It is with a rare and rather distasteful moment of humbling clarity that Sherlock knows he needs help. Knows it as surely as he knows Anderson is a first-class moron. An irritating and unsettling realization, but a fact he can nonetheless deny. Moreover, the first person he thinks to turn to with this revelation of need is John. A fact that, when he tries to reconcile this impending need with the steps he must take to sate it, should be equally as troubling.
Now, needing help from John is an occurrence he is becoming accustomed to as of late, and if he is hard-pressed to be completely honest (say under certain forms of torture frowned upon by the Geneva Convention), he might admit that he doesn't mind the assistance of one battered ex-army doctor, but perhaps welcomes it. And isn't that an interesting thought?
"John?" Sherlock drawls, turning the request into a multi-tiered intonation he knows will get him the attention he requires.
"You're blocking the telly." John's body shifts to the left to peer around the long length of Sherlock's form.
"I require your assistance." He pauses, then, "Please." He tries not to twist his face in disgust as the last word fights its way from between his lips to grace the open air. But in the end, it's the 'please' that does it, and John huffs, grabbing the remote to turn off the television.
"What is it now?" John asks, crossing his arms over his chest in a spectacular imitation of a put-upon Mrs. Hudson.
"It has been pointed out to me in no uncertain terms that I am apparently lacking in the finer points of interpersonal relations." John snorts back a laugh, but the quick glare Sherlock shoots him is enough to quiet him as he continues, "Interpersonal relations, i.e. people, is a field of study that has never held any interest for me, therefore it is possible, only possible, mind you, that the lack of information in this area may, at some point, have a detrimental effect on my consulting cases. I have been taking various opportunities to study and acquire data which will help me to round out this area of my character, but I have discovered that I am in need of a more practical, real-world application of my methods."
Sherlock pauses to take a breath, watching John's face as the weight of his words settle over the doctor. John's lip twitches as he breathes out a sigh.
"By 'interpersonal relations', do you by any chance mean feelings?"
"Yes."
"And when you say 'practical, real-world application', I presume you mean 'experiment'?"
John's face is guarded, but Sherlock can see a hint of a smile creeping around the edges of his eyes. "Yes."
John leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, pinning Sherlock with a pointed stare that suddenly makes his shirt collar feel a bit too tight.
"You want to experiment… with feelings… with me?"
Sherlock nods, and the tiny sigh of relief that John gets it, really gets it, is pleasing. "Yes."
John eases back on the sofa and kicks up a leg to prop his ankle over his knee. "What sort of 'feelings' are we talking about here?"
The too-tight collar vexation gives him a bit of trouble at putting voice to this part of the conversation, and he files that away for later reflection. Really, this shouldn't be that much of a difficulty to say out loud. He's never had any trouble speaking his mind, but perhaps the introduction of the 'feeling' variable has thrown him for more of a loop than he originally anticipated. A curious thought that the fusion of John and this particular feeling should elicit this type of apprehension. Or a tightening collar that seems intent on choking him to death. Or the suddenly sweaty palms. Or the elevated heart rate. And he hasn't even said the blasted word.
"Foreplay."
John has the decency not to look shocked when he repeats, "Foreplay?"
"Foreplay."
A broad and tanned arm reaches to rest on the back of the sofa. "Why are you asking me this, Sherlock?"
He can't help the frown that appears or the deep furrows in his brow. "Haven't you been listening? Honestly, I thought you were keeping up. As I said, interpersonal—"
John's hand waves dismissively in the air. "Yes, I got all that. You're trying to figure out to not be a complete knob in the hopes that it will help you solve cases faster." Sherlock's mouth snaps shut. John has never been this insightful before. Another revelation. What else has he missed about his flatmate? John continues, "But what does that have to do with foreplay between you and me?"
Fuck it. He tugs at the collar of his shirt and finds the top button is already undone. Well, it certainly seemed tighter. "It's no secret that the majority of crimes committed against persons that come our way involve sex in some fashion. Motive is heavily influenced by emotion, and often that emotion is tied to sex. Lust, jealousy, greed, want. Sex is huge factor, don't you agree?"
"Fair enough."
"My point is, and I'll thank you to keep a straight face, that while sex is not a foreign concept to me, the drive to initiate it is…unfamiliar."
John's gaze is thoughtful, and Sherlock appreciates that he's taking the time to mull over his words. Frankly, he expected a bluster of denial, or at least some sort of frantic John strop. But John is pensive, and the squeeze around his collar lessens as John starts to speak.
"Let me get this straight—you want to snog me in order to understand the drive that makes people commit crimes in the name of sex?"
He frowns again. "Well, when you put it like that, you make it sound silly. And I'm not talking a quick snog, here. Foreplay. Touching, arousal, and the like." His chin lifts in an effort to retain some of his dignity. "I've not experienced it as such, and I feel, based on scientific evidence, it would prove to be beneficial to me in future endeavours. Now, if you are unwilling to assist me in this avenue of scientific inquiry, I completely understand—"
"Stop, Sherlock." John's hand is in the air, cutting off his tangent of self-preservation. "Fine. If you want foreplay, I'll give you foreplay."
It shouldn't really feel like time stops with a thud to his chest when John says that, but it does, and Sherlock has to force himself to blink to get the words to process. What he manages is a strangled, "Come again?"
When John rises from the sofa with the inherent grace of a jungle cat extricating itself from a tree, Sherlock realizes he may have been a bit hasty. His mouth has gone dry, his palms are still sweaty, and it's not entirely unlikely that the terrible thud of his heart hammering away in his chest can be heard across the Channel. At least to Newcastle.
His first observation as John begins what can only be described as a stalk across the carpet towards him is that John has changed. Well, he can pinpoint that precise moment of change to John's parroted echo of the word "foreplay" and the long arm that stretched out on the back of the sofa only moments before. Duly noted.
Sherlock expects John to stand in front of him, to take up the challenging position of facing him head-on and beginning the experiment with resigned trepidation. It's John. And John's default setting when it comes to Sherlock and experimentation is always resigned trepidation. What he expects and what he gets are worlds apart.
What he gets is a soft snort from John as his eyes focus and narrow. John's gaze flicks over him as he approaches, and instead of stopping, John circles him. It's disconcerting and off-putting, this frank appraisal, and if it weren't for the fact that he actually asked for this, he'd be putting a stop to John's nonsense.
But it's not nonsense. On some level, he understands what is happening. Understands that John has made a calculated shift in his perceptions and is attempting to do exactly what was requested of him. There is a touch on his back, the light skimming of fingers down his spine, over the fabric of his shirt, and his skin flushes at the friction.
John's voice drops and the sound is as tangible as his touch. "You asked for foreplay. I will show you foreplay," he says, and the hand at his back pushes him toward the sofa. "Sit."
Sherlock's feet stumble, but he manages to make it to the sofa without falling, sort of tumbling softly into the cushions. He shifts around to face John, sitting straight, with knees pressed together. John smiles. There is no mirth in the expression; it is a smile he's never seen grace John's face, not ever. A tiny flicker in the back of his brain wonders if it's genuine.
The aggression in John's stance is startling. While he's no stranger to the many and varied forms John's anger has been known to take, this is eye-opening. The jungle cat is back and John strides forward on a glide, his eyes so intense that Sherlock forgets to breathe.
"Good," John purrs as he looks down. "This would be difficult if you decided not to cooperate with your own experiment."
It's an effort to speak, but Sherlock squeaks out, "Of course I'm going to cooperate. It was my bloody idea." The next sentence is a bad idea, he knows this, because he knows John, and he knows that taunting his blogger is always a bad idea, especially when he thinks he has the upper hand. And by Sherlock practically begging for his help with the begrudging and aforementioned 'please', well…that puts John with the upper hand. "Now, if you'd like to start anytime soon, that would be brilliant."
The quicksilver flash in John's blue eyes tells him that yes, that last sentence should have been binned, but what's said has been said, and if the swift curve to John's lips is an indication, the good doctor's revenge has already been plotted.
John leans down, hovering over him, and suddenly his senses are on overload. John radiates heat. John smells like tea and chocolate biscuits. His vision is filled with nothing but the heated and intense scrutiny of John's face. And now John's warm, slightly callused hand is cupping his cheek, and the touch is searing, so amazingly hot it steals the air left in his lungs. A broad thumb sweeps over the arch of his cheekbone and John's lips are moist and hot in his ear whispering, "I think you know I already have." The caress coupled with the rasped confession sends a burst of fire dancing along his limbs, spreading outward to pool at his groin.
Oh, my.
Before Sherlock can wrap his brain around the sudden interest his cock is taking in the proceedings, John's other hand frames Sherlock's face, pulling it forward so their lips meet on a heavy exhale.
Having been kissed before, Sherlock understands the nuances involved in order to make the experience pleasant. There is pressure to be monitored, a ratio of lips to tongue to teeth that needs to be maintained, and the introduction of other spontaneous, but not unexpected variables (i.e. biting, nibbling, sucking) to be addressed. Frankly, it's all been too much trouble before, and he really didn't see the point.
Then John kisses him.
Really kisses him.
John's mouth is hot, wet, and oh-so-good, sliding over his to create a delicious friction that the brilliance of his brain can only catalogue as hothothotwetwetwetgoodgoodgood. And he wants more. John's hands leave his face to grip at his shoulders, shoving him down into a slouch. His legs fall open on a groan that bubbles up from the base of his spine, and John moves to straddle his hips, bearing down upon him. Sherlock gasps as John's denim covered thighs brush along the outside of his trousers. John perches himself over Sherlock's lap, and he lifts a fraction, but John scoots back out of reach, denying him the contact. Bastard.
It's a kiss. Sherlock's brain registers that this is just a kiss; it hasn't evolved yet into anything else. He thinks he should be writing something down, scribbling down heart rate, or pupil dilation, or sensory information. For the experiment. Yes. To catalogue the data to understand the reasoning behind why you murder someone if they stopped sucking on your bottom lip like ohgodjustlikethatJohn.
Thoughts of pausing for notes now is laughable, what with the way John's mouth is fastened on his neck in a most amazing fashion, biting kisses down the column while his hands (sweet Christ, those hands) are in his hair, curling into the strands, anchoring him to the moment.
It's fast and slow, maddeningly foreign and strangely familiar, and Sherlock is filled with the comforting knowledge of JohnJohnJohnJohn as the object of his desire-filled chant begins to unbutton his shirt with swift dexterity. The fabric scratches on nipples that have suddenly awakened, hard and sensitized. When the blunt end of John's nails scrapes over one, the sound that emerges from his throat is raw and unhinged.
He can feel John's dark chuckle at his collarbone and he hisses at the pointed heat of a tongue that darts out to lick and trace each dip and hollow. John's tongue slides over his skin like a matchstick on sandpaper, rough and rasping, never failing to trail fire in its wake.
Fine. He will concede that perhaps there is something to be said for this construct of sexual congress after all. Even go so far as to say that it's indeed possible for one to be unduly swayed by the sensations and feelings of such things as John's fingers in his hair, or John's lips on his neck into committing all sorts of acts of violence just to feel them again.
But then Sherlock's hands reach up and latch onto John's waist, and his fingers meet with the bare skin of the doctor's torso as they dive underneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt. And when that happens, when his hands engage in and of themselves, when it is John's heated cry at the touch of Sherlock's hands on his body that pierces the air, Sherlock loses all sense of time and space because everything in his world condenses to the one simple task of getting John to make that fabulous noise again.
He presses harder with his fingers and tilts his hips upward; finally making contact with that part of John's body he was unfairly denied. His erection makes contact with John's and the doctor bucks down with a surprising groan that vibrates through his body. John's mouth swoops to catch his again, plundering with a ferocity that matches the grind of his hips.
There is thrusting, pushing, and pulling. It sparks little earthquakes in his nervous system that leaves Sherlock trembling and shaking with something his body can only quantify as need. He opens his mouth for John's questing tongue, meeting its plunge, offering his own in supplication.
John pulls back with eyes that are alight with fire and sparkle with desire, and Sherlock drinks in the sight of him, brutish and beautiful. The hot press of John's lips to his ear is shocking and sweet, and the tongue that curves over the outer lobe is downright filthy as he suckles with noisy abandon.
The hands on his chest separate, and Sherlock begins to understand what it means to come undone beneath the touch of another person as John's fingers card through the mess of his curls and yank back, exposing the line of his throat. He is convinced without a shadow of a doubt that there is a thin thread of yes and fuck that connects the follicles on his head directly to the tip of his cock as John's fingers tighten. The sound it produces is deep and primal, resonating in the heavy swell of his balls.
John's other hand, not to be forgotten in this dance of pleasure, takes the moment to dive between their bodies, past the waistband of his trousers and boxers, to grip at his erection with a strength and gentleness that can only come from the practiced hands of a doctor.
"Good, Sherlock?" John hisses in his ear, and he can feel John's tongue flicker like a snake's as it teases.
He moans in response. No words will form. John's low laugh is sinister, but so fucking hot.
The hand around his cock tightens and Sherlock gasps and bucks, wanting more, needing more, begging for more. He turns his head to pant wantonly against John's mouth, and is rewarded with another drugging kiss and a bone-melting twist of John's wrist.
His fingers dig into John's side, it must sting, because John is hissing again. But he doesn't move away, so Sherlock clutches harder, bringing his legs up to lock behind John and hold him in place.
Another rough groan escapes John, and if anything it only urges him on, because suddenly the grinding and the friction has reached a heated pace, and John's hand is gone from his cock to splay wide on his chest, pressing him into the sofa.
It's a series of messy, ugly grunts, and the ragged slide of rutting bodies, and it is glorious. But as quickly as the rush began, it's over, and John breaks off to wedge himself into the corner of the sofa. He runs an absent hand through his hair and over his face, gives a curious shake of his head and picks up the newspaper from the arm of the sofa.
"Give me five and I'll make tea, yeah?"
"John," Sherlock pants, unable to get his mind to process the disturbing loss of contact.
When he speaks, John's voice is nauseatingly steady. "I believe you requested a lesson in interpersonal relations of a sexual nature, i.e. foreplay, did you not?"
The only sound he can make is a huffed grunt to the affirmative.
"And if foreplay is defined as erotic stimulation of the body and mind that precedes sexual intercourse, would you say your experiment has come to its inevitable conclusion?"
It's really unfair how John is totally unruffled. "What?"
"Would you say that you are now sufficiently ready to engage in sexual intercourse as determined by the parameters of the definition of foreplay?"
"Hmm?"
"Are. You. Ready. To. Fuck?"
His balls are heavy, his cock is leaking, he can feel the stickiness as it rubs against the damned confining stretch of silk across his erection, his vision is blurred, his mouth is bursting with the addictive mingle of flavours that is tea and chocolate and John, his hands positively itch to feel more of the satiny slide of John's skin against his fingers, and there is an unexplainable ache in places low on his body that has only been coaxed to life a handful of times, an unwitting desire to fill and be filled that twists and burns, and an almost shameful, unmitigating want that does indeed have him ready to fuck. Just bleedingbuggeringfuck. "God, yes."
John flicks the newspaper to flatten out the crease. "Good. There you have it. Foreplay. End of lesson."
Sherlock can only stare at the ceiling in abject silence as his breathing stutters in his lungs and he waits for the sofa to swallow him and his aroused misery.
The newspaper rattles once more and John's voice is like velvet, drifting in from the other side of the sofa. "And just so you know, that's why they call me John 'Three Continents' Watson."
END