Evidence of Human Life - part 2
part one
John was sitting near the morning remains of the fire, balancing a few sticks atop it to keep it going. Fuelling the bloody fire was nearly a full time job, with no proper logs. This, however, was no longer Sherlock's concern (had it ever been?), and he cleared the straw to the foot of the shelter, spread the seal skin flat, then took it up again, spread the straw beneath it in an even layer, and settled the skin on top of that. He tested it with his hands. Much better. The seal skin had a funny odour. Not decay, not quite, but it perhaps had not been tanned quite properly. That was of absolutely no consequence. Sherlock sat back and looked expectantly at John, who hesitated minutely.
"Take all that off," Sherlock instructed, and began unbuttoning his own shirt. He had lost his trousers somewhere, no matter. He stripped himself bare and waited for John to catch up. John carefully set his clothes atop the roof and awkwardly knelt.
"Lie flat," Sherlock said. John did.
Finally. Sherlock had John's entire body laid out before him, defenceless, at his mercy. Sherlock started at his toes. The nails had grown ragged and had collected crescents of dirt beneath them. He had cut his right foot on something, not a stone: an oyster shell along the beach. The wound was several days old, but Sherlock hadn't noticed a limp. It hadn't fully pierced the thick callus, had probably bled very little.
John's ankles were in good working order, narrow in relation to his calves, which were well shaped. John's legs were tanned from going sometimes trouserless on the island, but he usually wore his socks and shoes, so there was a subtle difference in skin tone. John's shins were dotted with childhood scars; scraped knees and sports injuries. He had been active in his youth, a predilection that had carried over to adulthood. Of particular note was the long scar along his right outer knee. It was surgical and bespoke of an operation, recent enough to have been sustained in the war, but not grave enough to compromise mobility, hence the inconsistent limp. John's penis was uncircumcised and lay limp along the crevice of his thigh. The foreskin was dark and puckered at the end, resting against a nest of pale curls.
Navel; inverted, but barely. Sherlock had seen all these things in their time here. Necessity had long eclipsed modesty, but this was the first time he had been at leisure to examine. Swirls of darker, coarser hair swirled down to John's groin, and Sherlock grazed his fingertips along this. Softer than it looked. His pubic hair as well was finer than Sherlock's; blond hair nearly always was.
John's abdominal muscles were well formed, and prominent now with their limited diet. Broad pectorals, square shoulders, the scar, of course, which Sherlock had seen. John was staring resolutely at what passed for their ceiling, and Sherlock regarded him for a moment.
"I want you to suck me," Sherlock said. He was half hard already, and he positioned himself against the flatter of their stone surfaces, spreading his legs as John nestled himself between them. Haltingly, John lowered his head, his knees drawn beneath him and both hands braced on the ground. Sherlock watched him, rapt, breath ghosting from his parted lips. John took the head of Sherlock's penis in his mouth, and Sherlock breathed in sharply through his nose. Good. John tentatively tongued the head, and Sherlock gripped his own thighs, white knuckled. John sucked him further in, and Sherlock's attention honed in solely on the slide of his shaft between John's slick lips: it was fantastic to watch. John's head bobbed, his nose brushing Sherlock's skin, and when he came back up Sherlock's cock glistened with his saliva. Sherlock watched his head move, watched the way his cheeks hollowed when he figured out the suction. And he sucked Sherlock's cock, and when pleasure spiralled through Sherlock's veins, he seized John's head in both hands and stopped him with his mouth right at the tip. He wanted to watch just this, just John with his lips at the end of Sherlock's erection, the whole length of it before him. Sherlock rammed his hips upward, and at the same time he jerked down on John's head, once, twice. John gagged and tried to twist away, but Sherlock held him firmly. John belonged to him now. He choked on Sherlock's staff but Sherlock didn't let him go.
Sherlock guided John away from him and rolled them over so that John was positioned beneath him. He trailed his nose along John's chest and nuzzled the hair at his navel, then suddenly drew still. There seemed to be no sound, not even the wind. Not the ocean, not the rustling grass, or the snapping sound of the fire. There was just John's jagged breathing. He was tense and still. Something was wrong. It was Sherlock. Sherlock was very, very wrong, and the thought twisted unpleasantly inside him. Why was he wrong, what had happened? Sherlock tried to collect himself and make sense of what had happened. He pondered this with his forehead pressed to John's hip. He had frightened his John, he had hurt him.
They were on the island. They had fallen off the boat. They had killed a seal. They had cut it up and cooked it, and Sherlock had dreamed of a dog and fallen onto the beach, and then John had come and they were here. Sherlock took long, even breaths. They were on the island because they were usually in London. That's where they were from, from Baker Street. The fire sound started up, then the ocean, then the wind. Sherlock gave a shuddering sigh, and planted a delicate kiss on John's hip. He sought John's neck and kissed below his jaw. John lay very still. Sherlock rolled off him and pulled him in close, tucking his head beneath his chin.
"John," Sherlock said, and it was a question, uncertain.
"Yeah."
Sherlock shuddered and squeezed John tightly, and rubbed his cheek against John's ear. He breathed. After a time John began to relax, and Sherlock nuzzled his head up, carefully seeking his lips. He kissed him softly, rolled him slowly onto his back and kissed him deeper, capturing his lower lip, caressing. With a gentle breath, John opened his mouth, the tip of his tongue awaiting Sherlock's. Sherlock met him and pressed heavily in, one hand smoothing down John's side to thread through the curls at John's groin. John arched up into him, his fingertips hesitant at Sherlock's hip, his shoulder, his jaw. In the midst of a kiss, Sherlock began to smile, then laugh. John pulled away and looked him in the eye.
"What?" he said, half laughing himself. An inexplicable sense of joy welled up inside Sherlock, and he looked at John and tenderly stroked the side of his face. He so badly needed a shave and a wash. Sherlock kissed him firmly, then pressed the length of his body flush up along John's and moaned into his neck. John's legs spread for him, and Sherlock ground their hips together. John grasped at him, leveraging his heels against the ground to press upwards, and Sherlock could feel John's cock hardening between them. He found John's lips again, kissing him languidly and thrusting up against him.
"Please, John," Sherlock whispered against him. "Please, I want to fuck you so badly, I've wanted to, please." John stilled, but only tensed minutely. Sherlock waited, his face pressed warmly to the crook of John's neck. John twisted to look at Sherlock, and Sherlock raised his head to meet John's eye. He was searching for something, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock's own. He let out a breath, took another, pressed his lips into a line. Sherlock waited.
"Alright," John breathed. Sherlock waited still. "Alright." John looked over towards the fire. He looked back at Sherlock. "You can use the seal oil, probably."
That seemed...well. Sherlock clearly hadn't thought out the logistics of this operation. "Is that safe?" he asked. John laughed.
"Fuck, I don't know. What are we going to do? We're stuck here." John covered his eyes with his hand, grinning still. "I don't know. We eat it. It's probably fine."
Sherlock sat back on his knees. John kept the oil in a bag he had fashioned from the seal bladder, stored on a low rock shelf he had set up just outside the shelter. Sherlock retrieved it, and returned to kneel beside John. He pulled open the leather drawstring, looked skeptically between the contents and John. His erection was not quite withering, but it had quailed a bit.
"This..." he began, "is distinctly unsanitary."
John laughed again and looked squarely at Sherlock. His eyes glittered mirthfully. "It's hardly the most unsanitary thing my arse has seen." Sherlock wasn't sure. "Look, it's been cooked, hasn't it? And why am I convincing you?"
Sherlock dipped two fingers into the bag. It was true that they did eat it every day. He didn't see how consuming it rectally could possibly be any worse. He held up his fingers and watched the slick substance sluice down. John groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Oh my god."
Sherlock looked at him intently. Yes, this would be perfectly sufficient. He crawled over John's leg, settling between his knees with the seal oil set to one side. He gently spread John's legs, coaxing him to fold his knees. John wasn't laughing anymore. Sherlock pressed his slick fingers to the back of John's scrotum, stroking cautiously. He gathered John's prick in his other hand, working the foreskin along the staff.
"I want you to look at me," Sherlock said, his voice low. John met his eye for a moment, then dropped his head back to look at the ceiling. "Look at me, John." Sherlock wanted to see his eyes when he pressed slowly into him. John's mouth was slightly open. His eyes were closed. Sherlock rubbed his thumb along the head of John's cock and stroked upwards with his fingers. "John." John glanced at him briefly, and Sherlock stood and snatched John's clothes from off the roof. His shoes were set nearby and Sherlock swiftly bundled these things together, propped them beneath John's head, and resumed his position between John's knees. "Look at me," he said, and pressed his finger to John's hole. John's nostrils flared. He opened his eyes and met Sherlock's gaze in something akin to a challenge, but Sherlock didn't want a challenge. He stroked his fingers up towards John's balls, fondled them lightly while he stroked his shaft. He ran his fingers along the thin skin of John's inner thighs, then reached for the bag of oil.
"No!" John said, and half sat up. "Don't - wait - "
Oh, of course. He'd been stroking John's anus with those fingers. Inconvenient technicalities, but the oil was important for more than just sex. John fumbled for something he couldn't reach, patting the ground around him.
"There's a shell," he said. Sherlock rose to hunt for the shell. This was patently absurd. There it was, near the fire. He fetched it and then knelt back down between John's legs. He carefully poured a bit of the oil into the basin of the shell. Some of it dribbled onto the seal skin, but the reeking thing was waterproof, so it hardly mattered. Sherlock pulled the drawstring closed and handed the bladder bag abruptly to John.
"Get this away from me," he said. John chuckled and set it aside.
"Now," Sherlock said, and caught John's eye sternly. "You are to watch me, John. Am I clear?"
John swallowed and nodded.
"Good."
Sherlock dipped his fingers into the stupid shell that was tipping over. He coated them thoroughly and slapped his fingers somewhat impatiently to John's bum. John made a small noise. Sherlock took a calming breath, then wrapped his fingers once more around John's cock. He pulled the foreskin up over the head, then slowly drew it back down; firm, slow, even strokes. He pressed the length of his oiled finger along John's anus, and looked at him intently. John's breath had gone short, but he hadn't looked away.
"Good," Sherlock said, his voice deepening into a purr. He stroked downwards, between John's cheeks and felt the ring of muscle clench when it brushed his knuckles. So perfect. So gorgeous. Sherlock brought his hand back up, cradled John's balls, then returned his fingertip to the hole. John was breathing through parted lips, and his eyelids had grown heavy. Sherlock swirled his thumb beneath the head of John's shaft, then rubbed tightly over the slit. John's breath hitched, and Sherlock pressed in the tip of his finger. John's eyes slid closed.
"Look at me."
His eyes opened, heavy and dark. Sherlock began to press in his finger, and he felt John tense, heard his breath tighten anxiously.
"Stop, John. Let me in."
With his free hand Sherlock lightly petted John's leg, rubbed soothingly along his hip, the length of his thigh, down to the knee and back up again. He relaxed, and Sherlock turned his finger, just a bit. John's eyes drifted closed.
"Look at me," Sherlock whispered. They opened. Sherlock slid his finger deeper in. It was so warm and tight; John would feel so much better around his cock. Sherlock leaned forward and once again gripped John's erection. John's lips were pink and parted, and Sherlock wanted badly to kiss him, to claim those lips with his own and dominate him. He pushed his first finger all the way in, and slowly drew it out. John's breath shallowed into a heady pant, and Sherlock pushed back in. He dropped his lips to John's shaft and suckled the tip. John made a sound that was half a breath and half a murmured cry. Sherlock drew his finger out and slowly pushed back in. John's hips flexed and Sherlock took him into his mouth, tonguing the head and then sucking hard. John gasped, pressing upwards, and the motion caused him to clench around Sherlock's finger. Oh, it would be so good.
"Watch, John," Sherlock said, drawing out and adding the tip of his second finger. It stretched and John hissed, then panted as Sherlock pressed in deeper, slowly, then twisted his fingers. He gave John's cock a few quick strokes, and John's head dropped back but swiftly snapped up again to meet Sherlock's eye. Good. Sherlock inched out and pressed slowly back in.
Sherlock's cock was aching hard by the time he had three fingers deep inside John, thrusting lightly and soothing the muscle. He sucked off the fluid that had beaded at the tip of John's cock and evened out his strokes, moving firmly in and out. Every breath was a stifled cry on John's lips, and Sherlock leaned close over him, his movement paused.
"I'm going to now," Sherlock said, and John nodded desperately. Good. So good. "It's bigger," Sherlock warned.
"Oh God, Sherlock, please." John's breath was so deliciously ragged with want. Sherlock caught his lips briefly and John strained forward to keep the contact. Sherlock pulled his fingers out and fumbled for the oyster shell. Half its contents spilled as Sherlock scooped up what he could and slathered it over his cock. Oh God, it was going to feel so good. He wanted it so badly. He fit up against John's entrance, guiding his cock with his oiled hand. He felt the heat from John's body at the head, and Sherlock caught his breath, halting before he did something stupid and hurt his precious John.
John whimpered and nosed the side of Sherlock's head. "Mm, please do it, Sherlock, please," he whispered. Sherlock drew back to look at his face. He was flushed and sweating, and he stilled when he met Sherlock's eye. Sherlock pushed in.
John's jaw dropped open as he panted, then snapped shut as he took quick, pained breaths through his nose. Each one held an aborted moan, and oh, dear God, it felt so good. Oh God. Sherlock slid in until his hips pressed flush along John's skin. He relaxed just a bit and then thrust in deeper. Oh God, it was everything, it felt so -
He looked down at where they were joined. It was so impossibly good. He let himself slide out of John and watched himself thrust back in. "Oh God, John," Sherlock breathed. He slid out again, and slowly, slowly watched himself disappear inside John. Oh, it was marvelous. He did it again.
"I want you to see," he said, and pulled John up. He sat back on his heels so John straddled his hips, then shifted and lay slowly down so John was on top. "I want you to see, John. Watch."
John braced his hands on either side and raised his hips. He shifted his weight to one side and held his testicles out of the way. He looked at Sherlock's shaft between them, then he eased himself down with a breathy moan. He rose again, gripping his cock, and slid down more quickly this time. He stroked himself in time to his movements. "Oh," he said. "Oh."
This was easily the best thing that had ever happened to Sherlock - watching John fuck himself on Sherlock's cock. It wasn't gong to last very long, and Sherlock wanted it to last forever. "Stop," he said, and grasped John's hips. He caught John's wrist and pulled his hand away from himself. John's cock bobbed stiffly in the air, and Sherlock was so hard inside him. Sherlock caught his breath, running his hands up and down John's thighs.
"Squeeze," he said, and John did, squeezed so tight around him Sherlock wanted, he just wanted - he reached up for John, pulled him down and kissed him, long and hard. He sat up and forced John onto his back. He ran his fingertips down John's stomach, then around his own shaft where it entered John. So beautiful, it was so good. John clenched around him again and Sherlock groaned. There wouldn't be enough. He pulled out and John sucked in a breath.
Sherlock turned John onto his side, then sidled up close behind him. This was how it was going to be. He guided himself back inside, stilled John's hips as he thrust back. He gathered both John's wrists in his hand so he wouldn't masturbate, and then he lay still, nestled deep inside. Perfect.
After awhile, John began to squirm. "Sherlock," he murmured, then shifted. Sherlock squeezed his wrists in warning, and he stopped.
The next time John squirmed it was with a small noise akin to a whine. Sherlock held him firmly, revelling in the endorphins coursing through him, the tingling just below the surface of his skin. John was his now, he was Sherlock's. Next time, maybe not next time, the time after that, perhaps Sherlock would truss him up, put a prosthetic penis in that tight little arsehole and leave him there on the living room carpet. He would tend to an experiment in the meantime, and when John got too vocal Sherlock would gag him and leave him there longer, with a cock up his arse and unable to move, oh, it would be -
Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's spine, feathered them across his shoulders and his neck. He lifted his head and nuzzled John's ear, and when John tilted up to him Sherlock bit down on that space just below his jaw. He suckled hard on that spot, and when John jerked beneath him Sherlock tightened his grip on John's wrists and brought his arms in closer. John tried to twist away but there was nowhere to go. Sherlock deepened the bite, then pulled back, brushed an open kiss over it, and examined the mark. Oh yes, that would bruise nicely.
Sherlock spared a glance at John's groin, straining dark and swollen. He released John's wrists to trail a finger down John's length. John's hips jerked and he clenched around Sherlock, whose cock was again swiftly swelling to full. Sherlock traced John's cock from the base to the tip. "You are not to touch it. Do you understand?"
John released a breath through his teeth. He was so gorgeous, and now with the bruise.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," John cried. "Yes, oh God, Sherlock please. Please. Please." His voice was a perfectly desperate little whimper. He wanted so badly to be fucked, didn't he. Sherlock rested his hand flat on John's hip, then stroked up and down his side. "Please, Sherlock, please." John's eyes were clenched shut and he opened his mouth in a silent cry. Sherlock thrust his hips and the moan burst forth, hoarse and shamelessly loud.
"Good," Sherlock said, and thrust again. His self control was breaking. No matter. He had reduced John to a begging mess, desperate for more of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's length and pumped him vigorously, thrusting in time. John's cries were constant and raw, louder every time Sherlock's balls slapped against his arse. He clenched down hard and came explosively, spurting all over the seal skin. Sherlock leaned over him, forced him face down, and thrust mercilessly inside until orgasm swept through him and his hips jerked tight, convulsively.
Spent, Sherlock stroked languidly in and out and in again, and then he collapsed on top of John and lay there a moment, feeling the sweaty slickness between their skin. Sherlock pulled out delicately and rolled off to the side. He was in a small puddle of oil and was lying on the oyster shell. He lifted his hip and swept it aside with all the irritation he could muster in his sated state, which was admittedly very little. He sighed deeply and brushed a hand down his chest. He looked at John, still panting beside him, and felt something giddy pass over his heart. He sidled up next to John and pulled him around, and spooned up close behind him. It was still too hot, quite frankly, but Sherlock didn't care. He wanted to feel John's sweat, and smell how badly he needed a proper bath, and listen to his heart through the gnarled white tissue of his Afghanistan scar.
"Should have done that ages ago," John panted. Sherlock squeezed him tightly and nosed the line of his spine.
"John," he said. "All of my ideas are always good." This was a boldfaced lie, but John laughed anyway.
It was easier, in a way, now that they were having sex. Sherlock still felt angry roughly seventy percent of the time; bored, frustrated, so much that it was a physical hurt. He jumped into the ocean once, onto the rocks. Not as an experiment, not to test anything, simply because it would hurt, and in the split second that he fell, Sherlock felt thrilled, and when he crashed through the water and split his skin on the rocks, he felt nothing, just physical pain from outside of his body, and that he understood. He could identify the source and blame it, not the crushing, claustrophobic nothing that came from being trapped inside his mind. John had fished him out and slapped him about, yelling, and Sherlock could hardly hear what he said. He was watching the blood run down his shins. John had strung Sherlock up right there on the beach with his shirtsleeves and shoe laces, then patched him up with sterilized seal oil still hot from the fire, and strips of leather cut from the pelt. What a useful thing that seal had been. The iPhone of the primitive world. Well, that didn't make sense. What Sherlock meant was that it served multiple purposes, much as his precious iPhone had. Oh, iPhone, oh microscope, oh morgue, oh murders -
"Shut up!" John said.
But. John wouldn't let Sherlock fuck him when he was being crazy, so Sherlock struggled to keep this behavior to a minimum. Fucking John was the only thing Sherlock liked about this island, something he had never had in Baker Street. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, then sucked in a sharp breath and expelled it quickly. He looked around. Christ, he had really hurt himself.
"John," Sherlock said, urgently. John checked to see that he was lucid. "John, I'm sorry. That was unconscionable. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."
John sighed and finished tying off the bandage. "You could have really been hurt." He looked at Sherlock and his eyes were sad.
Sherlock dreamed he led John to a gas chamber and put him inside with a hundred other nameless, naked people. He watched through a small, rectangular window as John stood fretfully amidst them, and when the air began to go bad the people panicked and began to climb atop one another, and John scrambled through the frantic mass, clawing and crying and straining to reach the clear air at the top of the room, and Sherlock watched calmly from his rectangular window. He had a notebook in his hand.
Sherlock woke up screaming and sobbing uncontrollably. His protests were incoherent and he fought John's restraining hands to stagger outside, where he ducked against the side of the shelter, against John's wall. He wasn't - that hadn't -
"Sherlock," John said, so worried. He lay a soothing hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock jerked away and stumbled blindly towards the stream. He hadn't, that - he stepped into the water that was running colder every day. He knelt, then lay on his side and let it soak into his hair and his clothes, washing frigidly around him. He curled in around himself and lay until he was too cold to think of the dream. Then John pulled him out of the water and led him back to the camp, stripped off the wet clothes and wrapped him in the coat. He rubbed briskly up and down Sherlock's arms and his back, then held him.
"I dreamed I did something terrible," Sherlock said. John hushed him and didn't ask what it was. He wrapped them both up in the seal skin that smelled a bit off, and let Sherlock sleep against his chest.
"I do try," Sherlock said. He was somewhat offended.
"I know you do," John said wearily.
They were walking around the island. It was not quite noon, which meant they had already checked the lines, rebaited the hooks, salted the fish and smoked them, tidied up the camp, attempted to shave with the army knife, had a good exfoliating sand bath, washed the clothes, wrung them out and strewn them over the roof, and gotten into an argument over astrology, of which Sherlock knew nothing but had not dismissed, and which John viewed with extreme skepticism. Then they had had a quick shag, and now they were presumably gathering firewood, but had fallen back to the topic of Sherlock's deteriorating mental health.
They paused and looked over Seal Beach, still empty. The wind had picked up as it always did when the morning wore on. It was now a bit chilly to be strolling about in the nude, as they were. Arms folded, Sherlock and John silently watched the sea. If they were forced to weather a winter here and the seals didn't return, they would likely die. They hadn't enough resources to battle the cold. But, they could easily grow long warm beards like mountain men, and were fighting a losing battle against this already, so it went to show there was always a silver lining.
"Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side," Sherlock sang out clearly. John looked at him with his expression of extreme scepticism.
"You really are insane," he said. Sherlock grinned. He reached for John's hips and pulled him close, tilted his head and pecked his lips chastely. Then he tucked John against him, nuzzling his hair, and like this he looked out over the empty, grey sea.
The seals did return. Sherlock thought this because the fish had been behaving oddly, shuttling out of the water in nervous shoals. When he checked Seal Beach at midday he saw their big slug-like bodies draped across the stones and he had dropped back immediately, circled round and crept up to peer over the edge of the cliff. Yes, they had definitely returned, crowded only slightly closer to the water than they had been for the first kill. Sherlock edged away, then sprinted back to camp where John was lying bare-chested and slug-like himself on the seal pelt in the sun. Sherlock tripped on a clump of grass, took a hard shoulder into the dirt, and rolled back to standing without missing a beat.
"John. Johnjohnjohn."
John shaded his face and looked at Sherlock with one eye squinted shut. Sherlock rifled frantically through their meagre collection of primitive tools. Where was the club? Ah, there it was, by the wall.
"Get your knife. The seals are here."
John scrambled to his feet and cast about for his shoes. "How many?" he asked.
"All of them. We have to get as many as we can." It didn't matter if the meat went to waste. They needed the pelts. Shoes on, John fetched his knife, and they took off, tacking inland to keep their scent off the breeze.
"It's not going to be as easy this time," John said as they crept up slowly. The beach was well protected by the steep banks surrounding it, and they wouldn't be able to saunter so casually in as they had the first time. They would have to be cautious, painstakingly slow. They pulled back once more, maneuvering to the point that would allow them access, and inched forward until the grass could provide them no more cover.
"I'll try to head them off," Sherlock said. He was the quicker in a pinch, and had the longer range weapon. He took off at a sudden sprint, skidding down the slope to the stony beach. The seals reacted immediately, sliding into the sea, but Sherlock cut into the herd, causing some to have to veer off course. He wielded his club indiscriminately, always aiming for the head but never striking more than one blow. Some of the seals recovered and slipped away, but the dazed ones John quickly finished with the knife. Then they stood on the stones, panting and slick with sweat, John up to his elbows in blood. Sherlock swiped the sweat from his lip and surveyed their kill; not as many as it had seemed, but plenty, nonetheless. They had two pups, one large seal, and two small to mid-sized. Enough for winter clothes, perhaps sufficient to roof the shelter properly. Excellent. It was a lot of meat, but with diligence they could salt the entire batch.
Sherlock looked at John, who had smeared blood in mopping the sweat from his brow. He was breathing heavily and had something of a giddy smile playing about his lips. He looked at Sherlock and broke into a full on grin. Sherlock felt the familiar coiling tension in the pit of his belly, heightened by the adrenaline singing through his veins. John's grin faded and Sherlock took a slow, deliberately predatory step towards him. He trailed his club on the ground and let it fall. John's arousal was prominent against his trousers, which were spattered now with blood from the kill. Sherlock approached him, and John's breath went shallow. His pupils were wide and dark. He sank at the hips as Sherlock drew closer, unconsciously canting his body at all the irresistibly submissive angles, his head tilted and mouth open just so. Sherlock took the knife from him and closed it; carefully stowed it in his own pocket. John wet his lips and sank just a fraction lower. Sherlock grabbed his hips and rutted once against him, feeling the stiffness of John's erection grind against his own. Perfect. So perfect. John's knees gave as Sherlock rutted again, savouring the friction of his trousers against his rigid cock. He lowered John to the ground and forced him onto his back, pressing him down against the stones. He ground their hips together, picking up speed. John's hands clutched at Sherlock's buttocks as he thrust desperately against him, never enough contact, never too much. Sherlock wanted him to come in his trousers, he wanted that hot mess seeping into his clothes, for him to live with the evidence of what he had done, of what Sherlock reduced him to.
John got his feet beneath him, raising his hips in that please-fuck-me gesture, and his breath tore hoarsely from his throat. "Ah. Sherlock, hah -" he said, his voice beginning to climb. He was getting close. Sherlock dropped his weight on top of him, burying his face against John's neck. He snapped his hips sharply and then nipped him, catching his skin between his teeth. John cried out and jerked away, but scrabbled all the more at Sherlock's back, pulling him closer with bruising force. He wanted it so badly. There was never enough. Sherlock kept his rhythm fast and hard, and soon John tensed beneath him, his breath tightening into a needy cry. His hips jerked convulsively and Sherlock knew he had come, soaking the front of his trousers. Sherlock quickly sat back on his heels, freed his erection and pumped it vigorously. He leaned over John and braced on one arm, groaned loudly as that coiled feeling snapped and coursed through him. His ejaculate spurted over John's bare chest, marking him: mine.
John took heaving breaths beneath him, spent. Sherlock leaned forward until their foreheads touched. A bead of sweat ran down the end of his nose. He was, by far, the luckiest man on earth. John leaned up and closed the distance between their lips. He nudged Sherlock's nose, kissed him again, and then flopped back onto the rocks. Sherlock lay down beside him. He caught John's wrist and drew up his hand. Hm, it was still covered in blood. Sherlock kissed it anyway.
They converted their shelter into a smoke-house and slept outside until the meat had cured; several days. They were thin on salt and had to use more wood than they could afford cultivating it from seawater. The days were getting short, and it rained distressingly often, but John secured the old pelt over the shelter, which was much more efficient than just the grass, and it kept the new hides dry until they were workable and adequately tanned.
They had enough meat to last a long while, but Sherlock dreaded the thought of being stranded through winter. It was enough to nearly send him over the edge at times, but John was careful to keep him busy, almost tediously so. Sherlock was churlish and cross a lot of the time. He snapped at John, but he didn't go crazy. Sometimes John snapped back and they fought, and then had violent sex against the rocks.
"Oh God, Sherlock, please!"
Sherlock loved that phrase.
But today he hated everything on earth.
There had been a tremendous storm yesterday which had torn the roof from their shelter and left them huddled in the driving rain. The fire had been reduced to wet ash, their already paltry wood pile had been blown to kingdom come, and they had spent all day today regrouping, performing the same horrifically dull tasks they had already performed, worse because life was so contrary. Sherlock lay in a patch of sun, but it was getting too cool to lie out. He twisted his elbow into the sand, feeling the difference in temperature above and below the surface.
John was down by the water, and he hated John. He hated whatever John was doing. He would have leaped up and attacked him, but he was feeling too lazy. A very small crab crept by.
This was his miserable life right now: collecting branches, never bathing, always drinking from the stream. Nothing interesting happened, there were no people. There was no sentient life. Sherlock belonged in London, where the human element was roiling and unpredictable, in the heart of the city, where things happened. He could have been there now, think of that. He wasn't the one who had fallen off the boat. He could have been at home.
The sun caught warm on Sherlock's face, and his throat swelled painfully. He would have been at home without his John. Unacceptable. So utterly unacceptable. Sherlock rolled and watched John, down by the water. He was a caveman. He had a plethora of caveman skills. Sherlock would have died a thousand times over without him, on the island or otherwise. He was Sherlock's precious Neanderthal, with his simple brain and generous heart. It would take a generous heart to so constantly forgive a man like Sherlock. That was disgustingly sentimental. Sherlock couldn't believe he had thought it. In any case, John's brain wasn't that simple, not as bad as most, and had you ever seen him gut a seal? Spectacular. His technique was beyond reproach. He was lovely. He was perfect. He was everything.
Sherlock rose and crept up behind, casting a shadow so as not to startle him. He crouched down and wrapped his arms around John's waist, soaking up the warmth from that broad, weathered back, then Sherlock pressed a kiss beside the scar.
And that's where they were when John shot to his feet and sent Sherlock toppling into the sand.
"Fuck! Fucking Jesus Christ, oh God!" He took off running and sprinted up the path to camp, and Sherlock stood and looked across the water. Oh, fucking Jesus Christ. Sherlock sprinted up the path.
Their fire was so pathetically small, but it had been their priority after the storm, and they had a few good coals at the bottom. John had whipped their bedding out of the shelter and was piling the dry grass onto the flame.
"Three fires. Here, put the oil on it. Ten yards at least, so they see it," John said. Sherlock snatched up a load of dried brambles and dropped it ten yards away, crushing it together and then drizzling oil from the bladder bag. He repeated the process another ten yards down. John was already fanning the hay into a blaze. Sherlock took a hot stick from the bottom of the fire, charred and flaming slightly, and touched it to the oiled bramble pile, cursed until it smoked and then began to burn. He lit the third fire. It was taking too long.
John had ripped the roof from their shelter, casting the seal skin aside. He tore it apart and chucked pieces of it to Sherlock, then piled it onto his substantial flame. It caught quickly, and he doused the lot with seal oil. A thick black cloud arose. He took up the seal pelt and fanned it fervently. Sherlock's piles were beginning to catch, and he piled high the remains of their roof, and then they had three big fires, three black plumes of seal oil smoke.
Sherlock scanned the horizon, his heart clamoring somewhere around his ears. John had climbed atop their tall rocks and he slowly raised his arms and lowered them in a ceaseless motion. The ship was turning. Sherlock thought perhaps he might lose consciousness for a moment, and then John was careening into him, holding him tightly and spinning them round.
part three
John was sitting near the morning remains of the fire, balancing a few sticks atop it to keep it going. Fuelling the bloody fire was nearly a full time job, with no proper logs. This, however, was no longer Sherlock's concern (had it ever been?), and he cleared the straw to the foot of the shelter, spread the seal skin flat, then took it up again, spread the straw beneath it in an even layer, and settled the skin on top of that. He tested it with his hands. Much better. The seal skin had a funny odour. Not decay, not quite, but it perhaps had not been tanned quite properly. That was of absolutely no consequence. Sherlock sat back and looked expectantly at John, who hesitated minutely.
"Take all that off," Sherlock instructed, and began unbuttoning his own shirt. He had lost his trousers somewhere, no matter. He stripped himself bare and waited for John to catch up. John carefully set his clothes atop the roof and awkwardly knelt.
"Lie flat," Sherlock said. John did.
Finally. Sherlock had John's entire body laid out before him, defenceless, at his mercy. Sherlock started at his toes. The nails had grown ragged and had collected crescents of dirt beneath them. He had cut his right foot on something, not a stone: an oyster shell along the beach. The wound was several days old, but Sherlock hadn't noticed a limp. It hadn't fully pierced the thick callus, had probably bled very little.
John's ankles were in good working order, narrow in relation to his calves, which were well shaped. John's legs were tanned from going sometimes trouserless on the island, but he usually wore his socks and shoes, so there was a subtle difference in skin tone. John's shins were dotted with childhood scars; scraped knees and sports injuries. He had been active in his youth, a predilection that had carried over to adulthood. Of particular note was the long scar along his right outer knee. It was surgical and bespoke of an operation, recent enough to have been sustained in the war, but not grave enough to compromise mobility, hence the inconsistent limp. John's penis was uncircumcised and lay limp along the crevice of his thigh. The foreskin was dark and puckered at the end, resting against a nest of pale curls.
Navel; inverted, but barely. Sherlock had seen all these things in their time here. Necessity had long eclipsed modesty, but this was the first time he had been at leisure to examine. Swirls of darker, coarser hair swirled down to John's groin, and Sherlock grazed his fingertips along this. Softer than it looked. His pubic hair as well was finer than Sherlock's; blond hair nearly always was.
John's abdominal muscles were well formed, and prominent now with their limited diet. Broad pectorals, square shoulders, the scar, of course, which Sherlock had seen. John was staring resolutely at what passed for their ceiling, and Sherlock regarded him for a moment.
"I want you to suck me," Sherlock said. He was half hard already, and he positioned himself against the flatter of their stone surfaces, spreading his legs as John nestled himself between them. Haltingly, John lowered his head, his knees drawn beneath him and both hands braced on the ground. Sherlock watched him, rapt, breath ghosting from his parted lips. John took the head of Sherlock's penis in his mouth, and Sherlock breathed in sharply through his nose. Good. John tentatively tongued the head, and Sherlock gripped his own thighs, white knuckled. John sucked him further in, and Sherlock's attention honed in solely on the slide of his shaft between John's slick lips: it was fantastic to watch. John's head bobbed, his nose brushing Sherlock's skin, and when he came back up Sherlock's cock glistened with his saliva. Sherlock watched his head move, watched the way his cheeks hollowed when he figured out the suction. And he sucked Sherlock's cock, and when pleasure spiralled through Sherlock's veins, he seized John's head in both hands and stopped him with his mouth right at the tip. He wanted to watch just this, just John with his lips at the end of Sherlock's erection, the whole length of it before him. Sherlock rammed his hips upward, and at the same time he jerked down on John's head, once, twice. John gagged and tried to twist away, but Sherlock held him firmly. John belonged to him now. He choked on Sherlock's staff but Sherlock didn't let him go.
Sherlock guided John away from him and rolled them over so that John was positioned beneath him. He trailed his nose along John's chest and nuzzled the hair at his navel, then suddenly drew still. There seemed to be no sound, not even the wind. Not the ocean, not the rustling grass, or the snapping sound of the fire. There was just John's jagged breathing. He was tense and still. Something was wrong. It was Sherlock. Sherlock was very, very wrong, and the thought twisted unpleasantly inside him. Why was he wrong, what had happened? Sherlock tried to collect himself and make sense of what had happened. He pondered this with his forehead pressed to John's hip. He had frightened his John, he had hurt him.
They were on the island. They had fallen off the boat. They had killed a seal. They had cut it up and cooked it, and Sherlock had dreamed of a dog and fallen onto the beach, and then John had come and they were here. Sherlock took long, even breaths. They were on the island because they were usually in London. That's where they were from, from Baker Street. The fire sound started up, then the ocean, then the wind. Sherlock gave a shuddering sigh, and planted a delicate kiss on John's hip. He sought John's neck and kissed below his jaw. John lay very still. Sherlock rolled off him and pulled him in close, tucking his head beneath his chin.
"John," Sherlock said, and it was a question, uncertain.
"Yeah."
Sherlock shuddered and squeezed John tightly, and rubbed his cheek against John's ear. He breathed. After a time John began to relax, and Sherlock nuzzled his head up, carefully seeking his lips. He kissed him softly, rolled him slowly onto his back and kissed him deeper, capturing his lower lip, caressing. With a gentle breath, John opened his mouth, the tip of his tongue awaiting Sherlock's. Sherlock met him and pressed heavily in, one hand smoothing down John's side to thread through the curls at John's groin. John arched up into him, his fingertips hesitant at Sherlock's hip, his shoulder, his jaw. In the midst of a kiss, Sherlock began to smile, then laugh. John pulled away and looked him in the eye.
"What?" he said, half laughing himself. An inexplicable sense of joy welled up inside Sherlock, and he looked at John and tenderly stroked the side of his face. He so badly needed a shave and a wash. Sherlock kissed him firmly, then pressed the length of his body flush up along John's and moaned into his neck. John's legs spread for him, and Sherlock ground their hips together. John grasped at him, leveraging his heels against the ground to press upwards, and Sherlock could feel John's cock hardening between them. He found John's lips again, kissing him languidly and thrusting up against him.
"Please, John," Sherlock whispered against him. "Please, I want to fuck you so badly, I've wanted to, please." John stilled, but only tensed minutely. Sherlock waited, his face pressed warmly to the crook of John's neck. John twisted to look at Sherlock, and Sherlock raised his head to meet John's eye. He was searching for something, his eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock's own. He let out a breath, took another, pressed his lips into a line. Sherlock waited.
"Alright," John breathed. Sherlock waited still. "Alright." John looked over towards the fire. He looked back at Sherlock. "You can use the seal oil, probably."
That seemed...well. Sherlock clearly hadn't thought out the logistics of this operation. "Is that safe?" he asked. John laughed.
"Fuck, I don't know. What are we going to do? We're stuck here." John covered his eyes with his hand, grinning still. "I don't know. We eat it. It's probably fine."
Sherlock sat back on his knees. John kept the oil in a bag he had fashioned from the seal bladder, stored on a low rock shelf he had set up just outside the shelter. Sherlock retrieved it, and returned to kneel beside John. He pulled open the leather drawstring, looked skeptically between the contents and John. His erection was not quite withering, but it had quailed a bit.
"This..." he began, "is distinctly unsanitary."
John laughed again and looked squarely at Sherlock. His eyes glittered mirthfully. "It's hardly the most unsanitary thing my arse has seen." Sherlock wasn't sure. "Look, it's been cooked, hasn't it? And why am I convincing you?"
Sherlock dipped two fingers into the bag. It was true that they did eat it every day. He didn't see how consuming it rectally could possibly be any worse. He held up his fingers and watched the slick substance sluice down. John groaned and covered his face with his hands. "Oh my god."
Sherlock looked at him intently. Yes, this would be perfectly sufficient. He crawled over John's leg, settling between his knees with the seal oil set to one side. He gently spread John's legs, coaxing him to fold his knees. John wasn't laughing anymore. Sherlock pressed his slick fingers to the back of John's scrotum, stroking cautiously. He gathered John's prick in his other hand, working the foreskin along the staff.
"I want you to look at me," Sherlock said, his voice low. John met his eye for a moment, then dropped his head back to look at the ceiling. "Look at me, John." Sherlock wanted to see his eyes when he pressed slowly into him. John's mouth was slightly open. His eyes were closed. Sherlock rubbed his thumb along the head of John's cock and stroked upwards with his fingers. "John." John glanced at him briefly, and Sherlock stood and snatched John's clothes from off the roof. His shoes were set nearby and Sherlock swiftly bundled these things together, propped them beneath John's head, and resumed his position between John's knees. "Look at me," he said, and pressed his finger to John's hole. John's nostrils flared. He opened his eyes and met Sherlock's gaze in something akin to a challenge, but Sherlock didn't want a challenge. He stroked his fingers up towards John's balls, fondled them lightly while he stroked his shaft. He ran his fingers along the thin skin of John's inner thighs, then reached for the bag of oil.
"No!" John said, and half sat up. "Don't - wait - "
Oh, of course. He'd been stroking John's anus with those fingers. Inconvenient technicalities, but the oil was important for more than just sex. John fumbled for something he couldn't reach, patting the ground around him.
"There's a shell," he said. Sherlock rose to hunt for the shell. This was patently absurd. There it was, near the fire. He fetched it and then knelt back down between John's legs. He carefully poured a bit of the oil into the basin of the shell. Some of it dribbled onto the seal skin, but the reeking thing was waterproof, so it hardly mattered. Sherlock pulled the drawstring closed and handed the bladder bag abruptly to John.
"Get this away from me," he said. John chuckled and set it aside.
"Now," Sherlock said, and caught John's eye sternly. "You are to watch me, John. Am I clear?"
John swallowed and nodded.
"Good."
Sherlock dipped his fingers into the stupid shell that was tipping over. He coated them thoroughly and slapped his fingers somewhat impatiently to John's bum. John made a small noise. Sherlock took a calming breath, then wrapped his fingers once more around John's cock. He pulled the foreskin up over the head, then slowly drew it back down; firm, slow, even strokes. He pressed the length of his oiled finger along John's anus, and looked at him intently. John's breath had gone short, but he hadn't looked away.
"Good," Sherlock said, his voice deepening into a purr. He stroked downwards, between John's cheeks and felt the ring of muscle clench when it brushed his knuckles. So perfect. So gorgeous. Sherlock brought his hand back up, cradled John's balls, then returned his fingertip to the hole. John was breathing through parted lips, and his eyelids had grown heavy. Sherlock swirled his thumb beneath the head of John's shaft, then rubbed tightly over the slit. John's breath hitched, and Sherlock pressed in the tip of his finger. John's eyes slid closed.
"Look at me."
His eyes opened, heavy and dark. Sherlock began to press in his finger, and he felt John tense, heard his breath tighten anxiously.
"Stop, John. Let me in."
With his free hand Sherlock lightly petted John's leg, rubbed soothingly along his hip, the length of his thigh, down to the knee and back up again. He relaxed, and Sherlock turned his finger, just a bit. John's eyes drifted closed.
"Look at me," Sherlock whispered. They opened. Sherlock slid his finger deeper in. It was so warm and tight; John would feel so much better around his cock. Sherlock leaned forward and once again gripped John's erection. John's lips were pink and parted, and Sherlock wanted badly to kiss him, to claim those lips with his own and dominate him. He pushed his first finger all the way in, and slowly drew it out. John's breath shallowed into a heady pant, and Sherlock pushed back in. He dropped his lips to John's shaft and suckled the tip. John made a sound that was half a breath and half a murmured cry. Sherlock drew his finger out and slowly pushed back in. John's hips flexed and Sherlock took him into his mouth, tonguing the head and then sucking hard. John gasped, pressing upwards, and the motion caused him to clench around Sherlock's finger. Oh, it would be so good.
"Watch, John," Sherlock said, drawing out and adding the tip of his second finger. It stretched and John hissed, then panted as Sherlock pressed in deeper, slowly, then twisted his fingers. He gave John's cock a few quick strokes, and John's head dropped back but swiftly snapped up again to meet Sherlock's eye. Good. Sherlock inched out and pressed slowly back in.
Sherlock's cock was aching hard by the time he had three fingers deep inside John, thrusting lightly and soothing the muscle. He sucked off the fluid that had beaded at the tip of John's cock and evened out his strokes, moving firmly in and out. Every breath was a stifled cry on John's lips, and Sherlock leaned close over him, his movement paused.
"I'm going to now," Sherlock said, and John nodded desperately. Good. So good. "It's bigger," Sherlock warned.
"Oh God, Sherlock, please." John's breath was so deliciously ragged with want. Sherlock caught his lips briefly and John strained forward to keep the contact. Sherlock pulled his fingers out and fumbled for the oyster shell. Half its contents spilled as Sherlock scooped up what he could and slathered it over his cock. Oh God, it was going to feel so good. He wanted it so badly. He fit up against John's entrance, guiding his cock with his oiled hand. He felt the heat from John's body at the head, and Sherlock caught his breath, halting before he did something stupid and hurt his precious John.
John whimpered and nosed the side of Sherlock's head. "Mm, please do it, Sherlock, please," he whispered. Sherlock drew back to look at his face. He was flushed and sweating, and he stilled when he met Sherlock's eye. Sherlock pushed in.
John's jaw dropped open as he panted, then snapped shut as he took quick, pained breaths through his nose. Each one held an aborted moan, and oh, dear God, it felt so good. Oh God. Sherlock slid in until his hips pressed flush along John's skin. He relaxed just a bit and then thrust in deeper. Oh God, it was everything, it felt so -
He looked down at where they were joined. It was so impossibly good. He let himself slide out of John and watched himself thrust back in. "Oh God, John," Sherlock breathed. He slid out again, and slowly, slowly watched himself disappear inside John. Oh, it was marvelous. He did it again.
"I want you to see," he said, and pulled John up. He sat back on his heels so John straddled his hips, then shifted and lay slowly down so John was on top. "I want you to see, John. Watch."
John braced his hands on either side and raised his hips. He shifted his weight to one side and held his testicles out of the way. He looked at Sherlock's shaft between them, then he eased himself down with a breathy moan. He rose again, gripping his cock, and slid down more quickly this time. He stroked himself in time to his movements. "Oh," he said. "Oh."
This was easily the best thing that had ever happened to Sherlock - watching John fuck himself on Sherlock's cock. It wasn't gong to last very long, and Sherlock wanted it to last forever. "Stop," he said, and grasped John's hips. He caught John's wrist and pulled his hand away from himself. John's cock bobbed stiffly in the air, and Sherlock was so hard inside him. Sherlock caught his breath, running his hands up and down John's thighs.
"Squeeze," he said, and John did, squeezed so tight around him Sherlock wanted, he just wanted - he reached up for John, pulled him down and kissed him, long and hard. He sat up and forced John onto his back. He ran his fingertips down John's stomach, then around his own shaft where it entered John. So beautiful, it was so good. John clenched around him again and Sherlock groaned. There wouldn't be enough. He pulled out and John sucked in a breath.
Sherlock turned John onto his side, then sidled up close behind him. This was how it was going to be. He guided himself back inside, stilled John's hips as he thrust back. He gathered both John's wrists in his hand so he wouldn't masturbate, and then he lay still, nestled deep inside. Perfect.
After awhile, John began to squirm. "Sherlock," he murmured, then shifted. Sherlock squeezed his wrists in warning, and he stopped.
The next time John squirmed it was with a small noise akin to a whine. Sherlock held him firmly, revelling in the endorphins coursing through him, the tingling just below the surface of his skin. John was his now, he was Sherlock's. Next time, maybe not next time, the time after that, perhaps Sherlock would truss him up, put a prosthetic penis in that tight little arsehole and leave him there on the living room carpet. He would tend to an experiment in the meantime, and when John got too vocal Sherlock would gag him and leave him there longer, with a cock up his arse and unable to move, oh, it would be -
Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's spine, feathered them across his shoulders and his neck. He lifted his head and nuzzled John's ear, and when John tilted up to him Sherlock bit down on that space just below his jaw. He suckled hard on that spot, and when John jerked beneath him Sherlock tightened his grip on John's wrists and brought his arms in closer. John tried to twist away but there was nowhere to go. Sherlock deepened the bite, then pulled back, brushed an open kiss over it, and examined the mark. Oh yes, that would bruise nicely.
Sherlock spared a glance at John's groin, straining dark and swollen. He released John's wrists to trail a finger down John's length. John's hips jerked and he clenched around Sherlock, whose cock was again swiftly swelling to full. Sherlock traced John's cock from the base to the tip. "You are not to touch it. Do you understand?"
John released a breath through his teeth. He was so gorgeous, and now with the bruise.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes," John cried. "Yes, oh God, Sherlock please. Please. Please." His voice was a perfectly desperate little whimper. He wanted so badly to be fucked, didn't he. Sherlock rested his hand flat on John's hip, then stroked up and down his side. "Please, Sherlock, please." John's eyes were clenched shut and he opened his mouth in a silent cry. Sherlock thrust his hips and the moan burst forth, hoarse and shamelessly loud.
"Good," Sherlock said, and thrust again. His self control was breaking. No matter. He had reduced John to a begging mess, desperate for more of Sherlock's cock. Sherlock wrapped his hand around John's length and pumped him vigorously, thrusting in time. John's cries were constant and raw, louder every time Sherlock's balls slapped against his arse. He clenched down hard and came explosively, spurting all over the seal skin. Sherlock leaned over him, forced him face down, and thrust mercilessly inside until orgasm swept through him and his hips jerked tight, convulsively.
Spent, Sherlock stroked languidly in and out and in again, and then he collapsed on top of John and lay there a moment, feeling the sweaty slickness between their skin. Sherlock pulled out delicately and rolled off to the side. He was in a small puddle of oil and was lying on the oyster shell. He lifted his hip and swept it aside with all the irritation he could muster in his sated state, which was admittedly very little. He sighed deeply and brushed a hand down his chest. He looked at John, still panting beside him, and felt something giddy pass over his heart. He sidled up next to John and pulled him around, and spooned up close behind him. It was still too hot, quite frankly, but Sherlock didn't care. He wanted to feel John's sweat, and smell how badly he needed a proper bath, and listen to his heart through the gnarled white tissue of his Afghanistan scar.
"Should have done that ages ago," John panted. Sherlock squeezed him tightly and nosed the line of his spine.
"John," he said. "All of my ideas are always good." This was a boldfaced lie, but John laughed anyway.
It was easier, in a way, now that they were having sex. Sherlock still felt angry roughly seventy percent of the time; bored, frustrated, so much that it was a physical hurt. He jumped into the ocean once, onto the rocks. Not as an experiment, not to test anything, simply because it would hurt, and in the split second that he fell, Sherlock felt thrilled, and when he crashed through the water and split his skin on the rocks, he felt nothing, just physical pain from outside of his body, and that he understood. He could identify the source and blame it, not the crushing, claustrophobic nothing that came from being trapped inside his mind. John had fished him out and slapped him about, yelling, and Sherlock could hardly hear what he said. He was watching the blood run down his shins. John had strung Sherlock up right there on the beach with his shirtsleeves and shoe laces, then patched him up with sterilized seal oil still hot from the fire, and strips of leather cut from the pelt. What a useful thing that seal had been. The iPhone of the primitive world. Well, that didn't make sense. What Sherlock meant was that it served multiple purposes, much as his precious iPhone had. Oh, iPhone, oh microscope, oh morgue, oh murders -
"Shut up!" John said.
But. John wouldn't let Sherlock fuck him when he was being crazy, so Sherlock struggled to keep this behavior to a minimum. Fucking John was the only thing Sherlock liked about this island, something he had never had in Baker Street. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly, then sucked in a sharp breath and expelled it quickly. He looked around. Christ, he had really hurt himself.
"John," Sherlock said, urgently. John checked to see that he was lucid. "John, I'm sorry. That was unconscionable. I shouldn't have done that. I'm sorry."
John sighed and finished tying off the bandage. "You could have really been hurt." He looked at Sherlock and his eyes were sad.
Sherlock dreamed he led John to a gas chamber and put him inside with a hundred other nameless, naked people. He watched through a small, rectangular window as John stood fretfully amidst them, and when the air began to go bad the people panicked and began to climb atop one another, and John scrambled through the frantic mass, clawing and crying and straining to reach the clear air at the top of the room, and Sherlock watched calmly from his rectangular window. He had a notebook in his hand.
Sherlock woke up screaming and sobbing uncontrollably. His protests were incoherent and he fought John's restraining hands to stagger outside, where he ducked against the side of the shelter, against John's wall. He wasn't - that hadn't -
"Sherlock," John said, so worried. He lay a soothing hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock jerked away and stumbled blindly towards the stream. He hadn't, that - he stepped into the water that was running colder every day. He knelt, then lay on his side and let it soak into his hair and his clothes, washing frigidly around him. He curled in around himself and lay until he was too cold to think of the dream. Then John pulled him out of the water and led him back to the camp, stripped off the wet clothes and wrapped him in the coat. He rubbed briskly up and down Sherlock's arms and his back, then held him.
"I dreamed I did something terrible," Sherlock said. John hushed him and didn't ask what it was. He wrapped them both up in the seal skin that smelled a bit off, and let Sherlock sleep against his chest.
"I do try," Sherlock said. He was somewhat offended.
"I know you do," John said wearily.
They were walking around the island. It was not quite noon, which meant they had already checked the lines, rebaited the hooks, salted the fish and smoked them, tidied up the camp, attempted to shave with the army knife, had a good exfoliating sand bath, washed the clothes, wrung them out and strewn them over the roof, and gotten into an argument over astrology, of which Sherlock knew nothing but had not dismissed, and which John viewed with extreme skepticism. Then they had had a quick shag, and now they were presumably gathering firewood, but had fallen back to the topic of Sherlock's deteriorating mental health.
They paused and looked over Seal Beach, still empty. The wind had picked up as it always did when the morning wore on. It was now a bit chilly to be strolling about in the nude, as they were. Arms folded, Sherlock and John silently watched the sea. If they were forced to weather a winter here and the seals didn't return, they would likely die. They hadn't enough resources to battle the cold. But, they could easily grow long warm beards like mountain men, and were fighting a losing battle against this already, so it went to show there was always a silver lining.
"Keep on the sunny side, always on the sunny side," Sherlock sang out clearly. John looked at him with his expression of extreme scepticism.
"You really are insane," he said. Sherlock grinned. He reached for John's hips and pulled him close, tilted his head and pecked his lips chastely. Then he tucked John against him, nuzzling his hair, and like this he looked out over the empty, grey sea.
The seals did return. Sherlock thought this because the fish had been behaving oddly, shuttling out of the water in nervous shoals. When he checked Seal Beach at midday he saw their big slug-like bodies draped across the stones and he had dropped back immediately, circled round and crept up to peer over the edge of the cliff. Yes, they had definitely returned, crowded only slightly closer to the water than they had been for the first kill. Sherlock edged away, then sprinted back to camp where John was lying bare-chested and slug-like himself on the seal pelt in the sun. Sherlock tripped on a clump of grass, took a hard shoulder into the dirt, and rolled back to standing without missing a beat.
"John. Johnjohnjohn."
John shaded his face and looked at Sherlock with one eye squinted shut. Sherlock rifled frantically through their meagre collection of primitive tools. Where was the club? Ah, there it was, by the wall.
"Get your knife. The seals are here."
John scrambled to his feet and cast about for his shoes. "How many?" he asked.
"All of them. We have to get as many as we can." It didn't matter if the meat went to waste. They needed the pelts. Shoes on, John fetched his knife, and they took off, tacking inland to keep their scent off the breeze.
"It's not going to be as easy this time," John said as they crept up slowly. The beach was well protected by the steep banks surrounding it, and they wouldn't be able to saunter so casually in as they had the first time. They would have to be cautious, painstakingly slow. They pulled back once more, maneuvering to the point that would allow them access, and inched forward until the grass could provide them no more cover.
"I'll try to head them off," Sherlock said. He was the quicker in a pinch, and had the longer range weapon. He took off at a sudden sprint, skidding down the slope to the stony beach. The seals reacted immediately, sliding into the sea, but Sherlock cut into the herd, causing some to have to veer off course. He wielded his club indiscriminately, always aiming for the head but never striking more than one blow. Some of the seals recovered and slipped away, but the dazed ones John quickly finished with the knife. Then they stood on the stones, panting and slick with sweat, John up to his elbows in blood. Sherlock swiped the sweat from his lip and surveyed their kill; not as many as it had seemed, but plenty, nonetheless. They had two pups, one large seal, and two small to mid-sized. Enough for winter clothes, perhaps sufficient to roof the shelter properly. Excellent. It was a lot of meat, but with diligence they could salt the entire batch.
Sherlock looked at John, who had smeared blood in mopping the sweat from his brow. He was breathing heavily and had something of a giddy smile playing about his lips. He looked at Sherlock and broke into a full on grin. Sherlock felt the familiar coiling tension in the pit of his belly, heightened by the adrenaline singing through his veins. John's grin faded and Sherlock took a slow, deliberately predatory step towards him. He trailed his club on the ground and let it fall. John's arousal was prominent against his trousers, which were spattered now with blood from the kill. Sherlock approached him, and John's breath went shallow. His pupils were wide and dark. He sank at the hips as Sherlock drew closer, unconsciously canting his body at all the irresistibly submissive angles, his head tilted and mouth open just so. Sherlock took the knife from him and closed it; carefully stowed it in his own pocket. John wet his lips and sank just a fraction lower. Sherlock grabbed his hips and rutted once against him, feeling the stiffness of John's erection grind against his own. Perfect. So perfect. John's knees gave as Sherlock rutted again, savouring the friction of his trousers against his rigid cock. He lowered John to the ground and forced him onto his back, pressing him down against the stones. He ground their hips together, picking up speed. John's hands clutched at Sherlock's buttocks as he thrust desperately against him, never enough contact, never too much. Sherlock wanted him to come in his trousers, he wanted that hot mess seeping into his clothes, for him to live with the evidence of what he had done, of what Sherlock reduced him to.
John got his feet beneath him, raising his hips in that please-fuck-me gesture, and his breath tore hoarsely from his throat. "Ah. Sherlock, hah -" he said, his voice beginning to climb. He was getting close. Sherlock dropped his weight on top of him, burying his face against John's neck. He snapped his hips sharply and then nipped him, catching his skin between his teeth. John cried out and jerked away, but scrabbled all the more at Sherlock's back, pulling him closer with bruising force. He wanted it so badly. There was never enough. Sherlock kept his rhythm fast and hard, and soon John tensed beneath him, his breath tightening into a needy cry. His hips jerked convulsively and Sherlock knew he had come, soaking the front of his trousers. Sherlock quickly sat back on his heels, freed his erection and pumped it vigorously. He leaned over John and braced on one arm, groaned loudly as that coiled feeling snapped and coursed through him. His ejaculate spurted over John's bare chest, marking him: mine.
John took heaving breaths beneath him, spent. Sherlock leaned forward until their foreheads touched. A bead of sweat ran down the end of his nose. He was, by far, the luckiest man on earth. John leaned up and closed the distance between their lips. He nudged Sherlock's nose, kissed him again, and then flopped back onto the rocks. Sherlock lay down beside him. He caught John's wrist and drew up his hand. Hm, it was still covered in blood. Sherlock kissed it anyway.
They converted their shelter into a smoke-house and slept outside until the meat had cured; several days. They were thin on salt and had to use more wood than they could afford cultivating it from seawater. The days were getting short, and it rained distressingly often, but John secured the old pelt over the shelter, which was much more efficient than just the grass, and it kept the new hides dry until they were workable and adequately tanned.
They had enough meat to last a long while, but Sherlock dreaded the thought of being stranded through winter. It was enough to nearly send him over the edge at times, but John was careful to keep him busy, almost tediously so. Sherlock was churlish and cross a lot of the time. He snapped at John, but he didn't go crazy. Sometimes John snapped back and they fought, and then had violent sex against the rocks.
"Oh God, Sherlock, please!"
Sherlock loved that phrase.
But today he hated everything on earth.
There had been a tremendous storm yesterday which had torn the roof from their shelter and left them huddled in the driving rain. The fire had been reduced to wet ash, their already paltry wood pile had been blown to kingdom come, and they had spent all day today regrouping, performing the same horrifically dull tasks they had already performed, worse because life was so contrary. Sherlock lay in a patch of sun, but it was getting too cool to lie out. He twisted his elbow into the sand, feeling the difference in temperature above and below the surface.
John was down by the water, and he hated John. He hated whatever John was doing. He would have leaped up and attacked him, but he was feeling too lazy. A very small crab crept by.
This was his miserable life right now: collecting branches, never bathing, always drinking from the stream. Nothing interesting happened, there were no people. There was no sentient life. Sherlock belonged in London, where the human element was roiling and unpredictable, in the heart of the city, where things happened. He could have been there now, think of that. He wasn't the one who had fallen off the boat. He could have been at home.
The sun caught warm on Sherlock's face, and his throat swelled painfully. He would have been at home without his John. Unacceptable. So utterly unacceptable. Sherlock rolled and watched John, down by the water. He was a caveman. He had a plethora of caveman skills. Sherlock would have died a thousand times over without him, on the island or otherwise. He was Sherlock's precious Neanderthal, with his simple brain and generous heart. It would take a generous heart to so constantly forgive a man like Sherlock. That was disgustingly sentimental. Sherlock couldn't believe he had thought it. In any case, John's brain wasn't that simple, not as bad as most, and had you ever seen him gut a seal? Spectacular. His technique was beyond reproach. He was lovely. He was perfect. He was everything.
Sherlock rose and crept up behind, casting a shadow so as not to startle him. He crouched down and wrapped his arms around John's waist, soaking up the warmth from that broad, weathered back, then Sherlock pressed a kiss beside the scar.
And that's where they were when John shot to his feet and sent Sherlock toppling into the sand.
"Fuck! Fucking Jesus Christ, oh God!" He took off running and sprinted up the path to camp, and Sherlock stood and looked across the water. Oh, fucking Jesus Christ. Sherlock sprinted up the path.
Their fire was so pathetically small, but it had been their priority after the storm, and they had a few good coals at the bottom. John had whipped their bedding out of the shelter and was piling the dry grass onto the flame.
"Three fires. Here, put the oil on it. Ten yards at least, so they see it," John said. Sherlock snatched up a load of dried brambles and dropped it ten yards away, crushing it together and then drizzling oil from the bladder bag. He repeated the process another ten yards down. John was already fanning the hay into a blaze. Sherlock took a hot stick from the bottom of the fire, charred and flaming slightly, and touched it to the oiled bramble pile, cursed until it smoked and then began to burn. He lit the third fire. It was taking too long.
John had ripped the roof from their shelter, casting the seal skin aside. He tore it apart and chucked pieces of it to Sherlock, then piled it onto his substantial flame. It caught quickly, and he doused the lot with seal oil. A thick black cloud arose. He took up the seal pelt and fanned it fervently. Sherlock's piles were beginning to catch, and he piled high the remains of their roof, and then they had three big fires, three black plumes of seal oil smoke.
Sherlock scanned the horizon, his heart clamoring somewhere around his ears. John had climbed atop their tall rocks and he slowly raised his arms and lowered them in a ceaseless motion. The ship was turning. Sherlock thought perhaps he might lose consciousness for a moment, and then John was careening into him, holding him tightly and spinning them round.
part three