, the interplay of tongues and lips and teeth that could be soft and sweet or hard and invasive. John evidently did too, because he was quick to open his mouth when Sherlock probed with his tongue. Sherlock kissed John thoroughly, possessively, and John eventually rebeled because he could never be entirely passive. He fought his way between Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock managed to deepen the kiss still further by nicking John's tongue very slightly with one of his canines.
John gasped very prettily, Sherlock found, so he slid his hands down and squeezed John's arse to see if he could be compelled to do it again. He pulled back from the kiss, as they were both panting for breath, and began to press slightly more chaste kisses against various parts of John's anatomy: behind the ear, under his adam's apple, the join between neck and shoulder. As he did so, John shifted his hip against Sherlock's groin, where his trousers did little to restrain his erection.
"You're hard," John said with surprise.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, eyes narrowing as he tried to gauge John's feelings from his scent.
"Of course not," John said. Sherlock's eyes drifted half-closed as John gently ran his fingers across the bulge in Sherlock's trousers. "It's just- you haven't been, before. I thought maybe you didn't get aroused by this."
"I'm aroused because you're aroused," Sherlock said. "I can smell your pheromones."
"That doesn't even make sense," John protested. "We're a different species, and the same gender."
"Of course it makes sense," Sherlock said, reaching down to fondle John's cock through his pajama bottoms, as much to distract him from this ridiculous line of questioning as anything. "It's not a generalized response, but a specific one. I'm especially sensitive to your scent." He sucked on John's pulse point for a moment and teased it with his tongue, encouraging another one of those lovely gasps, before speaking again. "I told you the first time, we can have sex if you'd like."
"Not if you don't want it," John gasped as Sherlock stroked him more firmly. "If it's just some kind of- christ- reaction, like waking up with a hard-on or something."
"Don't be dull, John," Sherlock chided, restraining the urge to roll his eyes. He thought he had made it perfectly clear just how eager he was for this encounter; his erection should provide confirmatory evidence, not cause for doubt. He released his grip on John's erection so that he could drag John's t-shirt up over his head, then started unbuttoning his own shirt as he kissed and sucked at John's nipples. He sucked the right nipple to hardness and then nipped it sharply, drawing a single drop of blood and making John arch his back and shout. Sherlock took advantage of the moment to shed his shirt and kick off his shoes, then went back to sucking on the tiny bite mark while dexterously unfastening his own belt and trousers, He switched to the left nipple and bit that one too; John's hands, stroking firmly up and down Sherlock's sides and sometimes sliding around to brush the very top of his arse, gripped so hard in response that a human man would have received severe bruises.
Sherlock simply slid free and took advantage of John's moment of distraction to push him back onto the bed and divest him of his pajama bottoms with a swift yank. He smiled in satisfaction at the sight of John's erection bobbing up against his stomach; he had barely touched the man, and he was already achingly hard. Sherlock waited until John's eyes refocused before he slid his trousers and pants off his narrow hips and down to the ground, where he could simply step out of them. His own cock stood out long and lean and flushed.
John squinted at him. "You're- shaved?" he said.
Sherlock huffed a laugh. "I don't grow pubic hair. Species trait, not individual. Try not to get distracted." He could smell John's arousal spiking, so Sherlock took a moment to tease, sliding one hand down his nearly-hairless chest to the base of his cock, and then brushing the first two fingers gently along the underside from root to tip. John's pupils widened and he sucked air in through his mouth and nose at once. "Look how hard I am, John," he said, dropping his voice even lower than normal. "Look what you do to me."
Sherlock knelt up on the bed, straddling John's calves. "No one else could arouse me this way. No one else could even hold my attention." Sherlock could tell he had judged John's responses correctly, his cock was leaking pre-come onto his belly now.
"I'm glad you find me so- ah- interesting," John grated.
"Interesting," Sherlock scoffed. "Not hardly." Sherlock bent over and gently mouthed the underside of John's cock, extremely careful not to graze with his teeth. "Engrossing. Tantalizing." Sherlock lapped up the drops of liquid splashed across his stomach, and John groaned, his hands coming up to card gently through Sherlock's hair. He rather liked that sensation, and he badly wanted to take John in his mouth and suck him again, while those hands stroked his scalp and tugged his curls. But that was for another time, because in this state it would bring John off too quickly. He wanted John to remain aroused during what came next.
Sherlock shifted himself upward so their hips aligned. John brought his hands up to touch, but Sherlock pinned them to the duvet with his own. He leaned forward again, this time to murmur next to John's ear, "I want to fuck you. Will you let me?" John gasped and rolled his hips upward, sliding his and Sherlock's cocks against each other. They both groaned at that, and the sensation apparently distracted John so much that he forgot to answer. Sherlock nipped his ear lightly to focus his attention, and repeated, "Will you let me fuck you?"
"Yes- Christ- yes," John panted, apparently having forgotten any earlier suggestion that Sherlock might not want to engage in sex with him. Sherlock did not mind at all, since making John forget was in fact the entire point of the exercise. Sherlock stretched out one arm to open the bedside table and fish inside, then drew out the bottle of lubricant that he had himself placed there the previous week. He was not optimistic by anyone's rubric, but he was generally quite well-prepared for contingencies.
Sherlock popped the lid open and coated the first two fingers of his right hand, then braced with his left so he could shift and resettle with his knees between John's thighs. John obligingly spread his legs. He reached again to touch Sherlock, who slapped his hands away. "Stop that," he said.
"I'm not allowed to do anything?" John asked, raising one eyebrow. He looked absurd, lying there flushed and hard and panting, with his legs spread wantonly but that expression of polite disbelief on his face; Sherlock felt a surge of affection.
"Not just now, no," Sherlock said, and slid his forefinger into John's arsehole up to the first joint.
John gasped again, and his cock jerked against his stomach. "Christ, that's cold, you bastard!"
Sherlock chuckled and eased his finger out slightly, then moved it from side to side, stretching and playing with his entrance. "Have you been penetrated before?" he asked, deeming John sufficiently relaxed to allow the finger in deeper.
John canted his hips to improve the angle. "Surely you can deduce," he said cheekily, and Sherlock responded by sliding his finger in far enough to press against John's prostate. John whimpered.
"Yes, then," Sherlock said, taking John at his word. "But not for some time. Not while you have lived here." Sherlock steadily mapped out John's rectum with his probing finger before withdrawing it and adding a second. "Unless perhaps it was penetration in some less orthodox manner." He thrust the fingers in a few times and then spread them slightly, massaging John's prostate. "Manual stimulation? Dildos? Root vegetables?" He raised an eyebrow and John laughed, until Sherlock thrust fully into him with three fingers and he threw his head back and made a noise like a man being strangled.
"Why are you fingers so long?" John gasped as Sherlock withdrew them. Sherlock thrust back inside and stroked as far inward as he could reach with the pads of his fingers. "It is ridiculous."
Sherlock smirked to himself and gave John several more thrusts before he withdrew his hand entirely. He sat back for a moment and took up the bottle of lubricant again. He slicked his own cock, keeping his touch light and breathing slowly to center himself and maintain control. His hunger was growing more pronounced, and John smelled absolutely incredible. It had been four days since Sherlock had taken a full meal from him, and his odor was rich and heady. Sherlock was struck by an absurdly fanciful image of red blood cells hanging thick and plump like ripe fruit, ready to burst juicily under Sherlock's teeth. He moaned softly and drove the image away with a savage effort of will.
Then he leaned forward and guided his cock to John's entrance, lining up the tip with precision.
"Wait," John said. He grabbed Sherlock's other hand, still braced on the bed, and squeezed the wrist warningly. "Condoms. Are you- I mean, STIs aren't usually zoonotic, but-"
"I don't have anything," Sherlock said simply. He inhaled slowly, filtering John's various scents; there wasn't even a whiff of anxiety. The question was pro forma then, John following a long-established personal protocol.
Sherlock drew his cock up across John's perineum and rubbed the tip against the underside of his balls. John groaned and his cock jerked out another small stream of pre-come. "Stop thinking about biology," Sherlock said, and lined himself back up.
"But what about-" John seemed to lose his train of thought as Sherlock slowly and smoothly pushed his cock in until he bottomed out. "Sherlock. Sherlock. I- ha." Sherlock put his right hand back on the bed and released his breath in a long sigh. He discovered that he loved the sound of John lost and incoherent with Sherlock's cock buried inside of him. But even better was the way John forced himself back into lucidity to squeeze Sherlock's wrist again, this time also bringing up his left hand to brace against Sherlock's chest. "I haven't been tested," John gasped out, and now Sherlock did smell the sharp tang of worry emanating from his partner.
Sherlock had to restrain a laugh because John was still not thinking clearly, even if he had recovered his power of speech. "Idiot," he said fondly. "We've been exchanging fluids for weeks. I can estimate your red blood cell count from the way you smell right now. You think I can't tell that you're healthy?"
Comprehension, then embarrassment on his face. Sherlock pulled up John's left leg and wrapped it around his waist, leaning into the new angle to distract him. Then he drew back and began to slowly, smoothly thrust, grazing John's prostate on every third stroke or so and trying to touch his cock as little as possible.
John's arms were too short for him to grip Sherlock's hips from this angle; he grabbed for Sherlock's shoulders instead, and tugged as if trying to drag him closer. Sherlock resisted and John grumbled in frustration, "Can't you go any faster?"
Sherlock smirked again, knowing how maddening the intermittent stimulation must be. Enough to be interesting for John, but not enough to make him come. "I could," he admitted, but he kept the same steady pace.
"Then bite me," John urged. He tipped his head sideways and tensed his neck so that the veins stood out even further. It was a move calculated to incite Sherlock, and it made his heart rate speed up even as he grinned to himself at the obviousness of it.
"Soon," was all he said. He released John's hip to teasingly drag one finger across the tip of his cock, collecting pre-come. He licked his finger, curling his tongue around the tip, and returned his hand to the bed.
John's head thrashed on the pillow. "Hate you," he groaned.
Sherlock just laughed. "Patience," he said lightly. John cursed at him. Sherlock was quite enjoying this anticipation: the slow build of his own orgasm and the decadent scents rolling off John. But teasing aside, his hunger pangs were becoming a distraction, and he was almost ready to begin this properly.
He shifted position again, pushing his knees up beside John's hips so that the shorter man was practically in his lap. He bent over John so that their chests touched and John's cock was trapped between their stomachs. Close enough to reach John's throat now, Sherlock licked his neck and then blew on the cooling saliva while his hips made several shorter, quicker thrusts. John's grip on his shoulders tightened even further.
"Now," John said, panting. "Please, please, now." His voice was both commanding and pleading, and the mixed signals were dizzying.
Sherlock bit deep.
Blood welled in his mouth and John tasted as fantastic as he smelled, perhaps even better. He was warm and sweet and salty and rich; like eating a gourmet five-course dinner after three days of sub-standard takeaway. Sherlock drank and drank and wished that he could have this from John every day; he knew that John wouldn't say no to him if he asked. He would give of himself to Sherlock until he was pale and weak and his heart stopped functioning, which of course was why Sherlock would never ask. He'd just savor these meals all the more for their intense, brilliant rarity. John groaned- creating a vibration that Sherlock could feel through to the roots of his canines- and ground himself against Sherlock, which reminded him that he was meant to be fucking John as well.
He divided his attention somewhat, so that he could work his cock in and out of John with short, rapid thrusts that hit his prostate on every inward trip while he continued to drink. John muttered nonsense- mostly Sherlock's name, and variations on the theme of "fuck yes, do that some more"- while he squeezed Sherlock's shoulders in his grip. Sherlock was certainly developing bruises, but he did not care; they would be healed within a few hours anyway. Even if they had lasted days, it wouldn't have stopped him from taking as much pleasure as he could from having his teeth and his cock both sunk into John at once. If Sherlock had been able to speak and drink simultaneously, he would have been chanting John's name.
John's breaths came faster and shorter, and finally he was climaxing, shuddering with it as Sherlock's continued thrusting pushed their stomachs together and smeared them both with John's come. The steady pleasure of the feeding and the squeezing of John's muscles around Sherlock was abruptly too much stimulation for him to bear, and he came himself. His thrusts degenerated and became juddering and uneven, and he involuntarily tried to cry out with a mouthful of John's blood and almost choked. He pulled back from the wound and licked it a bit to retard the blood flow while he fought his breathing back under control.
Orgasm over, Sherlock forgot his cock entirely, leaving it to slip out of John on its own when it became too soft to stay inside. He returned his mouth to John's neck: no teeth, just gently sucking at the bite wound now. Finishing his meal. The tight, hot euphoria had subsided in the aftershocks of orgasm, but the taste was just as satisfying. And it was very fine, if not as intense, to lie there relaxed and pleasantly sore in his thighs, drinking ambrosia while John wrapped his arms around him and murmured quietly into his hair.
Some well-trained internal censor alerted Sherlock that he had taken a full pint now. He forced himself to disengage, with a groan of regret at having the feeding end. As he returned to a closer awareness of himself, he realized that he was lying heavily on top of John, and shifted himself off to one side. "Sorry," he muttered. He tilted John's head to examine the bite mark critically, then laid his head on John's right shoulder with a satisfied sigh.
John chuckled a little. "S'allright," he said, slurring a bit with exhaustion. "I can forgive a lot after sex like that, I think." He was rubbing his fingers over Sherlock's side, feeling the notches of his ribs. His touch was just firm enough to avoid being ticklish. Sherlock rested one hand over John's heart, so he could feel it beat as well as hear it.
"You belong to me now," Sherlock murmured, half to himself. John tensed up slightly at that, and Sherlock was quick to add, "And I belong to you."
"But you're not physically addicted to me," John said, the lightness of his tone masking concern in a way his scent couldn't hide.
"Just psychologically," Sherlock said to John's shoulder.
"Oh," John said in surprise, relaxing again. "Well. That's all right then."
Author's Note: I totally made up that shit about pheromones.
The thing about body hair is in the book though; Ina don't seem to get much in the way of secondary sexual characteristics. And the book does specifically note that Ina and human diseases are not transmissible between species. The book doesn't get into specifics about the Ina ability to detect health problems in their prey/partners, but it states at several points that the protagonist is able to identify people as healthy by their scent. I don't think it's too much of a stretch to say that they can sniff out the presence of disease.
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