"Pull over," John says abruptly.
Sherlock frowns. "What for?" All he can see ahead is a lay-by. There are lights in the distance – a small city or large village where they can find lodgings for the night – but John is insistent.
"Pull over, Sherlock. I've got a cramp."
From the way he's jittering his foot against the floor mat, it seems clear that John's not going to make five more minutes, let alone five more miles. Eager to appease after a long day of causing disappointments, Sherlock pulls over as requested. John is out the door before he can cut the engine. Sherlock follows at a more dignified pace.
There is nothing unique about their stopping place. It's a lane of tarmac butted up against the usual sorts of herbaceous greenery found in the countryside: a thicket of blackberries and roses supported by hazels. Beyond it is a wood. From the number of cigarette ends that litter the ground, and the bin that overflows with fast food rubbish not far from a crude picnic area, it's obviously a popular stopping place for long haul drivers and families with young children.
John has complained of cramp. Sherlock expects him to walk it off, but instead he contemplates the hedgerow with a curious and somewhat mischievous expression that makes his smile puckish. "Come on." He reaches for Sherlock's hand and drags him through a break in the shrubbery. "I want to explore."
As soon as they get on the other side of the windbreak it becomes clear that the contours of Sherlock's body, as he is manhandled aggressively into a better position for kissing, is the only thing John is really interested in exploring.
Sherlock indulges them both. He's not a fan of coitus interruptus, or any other form of interruptus for that matter, and earlier they had been denied what had promised to be a long and lazy morning in bed by a visit from representatives of the Met. He kisses a trail down John's throat, nuzzling at his Adam's apple, before working his way back to lips that are eager for more than a quick brush.
It's a warm spring night and they are alone. There's no reason not to enjoy a few kisses as the moon shines down brightly upon them. But it seems that John has more on his mind than a bit of innocent woodland canoodling as he splays his palms against Sherlock's biceps and walks him deeper into the trees.
He lets John be his guide. After the long day of leading the blind to the obvious, it's nice to let someone else be in charge. It's a strange sort of dance they engage in. A kiss, a caress, a few more backward steps deeper into the wood. John's confident. It's as if he knows exactly where he's going, even though by all rights he shouldn't, because neither one of them has been this way before.
Something is behind them. Sherlock senses it before he sees John's eyes light up in recognition. He pulls John close and then dips him as they kiss, using the opportunity to see what has caused John's reaction.
It's a stone circle. Six mammoth sentinel stones guarding a large slab in the centre. He pulls John to standing, about to comment, but before he can speak, John has taken the initiative again, pushing Sherlock up against a rough-hewn granite block.
His kisses grow even more assertive. John nips Sherlock's lower lip before he sucks on it. His hands find their way under Sherlock's jumper to tug his shirt tails free. The impish smile is back for just a moment, and then it disappears again as John's eyes close in response to Sherlock's touch.
John's fingers, when they graze along Sherlock's skin are unusually warm. His palm when he rubs it over Sherlock's breastbone is electric. The caress raises the hairs on Sherlock's body as he shivers in sheer want.
John shrugs out of his jacket and uses one foot to steady the other as he sheds his trainers. He pushes Sherlock's coat off of his shoulders, then he reaches between them. Sherlock moans softly as John takes his measure, cupping his erection through the cloth of his trousers, and kicks off his shoes to make it easier for John to undress him.
They fumble their way past the granite sentinels. The table stone, as he leans against it, is smooth against Sherlock's bare skin, and warm, even though there should be no residual heat leftover from the pleasant spring day.
John's kisses are crude things – taking rather than offering affection – but Sherlock doesn't care because his are just as needful. He wraps his palm around John's erection, gauging his readiness. John exhales sharply and flexes his hips, pushing against Sherlock's fingers.
The brief contact makes John even more eager. He presses Sherlock down, forcing him to recline against the table, and then straddles his legs, lowering his body by centimetres until they are skin to skin. He begins a slow grind, pushing their erections together. They both groan at the contact, and their breath quickens, but John pulls away.
"It's not enough," he moans desperately.
Sherlock looks up, and for a moment he doubts his eyes. There is some strange trick of the light. A luminescence in the air that gives the illusion of firelight burning from the tops of the standing stones. He doesn't have time to reflect on what is causing the curious effect. John has pushed his legs apart and risen to kneel between them. He hauls Sherlock's knees over his shoulders, and then spits into his hand. "This," he says. His voice is low and rough with desire. "This is what I want."
John isn't gentle. Sherlock does what he can to relax, but he still gasps at the shock of penetration. John spits onto his hand again, coating his palm and then his shaft, before he begins to thrust in earnest.
What they are doing is primal. Raw lust, without the veneer of civility or gentleness. John takes. Sherlock gives because that's what John wants. Their grunts and moans, their hitched breaths and gusty sighs, join the rest of the night noises; the hooting owls, and the cry of a fox as it calls to its mate. The scent of their sweat mingles with that of night blooming flowers and young grass from the meadow beyond. Above them, the moon rises higher, its light bathing them in an eerie glow.
Sherlock opens his eyes and once again he doubts what he sees. John is John, but at the same time, he isn't. It's as if he's seeing all the men John has once been and may yet be in the lives he's yet to be born to. He blinks, and the multi-vision disappears to be replaced by a single man. He's wearing a hood of fresh deerskin crowned with antlers. Blood trickles down his temples and onto his cheeks.
Sherlock remembers stalking the deer and nervously presenting his kill to John. He remembers his pride when John drew his finger through the deer's blood and then offered it for Sherlock to lick clean. Though he is jubilant, Sherlock can feel the disappointment of the others, men and women both, who had hoped to be the one to enter the sacred circle and couple under the full moon.
The scent of wood smoke and sex and sweat is heavy on the air. Sherlock grips the edge of the stone beneath him. A shard comes away in his hand. He grips it against his palm and gasps as John thrusts deep. The moment is approaching.
They are no longer alone. Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock can see people rocking and swaying in ecstasy. And although he cannot understand their language, the meaning of their audiences' chant is clear.
Blood and seed. Without it the hunt will be fruitless.
Blood and seed. Without it the crops will wither and die.
Blood and seed. The children will be many.
Blood and seed. The moon blesses their sacrifice.
Blood and seed. On this stone they must mingle.
Blood and seed. We heed the Moon's call.
It is the way.
It has always been the way.
It will always be the way.
"No!" Sherlock roars. He casts the shard away and rocks his head against the altar, fighting to break the spell.
John pulls back, readying himself to thrust deeply again. Sherlock rolls off the stone, takes a deep and shuddering breath, and then grabs John's hand.
It's a mistake. John will not be denied. He shoves Sherlock against the altar and kicks his legs apart, preparing to thrust from this new angle.
"No!" Sherlock cries again as he struggles in John's grasp. He doesn't want to hurt him, not if he doesn't have to, but it's clear John is possessed by whatever spirit inhabits the stone circle. If they don't get away from its influence, one or both of them will die.
Sherlock throws his head backwards, connecting sharply. John cries out in pain and outrage. It's ten, maybe twelve, feet to the perimeter of the circle. Sherlock hauls John over his shoulder into a crude fireman's carry, ignoring his own compulsive desire to throw him onto the table and rut to his completion.
Their clothes are piled more or less together. There is no time to dress, not when their bodies are surging with adrenaline and testosterone. Despite the fact he is suspended upside down, John is mouthing kisses against Sherlock's spine, and his hands are gentle as he caresses between Sherlock's thighs, trying to coax his way back where an aggressive approach has failed.
Sherlock dumps John onto the ground long enough to bundle everything into his coat. He shoves their clothes under his arm and pulls John to his feet, praying that putting distance between them and the stone circle will lift the spell.
They stagger and stumble through the wood, bruising their bare feet on rocky ground, and cutting their naked chests and limbs on brambles. The pain helps clear Sherlock's head. He spares a glance at John, and finds he's still out of it, but at least he's no longer heeding the call to rut. The lights of the lay-by on the other side of the thicket, and the sound of traffic on the motorway, are welcome harbingers of civilisation.
He leans against a Hawthorn tree to catch his breath. John is barely aware of their surroundings; getting him into his clothes will take more effort than Sherlock has energy for. He dresses quickly, and then eases John into his coat, buttoning it closed. He slips John's trainers onto his feet, and re-bundles everything else to deal with later. With one final glance behind them, Sherlock breaks through the hedgerow and walks John back to the car.
The moon is still bright overhead. Sherlock glances up at its gravid face and realises in some circles the first of May is a sacred date, and tonight it's been coupled with a full moon.
John stirs. Sherlock shivers, despite the warm breeze that carries the scent of an early summer on the air, and wonders why people think life is safer in the countryside. He gets back on the motorway, heading towards London. When John wakes, Sherlock decides he'll claim a sudden urge for a walk along the Seine as his excuse for their change of plans.