Fic: Talk About The Blind Leading The Visually Challenged
Story: Talk About The Blind Leading The Visually Challenged
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Summary: Sherlock is being a sociopath and not willing to share, and John plays with fire. Miraculously, it all works out.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything, just playing in the Beeb's sandbox. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Talk About The Blind Leading The Visually Challenged
Sex with Sherlock was like…well, it was unlike anything he had ever experienced and that included the girlfriend who was more into his feet than the rest of him.
It was intense. And yes, one would almost feel tempted to say ‘naturally’ because everything about Sherlock was intense. Hovering over him with dishevelled hair, he looked like a force of nature. Destructive and dangerous but ostensibly in control of what he was doing. And John, who liked being surrounded by bullets and grenades, who got his kicks off adrenaline pumping through his veins and of being surrounded by people who were set on killing him, was drawn to dangerous and destructive like a very stupid moth to the flame.
Oh, and Sherlock knew all too well how to turn John into a quivering, incoherent mess. Yet something about this picture was wrong, so wrong that it bothered John even when he was in the admittedly distracting process of getting off. Their foreplay was a give and take but while John loved touching Sherlock, loved exploring the pale skittish creature that seemed more than human at times, it was almost as if Sherlock followed an elaborate mental map he had thought out one long boring Sunday morning. How to best please John Watson. With little check boxes based on evidence Sherlock had deduced after watching John butter his toast and read the newspaper. With ease, a few of Sherlock’s well-placed caresses had John moaning. His long-fingered hands moved with precision, never faltering, never uncertain. Moving against him didn’t exactly leave Sherlock cold, John couldn’t say that, but he never caught these sharp, pale eyes lose their focus and control. And with lifelong-practised understatement, John found it was a tad unsettling.
Things were different when they commenced with the actual fucking. It didn’t speak well of John’s state of mind that he looked forward to being thoroughly, yet selfishly ploughed into the mattress or purposefully shoved against a wall. Sherlock took his pleasure like it was his due. He didn’t play around but moved with intent towards his goal, and he never got sidetracked. And it was fine, it was all fine, because Sherlock wasn’t too quick about it and John got off on the way. Yet never catching a glimpse of his eyes in the throes of passion rankled John. It mattered that Sherlock kept in check whatever lay behind them, that in this moment of intimacy Sherlock shut him out. Why, he couldn’t say. Sherlock shut him out of a good many things, so why was this any different? It was like something very precious was withheld from him, after dangling it on front of his face in arm’s reach during those few moments.
John, however, could be very tenacious, even when he was half out his mind with lust. So he was watching, always watching. Watching Sherlock had become an obsession before they’d even started this. Which hadn’t come as a surprise, not really, even though John had never done it with a man before. Sherlock had.
“This isn’t new to you, is it?” he remembered asking. He had been surprised by Sherlock’s nonchalance and practised charm, which had surfaced the moment they’d stopped dancing around each other, the first time John had submitted to Sherlock’s otherworldly attraction and just grabbed and kissed him.
Sherlock had let out a long-suffering sigh and replied, “I wish I could solve the mystery of why people are so preoccupied with each other’s sexuality. Does it matter?”
No, it kind of didn’t. John had got used to listening to assumptions made about Sherlock, about him, about both of them. He had grown tired of denying and correcting. He never got tired of Sherlock’s sphinx-like character and their bizarre adventures and he was about to discover that his friend’s angular slenderness held its own fascination.
“One can always trust ordinary people to obsess over trivialities,” Sherlock had gone on and John had agreed. Only that he was one of those people and sometimes he wondered why Sherlock bothered with him at all. Surely, it wasn’t just for the single fact that John appreciated (Sally Donovan called it fangirling, which it wasn’t, thank you very much) his work? Not knowing the answer to this question made him uneasy, which was why he had started watching Sherlock for clues in the first place.
“You’re distracted.”
Oops. “Sorry, I was --. Sorry.” His wandering mind must have shown. A rather irritated Sherlock looming on bony knees - which was oddly appealing and, oh dear, he was far gone - was not something John had wanted to achieve.
“So what is it?” Sherlock huffed impatiently, clearly not okay with John’s mind being elsewhere when they were both naked and visibly excited.
“There is no way you’re going to drop this, is there?” John asked hopefully.
“Whatever is distracting you is clearly of some importance or else your hormones would block it out. Of course I want to know what it is.”
“You’re not. Well. You’re not enjoying this, are you? I mean.” John flailed a bit. He may have been a doctor but he had never been good at speaking his mind in bed. Calling a spade a spade - that was not John’s way when it came to pillow talk. He usually took the back road and tried telepathy. Luckily, he had quit therapy before they reached this particular area of his private life, though now it may have been beneficial to be prepared.
“You need to be more precise because your juvenile stuttering doesn’t explain anything.”
Well, he probably deserved that.
“I mean the touching.”
Sherlock tilted his head, pale eyes intense. “It’s an essential part of sexual intercourse. The absence of pleasure would make it non-consensual. Your virtue is intact, John, as I am very consenting.”
John hiccoughed something between a laugh and a sigh. He really had to grow a pair, quickly. “Perhaps you could try to enjoy the journey a little more, not just reaching the destination?”
“Your metaphors are a bit pathetic.”
“Yes. Yes, I know. But effective and non-ambiguous.”
Sherlock’s mouth twitched. And surprisingly, when John pulled him into a kiss, he seemed keen on following John’s advice. His hands felt cool and steady, yet they had slowed down, moved less deliberately. A warm, victorious feeling spread in John’s chest.
It didn’t last long. It was replaced by throbbing, desperate need. His body was on edge and he wanted. Oh, he wanted! Wanted Sherlock to stop withdrawing, to stop teasing, and push into him already. Why had he ever complained? This was so much worse. He could almost feel his mind dribbling out of his ears in tune with every single one of Sherlock’s strokes.
“Please.” The word seemed to fly from his lips, frantic to get out. It bounced around the otherwise silent room. Sherlock stilled.
And before John knew what was happening, Sherlock had his arms pinned over his head and said, “No.” The wave of arousal surging through him paralysed his abilities to speak and move. Instead he breathed and stared into nearly colourless eyes. There was a spark there he hadn’t seen before. John licked his lips and finally strained against Sherlock’s vice-like grip.
Stupid, stupid. He could have slapped himself, suddenly sobered by his grand discovery. Now he only had to test the theory.
“Please, Sherlock. Just...please.” He nearly purred the words, possibly overdoing it a little, but the result left nothing to be desired. A tremor ran through Sherlock and he let go of John’s wrists as if burnt. He looked startled but his eyes were still alight with excitement. Slowly and persistently, a self-satisfied smile crept on John’s face. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
Without thinking it through, John rolled over and fumbled for the little cardboard box under his bed. It contained nothing spectacular: a few dog-eared magazines, condoms, a dark red pair of boxer shorts (his good one) and a silken scarf he had inherited from the woman he had been dating before he was debarked. John knew Sherlock was peeking - it was hard to miss, as he felt him breathing down his neck. He turned and gave him a long hard look. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.
“Problem?”
“You’re excited. Actually excited. This isn’t something you’ve done before, is it?”
“Excellent observation. I see the time you spent on my website hasn’t been a waste entirely,” Sherlock replied nastily. Nasty was good. Sherlock was usually only nasty if a remark hit close to home.
“I’m just curious.” Fingering the scarf and seeing how itchy it made Sherlock was just too good to be true. John smiled at him indulgently, for once having the upper hand. Sherlock looked away, then back at him, his mind doing acrobatics, no doubt.
“No. No, John, I haven’t. People don’t usually trust me with ropes or scarves around them, which isn’t at all surprising, since you yourself are constantly complaining about my lack of social skills and the absence of a moral radar and even Lestrade expects me to become a serial killer once solving crimes loses its appeal.” Sherlock rattled on in his monotone voice, skilfully keeping any emotions at bay. His body spoke a different language. He looked as tense and nervous as John had ever seen him.
John listened and observed carefully, tuned in to reading between the lines. And what he understood was that no one had ever trusted Sherlock. Period. No one had ever willingly put his life in his hands, had lain back and trusted him to keep him safe. How utterly, heartbreakingly sad. How sensible. Instincts cannot be faked and the first instinct most people had around Sherlock was that they should get far away from him and his piercing gaze. And of course, of course, Sherlock got off on people being at his mercy, begging him to do anything. Good thing John’s instincts were fucked up and the twitch of his cock told him that he may get off on that, too.
“I should tell you that as an addict I have low impulse control. You may want to think this through,” Sherlock told him, voice detached.
John’s mind boggled. A warning. An actual warning. From Sherlock. This was so considerate. If he hadn’t been so horny, John might have appreciated it more and, well, thought it through. But things were what they were and for some reason he really wanted to be tied down and give in to the illusion to be entirely at Sherlock’s mercy. Not that he ever said no to Sherlock anyway.
Which was why he said, “I’m a soldier and a doctor. I can take care of myself, thank you.”
“Not when you’re tied up,” Sherlock provided in a gravelly voice, his cheeks slightly flushed. The sight sent a new wave of arousal through John’s body. He was doomed.
And so it began. This was how John found his wrists tied together securely over his head, and then bound to the headboard. Slowly, Sherlock slid a hand down his side, then resting it on his hip.
“I believe there are to be rules.”
“Rules?” croaked John.
“Yes, obviously.”
“I thought that would be reserved for proper bondage and power play, that sort of thing.”
Sherlock shook his head, faint amusement on his face. “If you were any more innocent, you’d ooze vanilla. Do try to remember that I have an antisocial personality disorder and that being tied up by me is not and will never be harmless.”
“All right,” John agreed and swallowed, body positively buzzing with adrenaline. “I think we could have a safe word?”
Sherlock smiled appreciatively and gave John’s cock a quick stroke. “You’re a quick study.”
“Ah...well?”
“Well? It’s supposed to be something you wouldn’t normally say. It should be obvious why I can’t pick one.”
John nodded and thought of the head in the fridge. Normal and Sherlock didn’t go well in one sentence.
“All right, all right. It’s solar system.” His voice was nearly a squeak on the last word because Sherlock had started doing this thing with his thumb and, oh God, couldn’t they get on with it already? He tried to will Sherlock into complying.
“No.” Such a small word, one whose existence Sherlock ignored when it came to doing the dishes or going grocery shopping and certainly when it was about body parts in the fridge and acid-based experiments in the bathroom. Yet it was a powerful word, especially when in reply to one of John’s thoughts. Which was slightly terrifying and very arousing. John trembled under Sherlock’s fingers and strained against the constraints that made his own hands useless. Suddenly the desire to touch Sherlock seemed overwhelming. Such an expanse of deliciously pale skin, alluring and tantalising by being just out of reach. John wanted.
Meanwhile Sherlock was watching him with the intensity that was usually reserved for his science projects. His lush mouth was half-open and there was still colour in his cheeks. Even if he hadn’t been naked, John would be in no doubt about his state.
Sherlock, so obviously enjoying having him at his mercy, took his time. He tested which parts of John’s body were the most sensitive, how close he could bring him to the brink of orgasm by merely breathing on his skin, how often he could make John beg. The answer to the last question was often. John didn’t recognise this part of himself. He’d never been vocal, never been so shameless. It was strangely liberating.
Then there was Sherlock’s mouth, his full expressive mouth, wrapped around his cock and John keened. Abruptly, Sherlock pulled away to watch John squirm and moan in protest. He licked, oh god, he licked his lips in that downright obscene way that John had never expected from his flatmate and best friend. It was strange to see Sherlock so sexualised. It’s like he was a different person, more human and more relatable.
But later, when he was done tormenting him with promises of more to come and finally, finally pushed into John, his face contorted, all control abandoned, and it looked feral and scary in its inhumane beauty. And there were his eyes, open at last. Two near-transparent windows to his soul, showing him a glimpse of Sherlock without his many masks and suddenly John understood. He would have given anything to be able to reach out and touch that pale cheek.
But Sherlock must have seen. He leant down and kissed him fiercely, artlessly, stealing his breath. John had never been gladder for the steady efficient rhythm of Sherlock’s hips. He groaned out as he was finally allowed to come, a whimpering mess by now, and Sherlock swallowed the sound, sucked on his tongue and thrust in deep.
***
It was the haziest post-orgasmic bliss he’d ever had. John was limp in a nice, lackadaisical way that put a dopey smile on his face. They lay together entangled like two pairs of old jeans, the silken scarf loosely draped over them. John had no desire to move.
Naturally, Sherlock did. Wordlessly, he got out of bed, stepped into his pyjama bottoms and started pacing. John watched him lazily. Even this erratic Sherlock was somehow soothing. But then Sherlock disappeared into the living room, muttering under his breath, and John heaved a sigh and himself out of bed.
Sherlock was no longer pacing but lay sprawled on the sofa, seemingly content in his solitude. So what, intimacy issues on top of everything else? John felt like laughing hysterically. Instead he pulled the bathrobe tighter and dropped in his armchair. He didn’t have to wait long.
“John?”
“Yes?”
“Offering what you did, that was quite...unexpected and...good of you.”
He could no longer suppress a smile and his gaze shifted to where the long-limbed impossibility fidgeted on the sofa. How had he got into this? Tonight, he had put together a few more pieces of the puzzle that was his flatmate, his, well, lover, and now he understood better than ever how hard it was for Sherlock to appear normal. But he knew a man in need of a reassuring ego-stroking when he saw one, so he told him, “You do know that I enjoyed it? Very much so.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, good.” John got up, still smiling. “Want a cuppa?”
Fin
***
Comments are love. Obviously.
***
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: R
Summary: Sherlock is being a sociopath and not willing to share, and John plays with fire. Miraculously, it all works out.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything, just playing in the Beeb's sandbox. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Talk About The Blind Leading The Visually Challenged
Sex with Sherlock was like…well, it was unlike anything he had ever experienced and that included the girlfriend who was more into his feet than the rest of him.
It was intense. And yes, one would almost feel tempted to say ‘naturally’ because everything about Sherlock was intense. Hovering over him with dishevelled hair, he looked like a force of nature. Destructive and dangerous but ostensibly in control of what he was doing. And John, who liked being surrounded by bullets and grenades, who got his kicks off adrenaline pumping through his veins and of being surrounded by people who were set on killing him, was drawn to dangerous and destructive like a very stupid moth to the flame.
Oh, and Sherlock knew all too well how to turn John into a quivering, incoherent mess. Yet something about this picture was wrong, so wrong that it bothered John even when he was in the admittedly distracting process of getting off. Their foreplay was a give and take but while John loved touching Sherlock, loved exploring the pale skittish creature that seemed more than human at times, it was almost as if Sherlock followed an elaborate mental map he had thought out one long boring Sunday morning. How to best please John Watson. With little check boxes based on evidence Sherlock had deduced after watching John butter his toast and read the newspaper. With ease, a few of Sherlock’s well-placed caresses had John moaning. His long-fingered hands moved with precision, never faltering, never uncertain. Moving against him didn’t exactly leave Sherlock cold, John couldn’t say that, but he never caught these sharp, pale eyes lose their focus and control. And with lifelong-practised understatement, John found it was a tad unsettling.
Things were different when they commenced with the actual fucking. It didn’t speak well of John’s state of mind that he looked forward to being thoroughly, yet selfishly ploughed into the mattress or purposefully shoved against a wall. Sherlock took his pleasure like it was his due. He didn’t play around but moved with intent towards his goal, and he never got sidetracked. And it was fine, it was all fine, because Sherlock wasn’t too quick about it and John got off on the way. Yet never catching a glimpse of his eyes in the throes of passion rankled John. It mattered that Sherlock kept in check whatever lay behind them, that in this moment of intimacy Sherlock shut him out. Why, he couldn’t say. Sherlock shut him out of a good many things, so why was this any different? It was like something very precious was withheld from him, after dangling it on front of his face in arm’s reach during those few moments.
John, however, could be very tenacious, even when he was half out his mind with lust. So he was watching, always watching. Watching Sherlock had become an obsession before they’d even started this. Which hadn’t come as a surprise, not really, even though John had never done it with a man before. Sherlock had.
“This isn’t new to you, is it?” he remembered asking. He had been surprised by Sherlock’s nonchalance and practised charm, which had surfaced the moment they’d stopped dancing around each other, the first time John had submitted to Sherlock’s otherworldly attraction and just grabbed and kissed him.
Sherlock had let out a long-suffering sigh and replied, “I wish I could solve the mystery of why people are so preoccupied with each other’s sexuality. Does it matter?”
No, it kind of didn’t. John had got used to listening to assumptions made about Sherlock, about him, about both of them. He had grown tired of denying and correcting. He never got tired of Sherlock’s sphinx-like character and their bizarre adventures and he was about to discover that his friend’s angular slenderness held its own fascination.
“One can always trust ordinary people to obsess over trivialities,” Sherlock had gone on and John had agreed. Only that he was one of those people and sometimes he wondered why Sherlock bothered with him at all. Surely, it wasn’t just for the single fact that John appreciated (Sally Donovan called it fangirling, which it wasn’t, thank you very much) his work? Not knowing the answer to this question made him uneasy, which was why he had started watching Sherlock for clues in the first place.
“You’re distracted.”
Oops. “Sorry, I was --. Sorry.” His wandering mind must have shown. A rather irritated Sherlock looming on bony knees - which was oddly appealing and, oh dear, he was far gone - was not something John had wanted to achieve.
“So what is it?” Sherlock huffed impatiently, clearly not okay with John’s mind being elsewhere when they were both naked and visibly excited.
“There is no way you’re going to drop this, is there?” John asked hopefully.
“Whatever is distracting you is clearly of some importance or else your hormones would block it out. Of course I want to know what it is.”
“You’re not. Well. You’re not enjoying this, are you? I mean.” John flailed a bit. He may have been a doctor but he had never been good at speaking his mind in bed. Calling a spade a spade - that was not John’s way when it came to pillow talk. He usually took the back road and tried telepathy. Luckily, he had quit therapy before they reached this particular area of his private life, though now it may have been beneficial to be prepared.
“You need to be more precise because your juvenile stuttering doesn’t explain anything.”
Well, he probably deserved that.
“I mean the touching.”
Sherlock tilted his head, pale eyes intense. “It’s an essential part of sexual intercourse. The absence of pleasure would make it non-consensual. Your virtue is intact, John, as I am very consenting.”
John hiccoughed something between a laugh and a sigh. He really had to grow a pair, quickly. “Perhaps you could try to enjoy the journey a little more, not just reaching the destination?”
“Your metaphors are a bit pathetic.”
“Yes. Yes, I know. But effective and non-ambiguous.”
Sherlock’s mouth twitched. And surprisingly, when John pulled him into a kiss, he seemed keen on following John’s advice. His hands felt cool and steady, yet they had slowed down, moved less deliberately. A warm, victorious feeling spread in John’s chest.
It didn’t last long. It was replaced by throbbing, desperate need. His body was on edge and he wanted. Oh, he wanted! Wanted Sherlock to stop withdrawing, to stop teasing, and push into him already. Why had he ever complained? This was so much worse. He could almost feel his mind dribbling out of his ears in tune with every single one of Sherlock’s strokes.
“Please.” The word seemed to fly from his lips, frantic to get out. It bounced around the otherwise silent room. Sherlock stilled.
And before John knew what was happening, Sherlock had his arms pinned over his head and said, “No.” The wave of arousal surging through him paralysed his abilities to speak and move. Instead he breathed and stared into nearly colourless eyes. There was a spark there he hadn’t seen before. John licked his lips and finally strained against Sherlock’s vice-like grip.
Stupid, stupid. He could have slapped himself, suddenly sobered by his grand discovery. Now he only had to test the theory.
“Please, Sherlock. Just...please.” He nearly purred the words, possibly overdoing it a little, but the result left nothing to be desired. A tremor ran through Sherlock and he let go of John’s wrists as if burnt. He looked startled but his eyes were still alight with excitement. Slowly and persistently, a self-satisfied smile crept on John’s face. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.
Without thinking it through, John rolled over and fumbled for the little cardboard box under his bed. It contained nothing spectacular: a few dog-eared magazines, condoms, a dark red pair of boxer shorts (his good one) and a silken scarf he had inherited from the woman he had been dating before he was debarked. John knew Sherlock was peeking - it was hard to miss, as he felt him breathing down his neck. He turned and gave him a long hard look. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.
“Problem?”
“You’re excited. Actually excited. This isn’t something you’ve done before, is it?”
“Excellent observation. I see the time you spent on my website hasn’t been a waste entirely,” Sherlock replied nastily. Nasty was good. Sherlock was usually only nasty if a remark hit close to home.
“I’m just curious.” Fingering the scarf and seeing how itchy it made Sherlock was just too good to be true. John smiled at him indulgently, for once having the upper hand. Sherlock looked away, then back at him, his mind doing acrobatics, no doubt.
“No. No, John, I haven’t. People don’t usually trust me with ropes or scarves around them, which isn’t at all surprising, since you yourself are constantly complaining about my lack of social skills and the absence of a moral radar and even Lestrade expects me to become a serial killer once solving crimes loses its appeal.” Sherlock rattled on in his monotone voice, skilfully keeping any emotions at bay. His body spoke a different language. He looked as tense and nervous as John had ever seen him.
John listened and observed carefully, tuned in to reading between the lines. And what he understood was that no one had ever trusted Sherlock. Period. No one had ever willingly put his life in his hands, had lain back and trusted him to keep him safe. How utterly, heartbreakingly sad. How sensible. Instincts cannot be faked and the first instinct most people had around Sherlock was that they should get far away from him and his piercing gaze. And of course, of course, Sherlock got off on people being at his mercy, begging him to do anything. Good thing John’s instincts were fucked up and the twitch of his cock told him that he may get off on that, too.
“I should tell you that as an addict I have low impulse control. You may want to think this through,” Sherlock told him, voice detached.
John’s mind boggled. A warning. An actual warning. From Sherlock. This was so considerate. If he hadn’t been so horny, John might have appreciated it more and, well, thought it through. But things were what they were and for some reason he really wanted to be tied down and give in to the illusion to be entirely at Sherlock’s mercy. Not that he ever said no to Sherlock anyway.
Which was why he said, “I’m a soldier and a doctor. I can take care of myself, thank you.”
“Not when you’re tied up,” Sherlock provided in a gravelly voice, his cheeks slightly flushed. The sight sent a new wave of arousal through John’s body. He was doomed.
And so it began. This was how John found his wrists tied together securely over his head, and then bound to the headboard. Slowly, Sherlock slid a hand down his side, then resting it on his hip.
“I believe there are to be rules.”
“Rules?” croaked John.
“Yes, obviously.”
“I thought that would be reserved for proper bondage and power play, that sort of thing.”
Sherlock shook his head, faint amusement on his face. “If you were any more innocent, you’d ooze vanilla. Do try to remember that I have an antisocial personality disorder and that being tied up by me is not and will never be harmless.”
“All right,” John agreed and swallowed, body positively buzzing with adrenaline. “I think we could have a safe word?”
Sherlock smiled appreciatively and gave John’s cock a quick stroke. “You’re a quick study.”
“Ah...well?”
“Well? It’s supposed to be something you wouldn’t normally say. It should be obvious why I can’t pick one.”
John nodded and thought of the head in the fridge. Normal and Sherlock didn’t go well in one sentence.
“All right, all right. It’s solar system.” His voice was nearly a squeak on the last word because Sherlock had started doing this thing with his thumb and, oh God, couldn’t they get on with it already? He tried to will Sherlock into complying.
“No.” Such a small word, one whose existence Sherlock ignored when it came to doing the dishes or going grocery shopping and certainly when it was about body parts in the fridge and acid-based experiments in the bathroom. Yet it was a powerful word, especially when in reply to one of John’s thoughts. Which was slightly terrifying and very arousing. John trembled under Sherlock’s fingers and strained against the constraints that made his own hands useless. Suddenly the desire to touch Sherlock seemed overwhelming. Such an expanse of deliciously pale skin, alluring and tantalising by being just out of reach. John wanted.
Meanwhile Sherlock was watching him with the intensity that was usually reserved for his science projects. His lush mouth was half-open and there was still colour in his cheeks. Even if he hadn’t been naked, John would be in no doubt about his state.
Sherlock, so obviously enjoying having him at his mercy, took his time. He tested which parts of John’s body were the most sensitive, how close he could bring him to the brink of orgasm by merely breathing on his skin, how often he could make John beg. The answer to the last question was often. John didn’t recognise this part of himself. He’d never been vocal, never been so shameless. It was strangely liberating.
Then there was Sherlock’s mouth, his full expressive mouth, wrapped around his cock and John keened. Abruptly, Sherlock pulled away to watch John squirm and moan in protest. He licked, oh god, he licked his lips in that downright obscene way that John had never expected from his flatmate and best friend. It was strange to see Sherlock so sexualised. It’s like he was a different person, more human and more relatable.
But later, when he was done tormenting him with promises of more to come and finally, finally pushed into John, his face contorted, all control abandoned, and it looked feral and scary in its inhumane beauty. And there were his eyes, open at last. Two near-transparent windows to his soul, showing him a glimpse of Sherlock without his many masks and suddenly John understood. He would have given anything to be able to reach out and touch that pale cheek.
But Sherlock must have seen. He leant down and kissed him fiercely, artlessly, stealing his breath. John had never been gladder for the steady efficient rhythm of Sherlock’s hips. He groaned out as he was finally allowed to come, a whimpering mess by now, and Sherlock swallowed the sound, sucked on his tongue and thrust in deep.
***
It was the haziest post-orgasmic bliss he’d ever had. John was limp in a nice, lackadaisical way that put a dopey smile on his face. They lay together entangled like two pairs of old jeans, the silken scarf loosely draped over them. John had no desire to move.
Naturally, Sherlock did. Wordlessly, he got out of bed, stepped into his pyjama bottoms and started pacing. John watched him lazily. Even this erratic Sherlock was somehow soothing. But then Sherlock disappeared into the living room, muttering under his breath, and John heaved a sigh and himself out of bed.
Sherlock was no longer pacing but lay sprawled on the sofa, seemingly content in his solitude. So what, intimacy issues on top of everything else? John felt like laughing hysterically. Instead he pulled the bathrobe tighter and dropped in his armchair. He didn’t have to wait long.
“John?”
“Yes?”
“Offering what you did, that was quite...unexpected and...good of you.”
He could no longer suppress a smile and his gaze shifted to where the long-limbed impossibility fidgeted on the sofa. How had he got into this? Tonight, he had put together a few more pieces of the puzzle that was his flatmate, his, well, lover, and now he understood better than ever how hard it was for Sherlock to appear normal. But he knew a man in need of a reassuring ego-stroking when he saw one, so he told him, “You do know that I enjoyed it? Very much so.”
“Obviously.”
“Well, good.” John got up, still smiling. “Want a cuppa?”
Fin
***
Comments are love. Obviously.
***