The pain was becoming excruciating. It had been building and building over the past few weeks, growing worse with each passing day until now he could barely stand it.
When they were out and about, running, chasing...it abated. In fact, he barely noticed it at all compliments of adrenaline. But once the rush had subsided and they were safely back home at Baker Street, as they were now, it came back hard and fast.
It had reached the point where he would sit in his chair at the end of the evening and not move unless it was absolutely necessary. And even then he would try to do it outside of Sherlock's view and awareness.
Which was, of course, nonsense. There was nothing outside of Sherlock's awareness.
"You're in pain." He said this evening. An evening where John had actually thought he'd been concealing it well.
"What was that?" John asked, trying to play dumb, something that always raised the ire of the detective. They were both staring at their laptop's, hard at work and he hoped Sherlock might be so engrossed he'd forgotten he even asked the question.
It didn't work.
"You're in pain. You've been favoring your right leg and hip for some time now but you've been trying to conceal it from me. Don't play stupid, John, you know how I hate that."
"Just a bit of stiffness, I think it's the cold. It'll pass."
At least he hoped it would. He was alternately pining for his cane whilst at the same time being repulsed by the idea of using it again.
"Is there anything I can do?" Sherlock asked at the same time John defensively blurted; "It's quite real, by the way. Nothing psychosomatic this go round."
"I never said it was." Sherlock replied.
"Well, good then." John said then paused. "What did you ask me?"
"I asked if there was anything I could do." The detective had finally glanced up from his screen.
"No, don't think so." He hated this, falling under his scrutiny, or better put, his pity. He didn't want to be seen as the lesser of the two, the one who couldn't keep up. Suddenly those old feelings of inadequacy from their very first evening together flooded back. The cane. The hurt. Feeling so out of place. Being left behind. But that was ages ago.
"I could give you a massage." Sherlock said.
"Massage?" That was the last thing he thought his friend would say and he honestly thought he'd heard him wrong.
"Yes, John massage. Are we playing at the game where you repeat things after me like you've never heard the word before." He asked with irritation.
"What do you know about massage?" The idea of Sherlock's hands on him sounded strange. He shifted in his chair and his leg flared, practically howling with protest and pain.
"Massage is just the tactile application of pressure and the manipulation of the anatomy, specifically certain muscle groups with alternating focus and pressure."
Well, that was clinical enough. Maybe it wouldn't be weird. He could deal with being another of Sherlock's experiments especially if it might alleviate some of what he had just felt which was only just now subsiding.
Was he agreeing to this?
"Yeah, yes, ok, please."
Apparently he was.
"Thank you." Sherlock said as if John had gifted him something. "I believe it would be too awkward for us both to attempt this on the sofa. If you'll go to your bedroom and get comfortable I'll be in shortly."
John nodded. It made sense, so with more effort than he cared to think about he got up from the chair and limped to his bedroom. Once there, he slowly changed into what he typically slept in, a t-shirt and loose pajama trousers. He reached in his nightstand and retrieved a bottle of lotion, usually used for other purposes and set it in view. The last thing he wanted was a dry, rough-handed massage.
Sherlock entered the room and shut the door behind him. He had his sleeves rolled up but other than that he was unchanged.
"I think it would be best if you were to lie on your left side. I'll need to sit on the edge of your bed. I'll also need better access to your skin. You don't have an issue with nudity do you?"
"I-" John felt himself flush but before he could speak Sherlock continued.
"You can pull your trousers down a bit and cover up if it embarrasses you." He said brusquely. "Now, show me where it hurts." He said and John couldn't help but note the softness of his tone at the last bit.
John raised up a little and tugged down his trousers exposing a bit of his arse. Reaching backwards he gingerly motioned to the general area. Sherlock raised his t-shirt for a better view.
"Here, but especially here." He said quietly.
There was the popping of a lid followed by Sherlock squeezing the lotion into his hands. He rubbed them together rapidly.
"I tend to run a little cold but I think I've warmed my hands sufficiently." He said. "Ready?"
"Yes."
He willed himself not to jump at his mates contact with his flesh. He started his touch much higher than the area John had indicated. He was about to protest but Sherlock spoke first.
"I'm not just going to plunge in, I need to get you loose by degrees."
He began at his internal oblique, which occasionally played up but wasn't giving him any trouble to speak of at the moment. He began by sliding his hands up and down the surface area making small, deliberate circles.
It felt fine but it wasn't exactly hitting the mark. John contented himself that he would have to just suffer through this pointless affair so as not to offend his friend. Maybe it was time to ask Mike Stamford for some muscle relaxers.
And then Sherlock pressed an area, one specific area with the pads of his thumb.
It was pain and relief all at once. But no matter what it was too much and he needed to breathe.
"Stop, fuck, Sherlock, stop."
He paused as requested.
"I know it hurts. It has to hurt before it feels better. Do you trust me?"
There was nothing to think about, of course he trusted him. Fully. Completely. It didn't mean he wasn't apprehensive.
"Yes, I trust you."
"You're tight, John. I believe I can make you feel better." His voice was low, a bit...entrancing?
John decided to do as he asked. There was literally no way he could make it worse.
"A good massage is all about increasing blood flow to a neglected area. I know it's tender but just let me work..."
John nodded and closed his eyes.
Sherlock touched that spot again and he would have liked to have thought it might hurt less but it didn't. At least not at first. His mates fingers were strong and unrelenting. He should have known. Agreeing to let Sherlock do anything meant you'd receive 100% whether you wanted it or not.
After a while John began to feel either he was growing accustomed to the pain or it was lessening. The area, the ever expanding area Sherlock was covering had grown warm and not unpleasantly so.
He'd moved lower, closer to that epicenter of pain and as John braced himself for what he imagined would feel like the twanging of a raw nerve. Instead Sherlock skipped that place, his fingers grazing the skin of John's thigh.
He felt goosebumps rise on his skin, something about the heat from Sherlock's hand and the coolness of the room, he imagined.
They weren't saying much at all and John preferred it that way. He actually didn't know what words were appropriate here.
There were times where every part of him, from his hip down to calf felt like a live wire, sparking, crackling, painful. Today had been one of those days but Sherlock's hands were working to soothe it.
He wasn't subtle though or especially gentle, but somehow his touch felt almost sinfully good.
"Does it hurt? I can go a bit deeper if you like."
John kept his eyes closed. Sometimes the language of this made the situation feel even more intimate than it was. And it was pretty intimate.
"Yes. Please. Deeper." He kept his words short. Opening his mouth felt dangerous because he really didn't trust might come out. Instead he made a slight move to pull his trousers lower. He wasn't wearing pants and if not for the sheet he was using to cover himself his cock would have been exposed.
Speaking of his cock...
"Let me change the angle of penetration." Sherlock said and John felt him shift on the bed getting closer.
Was he saying these things on purpose? Could he possibly be speaking this string of double entendres without knowing it? It seemed unlikely. But then again, this was Sherlock. Anything other than accident would require...seduction, planning, opportunism. The later two he could imagine. The former...well there was no way. This was just a friendly and frankly remarkably kind and considerate offer by his best friend which might even be paying off and-
"Ohhhhh..." He groaned out before he could stop himself. Sherlocks fingers only fluttered in hesitation for a moment before resuming their efforts.
It wasn't just that the pain was lessening it wasn't even just that Sherlock virtuosity with his hands was not limited to the violin it was also the fact that somehow, without him even noticing John's cock was positively rigid.
"Stop fussing and let me finish. If you don't it's going to be like this all night and you won't get any release." But there was no real condemnation in his voice. In fact there was nothing but affectionate bluster.
John tried to blur his focus and will the erection back down. It was wildly inappropriate and all he could do was hope his friend didn't notice. God what if he noticed? How to explain?
Sherlock had moved up and down the length of his leg, working and kneading at the muscle behind his knee, the tightness in his calf, then up again to the back of his thigh. John had thought he might stop there out of propriety or shyness but he boldly began massaging his gluteal.
"Fuck..." He swore into the pillow. God it was good, so good and his whole body started to tingle in that familiar feeling, that feeling that was not wanted in this place, at this moment with this person. "Sherlock...wait..." he said but it was so soft, so breathless he didn't blame the other man for not hearing him.
"Just a bit more, John. Just for me. Almost there."
And then he was there. Sherlocks finger hit a particular spot. He had returned to his back, his lower back, just above his sacrum. He alternated between digging deeper, pressing harder and longer and and slow light, flat-palmed circles .
And like that John Watson was gone.
No hand, no friction, no contact with his erection whatsoever, just Sherlock's touch sent him into one of the most earth shattering orgasms of his life. His toes and fingers flexed and curled his body relented to those unmistakable seizes and jerks and he felt the pool of warm and sticky ejaculate as it collected partially on the sheets and partially on his belly.
He moaned, loudly throughout, unable and perhaps unwilling to even to muffle himself.
He couldn't pretend it was anything other than it was. He couldn't act. He couldn't play this off. His vision went hazy then dark as he shut his eyes, coming hard beneath the thin sheet with Sherlock's hands on him.
But what was worse was the truth...the truth? ...falling from his lips. A half whispered and aching "Yes...Sherlock..."
When it was over he lay there stock still. He couldn't look at him. Couldn't turn over. Was there something beyond mortified? His mates hands were no longer on him and he didn't even want to imagine what he was feeling or thinking.
He felt so ashamed his eyes started to burn with tears.
Yes, John, if there's anything that could make this situation better it's you bursting into a weeping jag. Stop it. Just fucking stop it. Thank him and ask him to leave. He wants to get out of here just as badly as you want him gone, no doubt.
"Thanks, mate." He said, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Feels loads better. Think I'm just going to go to bed now. See you tomorrow."
This was greeted by silence. A long, terrible silence.
"You're welcome, John. Have a pleasant night."
The weight removed itself from the bed, the floor creaked and Sherlock exited closing the door behind him.
John immediately leapt out of bed. And he did leap because by God his leg felt better. He stripped the sticky bedding away, tugged off his clothes and headed into the comfort of a hot shower.
Unfortunately his thoughts followed him.
He'd let a man bring him to orgasm, an absurdly satisfying orgasm. But not just a man. His best mate. But yes...a man. He wasn't gay. He wasn't turned on by men, he didn't think about them sexually, he didn't masturbate to them and he didn't want to have sex with them.
And yet none of what had just happened could even remotely be denied.
And none of this even touched on the idea of what this had done to Sherlock. What was he thinking? Was he horrified? Would he want to discuss it? He really and truly didn't want to discuss it.
But...but...it had been good. So unbelievably good. He was getting hard again just thinking about it now. What, he wondered had Sherlock's face looked like?
And now he was harder still and he needed the friction, the touch of his own hand. Rapid, skilled movements. His palm and fist moving faster and faster until for the second time that night he came, again, perhaps indirectly related to Sherlock Holmes.
He woke up the next morning to find an email in his inbox from Sherlock titled "Sacral Nerve Orgasm".
Oh, Jesus...no.
John opened it with trepidation. To his relief, if he could glean any relief from the situation, there were no personal words from Sherlock in the body of the email, only links. A lot of links. Links to study after study along with personal stories of people who had experienced just what he had.
Once his head had cleared last night he knew exactly what had happened. Or rather...he convinced himself he knew.
Orgasms may sound mysterious, some sort of special confluence only to be achieved by genitalia or hand but in truth it was just a function of the autonomic nervous system like any other. Nerve endings, that was all. A massage stimulated nerve endings. A massage that released pent up tension and energy and stress and God knows what else could bring about an orgasm. It could happen by way of a shoulder, a foot, a neck, anything. Anything at all.
It can happen. It did happen.
So this meant he, Sherlock was thinking about it. Perhaps a lot. Quite a lot. John wondered if this was his way of saying he didn't want to actually have a sit down about it? If so, that was fine by him. No matter what, he couldn't hide out in his room all day. He had to march out there and face it. Whatever it was.
Sherlock would have gotten the email read receipt so there wasn't even a reason to reply.
It had happened. It was over. And his leg and hip felt remarkably well.
Of course, it happened again.
The pain came creeping back as pain was wont to do. In fact it seemed like now it was almost constant. Nagging and sharp and infiltrating everything he did or tried to do.
But this time, though he refused to admit it, even to himself, he was caught between hiding it from Sherlock and making him see it.
Just as before it was Sherlock who suggested it.
"If you're hurting...I can help." He'd said while his head was thrust deep into the refrigerator. John didn't know what he was doing or looking for he only knew he'd been rattling around in the kitchen for the better part of a half hour.
The doctor had just retaken his seat, with a small grunt, after getting out of shower that had done absolutely nothing for him.
He'd intended to continue going over a stack of files but Sherlock's voice stopped. He bobbled the folder in his hand, nearly sending the sheets of paper cascading to the floor.
"Sorry, what?" He asked.
"The tightness is back and leg." He replied nonchalantly. "I can help. If you like."
John took a deep breath he hoped his friend didn't hear. A good chunk of him wanted to say no. This was playing with...if not fire, then something equally dangerous.
It had been two weeks and they hadn't mentioned it. Hadn't acknowledged that it had even happened. Life had continue on in self-imposed blissful ignorance.
But...he was craving his touch. But not simply the touch. The closeness of just the two of them removed from a crime scene or a chase. Just they two.
"Yeah...yeah, if you don't mind, that is."
"Not at all." Sherlock replied.
"I'll uh...go to my bedroom then." John said standing to his feet. Though it hurt, he hopped up with enthusiasm.
"I'll be in shortly."
And he was.
When he entered the room John was on his side, facing away from him though he did glance over his shoulder before Sherlock shut the door eclipsing them in darkness.
This time it was his mate who gently tugged down his trousers. He'd honestly forgotten but he didn't regret it.
The thoughts started to creep in. This was another man. He was straight. He liked women, loved them in fact. Their faces, their frames, their breasts, their softness their-
Oh God..right there...
Sherlock started as he had before, at that tight, wince-inducing area on his back. His hands felt just as magic and talented as the first time and John hummed softly through the pleasure and pain.
"Good then?" His friend asked.
"Very, very good." He replied.
This went on, in lovely, lovely silence until Sherlock spoke.
"John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"This might be a bit easier if I was to lie down as well, I believe I could get a better angle."
His voice sounded smooth, practiced...perhaps too practiced. Like he'd wondered if he would or could say this. Like he'd gone over it in his mind so he'd get it just so.
John paused, trying to figure out what this would mean. He then tried to figured out why he was trying to figure out what it meant. Why not just enjoy it? Why not take this step?
Why not see where it leads?
"If you think that's best." He said far more softly than he intended.
The weight behind him shifted, distributing itself evenly as Sherlock lay down on the bed behind him. Close. Close enough to feel his heat and his energy but not close enough to touch. Not close enough to really feel him...or any specific part of him.
Then the hands were on him again and it was the same pressure but from a new angle. Tighter circle, more thumb, less fingertips.
John gasped and he could have sworn he heard Sherlock make the smallest of small noises behind him.
His cock was hard and had been since before his mate had entered the room. He knew the rhythm of it all now, he knew the plan and as Sherlock began to work back up his thigh, back to his arse he felt his climax approaching again.
But this time...this time it was better. Because Sherlock was behind him and he could hear him, hear the little groans of effort he put in as he drove his fingers into the tight muscles of John's back. He could feel the steady motion as the bed moved to the action. And best of all he could feel the puffs of breath on the back of his neck.
When he came this time instead of going rigid he curled his body a bit forward, rounding his back adding a new pleasure as Sherlock hit a different spot al together. He was loud this time as well and he only just barely cared.
He could hear his mate panting as the circles he rubbed grew smaller and smaller until his hand fells away. John lay there, spent, warmed, and happy.
"Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you, thank you."
"It was my pleasure, John. Goodnight, I'll see you in the morning."
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock got up from the bed slowly, exited the room and closed the door.
John wondered what the implications would have been had he asked him to stay.
The third time it happened John suggested it made more sense that he not wear anything at all on the bottom half.
"For better access." He said and then before his face could turn fully crimson he turned away and lay on his side.
Sherlock agreed almost immediately and as before lay on the bed behind him. There was no longer any preamble, no talk of a "better angle this" or "easier on your spine" that.
They just went to it.
And as the two times before Sherlock's hand danced over his skin, loosening his muscles, prying firmly at his flesh.
He felt the puffs of breath against the back of his neck, felt the heat from Sherlock's body almost, almost touching him.
But this time, though the orgasm was good the guilt that followed after nearly swallowed him up.
And the pain...the pain was still there too.
He thanked Sherlock, as always, his friend said it was no problem whatsoever and without ever looking at one another he left the room.
John lay there, his stomach churning. This was selfish. This was horribly, horribly selfish. He was using him, like some sort of rent boy, like a bed warmer. Did his friend get any pleasure out of this at all? Good God was he just being nice?
The horror at that thought propelled John out of bed. He pulled on his pajama bottoms and hurried out of his room as fast as his limp would allow, making beeline to Sherlock's door.
He knocked and then tried the knob. The detective had a sort of open door policy and just as he never put on the lock for the entrance to their flat so he never did for his own inner sanctuary.
Except this time the knob didn't turn.
John frowned and knocked again.
"Sherlock, I was wondering if we could maybe...talk. Can I come in?"
"Just a moment, John." Came a hurried sounding voice from inside.
But it wasn't a moment. It was actually a few moments before John heard the bed creak and a few moments after that he heard a slight rustle.
Finally the door unlocked and opened.
Sherlock was standing there looking flushed. He had his dressing gown on, which seemed loosely and haphazardly tied, as well as his pajama trousers but he was, unusually, bare chested.
John frowned, thinking the flush was a fever or worse that he was upset.
Without considering the implication he extended his hand and put it to Sherlock's forehead.
"Are you alright? You look a bit red."
"I'm fine." Sherlock said before he swallowed hard. "I was in bed...sleeping. I believe the knock on the door must have startled me."
"Sleeping?" he said removing his hand and dropping it back to his side. "You only just left my room a few minutes ago."
"Yes, I suppose I did. John, if there's something you'd like to discuss is it possible that it could wait until tomorrow?"
"Umm yeah, yeah of course. Sorry to disturb you, I just thought that maybe there were things-"
"You didn't disturb me." He said already moving to close the bedroom door. "We'll talk tomorrow, alright."
He forced an odd smile and one that was completely unfamiliar to John. As he did so he raised his right hand, running it through his curls. The movement caused the dressing gown to come undone and that was when John noticed it just a split second before the door shut...and locked.
A rather prominent erection was tenting Sherlock's trousers.
John opened his mouth to say something but the click of the lock cut him off.
"Goodnight, John." Came the voice from within. It already sounded a little far away.
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
John returned to his room.
Perhaps he was wrong.
Perhaps Sherlock was getting something out of this after all.
He had stopped dating altogether and the massages had increased in frequency and intensity.
Once he had come next to him twice in one night.
That same evening he'd crept to Sherlock's door and listened. He'd heard, ever so faintly breathing, heavy breathing, the slightest of moans and then a whimper that sent him back to his bed as quickly as possible to turn the two orgasm night into three.
What were they doing? Good God, what were they doing?
And still, not a word to each other.
But it went on and on and on, multiple nights a week, for weeks on end, the same scenario. Never in his life had he imagined that a hands-free orgasm was possible but he was becoming a champ. Never once did he, or to the best of his knowledge Sherlock, touch themselves. That would be too on the nose, too close to admitting what they were doing and how they had no intention of stopping.
It was a slow Sunday afternoon. Too slow for the both of them.
Sherlock had taken up his violin and John was in his chair, eyes closed listening to him play something mournful and lovely.
When he finished the doctor applauded.
"That was magnificent."
"Thank you, John. Though you have a very pedestrian ear, I accept the compliment."
John smiled at the ribbing and then...then he had a thought.
"It must hurt sometimes." He said suddenly.
"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked as he placed the instrument carefully back in its case."
"Your shoulder, it must hurt sometimes. I imagine it take a lot of muscle control to play that not to mention to play it well. Just thinking about it makes me tense up."
"Not really. I've been practicing since I was a child. My parents insisted. I'm quite used to it now."
Sherlock wasn't getting it but John was going to make sure he did.
"I'm only saying, if it were me. I think I could benefit from a rub down after a performance like that."
He didn't just see Sherlock freeze, he felt it. It filled the room, his stillness.
This was a risk, there was no doubt, but John held his gaze, held his eyes. He was going to see this through no matter the answer.
Sherlock swallowed, glanced down at his feet, swallowed again and seemed to make a decision.
"Now that you mention it..." He began and John was, in a word, elated. "It had been hurting me lately."
"Hmmm...I thought it might. Best let me take a look at it. Maybe I can make you feel better."
"I'd like that." Sherlock said, his voice small but determined.
"Good, you should go to your bedroom. I'll be there momentarily."
Without another word, the detective did just that.
When John entered the room he found Sherlock lying on his left side, shirtless and still. He walked over and seated himself on the edge of the bed.
He was about to speak when Sherlock beat him to it.
"I don't usually let people touch me. I'm unaccustomed to it." He said almost defensively.
John was about to say that he understood but chose another path.
"We've embraced. We've touched." He said quietly. "You let me touch you."
Sherlock paused as if he hadn't considered that. Hadn't considered that John had already, long ago, been singled out from that group of "They", that group of everyone else that wasn't him.
He didn't respond directly to it but did nod slightly.
"Now," John began as he sat on the edge of the bed. "Show me where it hurts."
Sherlock reached behind him, gesturing to the painful spots.
As John filled his hand with lotion Sherlock asked, "Would you be opposed to doing this while I lay on my stomach."
"No, not at all."
"It would give you better access to the surface area."
"Right. I agree."
"I just find it to be the most logically positioning."
"Sherlock, I said, I agree. Come on, on your belly for me."
His friend, never once showing his face or even glancing in his direction lay flat on his stomach.
Neither of them, it seemed, could ever look at the other during these sessions.
John had assumed this was 90% excuse to get him into bed combined with 10% reality. But, as it turned out, Sherlock was full of knots. Though that shouldn't come as a surprise. John dutifully and gladly set to work reliving some of the pressure.
"It would be easier if you straddled me." Sherlock said quickly and John felt him tense under his fingertips.
"You're right." He said after only a moment before swinging his leg over his friend.
He was covered from the waist down. John had no idea if he was clothed or naked beneath the sheets. What he did know was that seeing Sherlock's muscular, broad back from this angle was something to behold. Pale and freckled each movement showed the strength underneath. It was a spectacle, a glorious one of planes and valleys that John only wanted to touch and touch more. But that wasn't quite the best part. The best part was his surprisingly attractive arse, that formed a lovely raise and slope under the sheets. It looked firm and John wanted nothing more than to seat himself a top it as he worked. But then Sherlock would surely feel his erection and as silly as it sounded he wasn't sure they were quite there yet.
His knees on the bed on either side of Sherlock he decided to make the most of this angle and began again at the back of his neck. It wasn't anywhere near where his mate had said he was hurting and John could feel him starting to protest. And then he let warm, gentle fingers creep up just above that hairline and Sherlock went silent. Apparently, for now, he found it too nice to argue.
John had given his fair share of massages in the day, though admittedly, most of them had been in an effort to talk a woman into sex, or at least make her more receptive to the idea. Still though, he knew how to do it, knew the points of pressure and release. He hadn't known about the sacrum trick that Sherlock was an expert at pulling, but in the interim, and certainly before offering his services tonight he'd done reasearch. A lot of research.
Next, he moved to his shoulders, attacking the tense, myofascial trigger points. The first moan came when he moved from his trapezius to his deltoid. It was soft, and mostly captured by the pillow but John still felt the slight vibration through the bed and his fingertips.
"Good?" He dared to ask.
"Mmmhmm." He replied. "You can go a little harder. No need to baby me. I can take it."
"I know you can take it but I'm going to go slow at first." John paused. "I need to take my time before going deeper."
He knew what he was saying. He was pretty sure Sherlock knew what he was saying.
Sherlock had his head turned to the side, resting on the pillow and his eyes shut but not as tightly as he imagined. Good, that was good, it meant the relaxation was taking hold. Without any particular focus on what his hands were doing John got a bit lost in his face for awhile. The beauty of it and the serenity. He rarely if ever got to see him this face, at ease, forehead un-creased, mouth a bit slack, lips, parted. Still, just still and enjoying being still.
Christ he was hard.
He moved lower, latissimus dorsi, moving inward to serratus anterior, then back out again to the serratus anterior, then posterior. Down farther to the thoracolumbar fascia and the external and internal obliques that sat his hips.
He paused. Should he go lower still? Ultimately he decided yes and sank his fingers into the tense, solid flesh and muscle of his glutes. Sherlock had been growing ever increasingly loud but the sounds now as John massaged his arse was a cross between a yelp and a sob.
"Want me to stop?"
"Good God, no!" He said his voice hoarse and raw.
He kept moving his hands, relishing the feeling when Sherlock flexed or twitched or moaned beneath him. This was fantasy atop fantasy and he hoped like hell it was real and not just in his imagination this was even occurring.
Finally, John was there, the one spot he, at this point, considered rather magical. He hoped he'd do it right because Sherlock certainly seemed primed.
He began as his mate had with him, broad circles with the flat of his hand, clockwise with slowly increasing pressure. As John's contact increased so did his best friends moans coupled with him nearly imperceptibly grinding against the bed.
Nearly imperceptible because what wound up alerting John to it was the rise of his arse brushing against the doctor's erection.
He bit back a swear that he knew the detective would notice. And noticing might throw him off his rhythm and take him out of the moment. Instead, John just continued as he was, hoping for another brush of his mates bottom.
Sherlock's fingers were flexing, alternating between grabbing handfuls of the pillows and splaying widely.
He pressed a bit more forcefully and Sherlock's arse rose off the bed again, and again, and again, each time pressing deliciously against John's cock.
He was close, so close now, they both were and before he could think about or check his words they spilled out.
"That's it, Sherlock, come for me. Come for me, love."
And he did, his voice cracked on what turned out to be his final moan and John both watched and felt him as he humped the bed through his orgasm. Sherlock reached a hand up and locked a death grip on the top of his headboard knuckles going white.
Was this what he was like all the time? Vocal. Expressive. Out of control. More sexual than John could have fathomed.
Still waters run deep and all that.
He kept his hands on him, rubbing and touching him gently as he quieted. By some miracle, he had managed not to come but Sherlock would occasionally still move beneath him which means his arse was infrequently brushing against John's cock and he really couldn't take it anymore.
Following their established protocol John silently removed his body from his friend. Sherlock wasn't looking so he gave his cock a squeeze as he got off the bed.
"Goodnight, Sherlock." He said quietly and he opened the bedroom door to leave.
"Goodnight, John." His friend replied. He sounded completely spent and possibly on the verge of sleep. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He replied. He left the room, dashed to his own, hurried out of his clothes, hopped into bed and began masturbating furiously to what he'd just witnessed.
It wasn't until much later that the thought occurred to him that he had actually told him to come...
This went on and on and on becoming routine for them. Even the slightest pain would somehow need immediate attention and so another session would be initiated. It started to be how they wound down the evening, how they said goodnight to one another. And if John wasn't mistaken he saw as much craving and need in Sherlock's eyes as he himself was feeling.
He was having some of the most satisfying, meaningful, intimate and regular sex of his life with someone who he never discussed it with later. Not "some of the", he corrected himself, just plain "the".
The first weeks had been turmoil. Churning up all the philosophical questions of Who am I? and What does this mean? But it didn't trouble him as much as he thought it might. Maybe it was his age. Maybe if he'd been younger he could have, would have tried to explore it deeper, plum the depths of his psyche. But he was older, he'd seen too much, experienced too much, lost too much to dare to question the simplicity of happy. So, alright then, the touch of Sherlock, the touch of another man, his presence, his scent, him, he...it made John happy, it turned him on. And more than just the touch, more than the sex, it was the experience as a whole that made him feel complete. What of it? What more than that needed to be internally discussed?
As for externally, that was another matter.
At some point, they actually began sleep together.
Sherlock made the first bold move in that area much to John's surprise and relief.
He made his exit but while John noticed they didn't say their goodnights he didn't think too much about it...until he did.
He'd gone to the loo to clean up and when he came back out Sherlock was standing in his room looking...sheepish?
"There's a disturbance under my window. I can't seem to focus." He said.
"Kids or something being a nuisance?" John had asked. "We can go shoo them away if you like or call the cops."
"No..I...would it be alright if I stayed here a moment or two to clear my head?"
"Yeah, of course." John replied without hesitation as he got back into bed.
"Thank you, John."
"You can get back on the bed."
"Thank you again." He said seating himself there.
"It's chilly tonight." John ventured. "You may want to get under the blankets."
"That would be nice, actually."
"Do you need the light on?"
"No, no thank you. Please, don't let me keep you up."
"You're not." John said softly as he switched off the lamp, glad the darkness could now hide his smile. "Please, stay as long as you like."
And he did just that.
John woke up in the middle of the night and to his surprise, Sherlock was still there but sound asleep. He crept to the loo and back to bed carefully so as not to wake him and settled in for a peaceful night's sleep. By the morning Sherlock was gone.
And still, they never spoke of it.
But it became habit just the same. After their massage session, the massage-r would creep off to take care of himself then return to bed with a flimsy excuse and they go to sleep.
That was it.
That was life.
And it was odd.
And it was good.
And it was the best they could do.
"Is something the matter with Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson had asked in a hushed tone after cornering John in the kitchen one morning. There was no reason to whisper as Sherlock had left over an hour ago.
"No. Why? I mean, not that I know of."
"He's been acting strange lately." She said with a worried shake of her head.
"Strange how?"
"I just got to wondering if he might be back on drugs."
John put his hand on her shoulder to comfort her.
"Mrs. Hudson, I think I can say with complete certainty that he is not back on drugs. I keep a close eye on these things and none of the tell tale behavior is there."
"It's his moods, you know." She continued as if John hadn't spoken. "Sometimes he seems so sad. You don't see it because you've usually just left the room. But also, lately, he's been positively bubbly. Well, bubbly for Sherlock. He's smiling more. He even made me tea! And there wasn't a finger in it, just regular tea!"
"You're concerned because he seems happier than usual?" John asked with a frown.
"And sadder than usual as well. Haven't you noticed?" She asked him and there was just a bit of accusation in her tone, barely detectable to those unfamiliar with the subtle motherly craftiness of the landlady.
"No, no, I hadn't noticed."
"Perhaps you'd better stay about a little more often. He's happiest when you're here." She said with a smile. "Though I have noticed you haven't been going out that much have you?"
"No, no, the umm," He cleared his throat. "The dating prospects have dried up a bit."
"Probably for the best. Even if you and he have an open relationship seeing other people can still chafe. My husband thought it was a grand idea until I started seeing that young man who bagged our groceries..."
John tuned her out a bit because of the squick factor but mostly due to thoughts about Sherlock. His mate was sad. His mate was happy. Happy when he was in the room. Sad when he left.
The pain in his hip was unbelievable that night.
"Are you going out tonight?" Sherlock asked.
It was a question he'd never asked before.
"Uh...no, hadn't planned on it."
"A night in then?" He asked with painful nonchalance.
"Sounds good. Take away and Monopoly?"
"Monopoly is boring, capitalism is a tiresome game. But takeaway is good. My counteroffer is Cluedo."
John smiled.
"I told you there's a three-month moratorium on Cluedo until you agree to the rules that the killer must be one of the living. Guess Who?"
"Too easy. Operation?"
"Deal. Pizza or Chinese?"
They wound up getting both as each man was intractable.
Sherlock was rubbish at the game tonight and his playful frustration was entertaining.
It also helped that they'd been drinking a bit.
"You claimed a drink would steady your hand." John teased him after his mate triggered the jarring buzzer again.
"No one can remove "The Charlie Horse", John. It's common knowledge! Look it up!"
"That's the same thing you said about Perfection. No one can put all those pieces in correctly in that amount of time."
"No one can." He maintained.
"Then you said the timer was broken."
"I assure you, it was. Do we always play board games while drinking?" He asked. His tipsy smile spread easily across his face.
"I think so. I quite like it."
"If you're so talented then you try for the Charlie Horse. It's your turn."
"Easy as pie." He said holding the tweezers unsteadily in his hand. "Sherlock...?"
"Yes, John." The detective said leaning back in his chair and crossing his long legs.
The game buzzed as he connected with the patients side and he swore cheerfully before pausing, drunkenly trying to arrange his thoughts.
"Do you think...think we should talk?"
"What about?" He asked. Their eyes met, each holding steady.
"Anything at all." He said leaning back and pushing the tweezers towards him. "Things unsaid."
"How can we talk about things unsaid?" He said picking up the instrument.
"You know what I mean."
Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then another. And another. And another. His head was lowered and he appeared to be concentrating deeply on the game. John was looking only at the crown of his curly head.
Finally, he spoke.
"Some secrets burn in the heart. Controlled embers stoked by passion and tears. It is only when exposed to bright light and sharp air that they are extinguished. They thrive as they suffocate."
"I know that. Don't I know that? Who said that?"
Sherlock smiled sadly.
"I did."
"It's pretty but grim. It's pretty grim. Do you believe that?"
"It doesn't matter. Have another drink and you won't recall I said it in the morning. I'm going to have a drink so I don't remember either."
So they drank and they forgot.
"It's your turn, Sherlock."
"Which piece is next?"
"The Broken Heart."
Their nights had become a double-edged sword. On one hand, John looked forward to them more than any other part of his day. On the other, the pain in his leg only seemed to be growing worse. He'd been to another doctor, a specialist and he'd even gotten a prescription from Mike for muscle relaxers that he was wary to fill with Sherlock in the house. Not to mention, he hated taking pills.
The nights they shared a bed, Sherlock in his or he in Sherlock's were the nights he slept the best. The nights alone were sleepless and filled with worry, second thoughts, and guilt.
He decided, something needed to change. Something needed to be said. No matter how painful.
"Sherlock...I was wondering...my leg, it's playing up again." He began and he wasn't lying. It felt bloody terrible. "Do you think-"
"Of course. I'll change and be right in." He said with an obliging tone that would have struck John as so odd months ago. Now, it just sounded normal.
John hobbled to his bedroom, stripped down to his pants, crawled beneath the covers and waited for the sound of Sherlock's approaching footsteps.
He saw the surprise on his mates face as he entered and was greeted with not John's back, as he expected, back but a tentative smile.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you wanted..." He trailed off hovering in the doorway.
"Yeah, I know. Can you come closer, Sherlock?" John asked doing his best to control the burgeoning nervous energy.
His friend took exactly one step closer.
"A bit more. Can you...can you just strip down and get into bed?"
"Strip down?" he asked with a frown as if the request was so unusual.
"Yes, please." John said simply. "You're less intimidating when you're undressed."
With no further protest he did as John asked. Once down to his pants he slid into bed next to him.
"So, I've been thinking about what we've been doing."
"The massages?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
"And...it doesn't seem very fair. It's not fair to you."
"You want to stop." Sherlock replied and for a moment, before he reeled it in, he looked so crestfallen John felt physical pain.
"No."
"No?" He asked hopefully.
"No...I treated you like so much less than you are. It wasn't right for me to just let you get me off and then send you away."
"You didn't send me away, John."
"I did the first time."
"I'll stipulate to that but not the others. Not to mention after a few times it was reciprocated."
John smiled at the memory.
"Yeah, it was."
"Also..." Sherlock hesitated. "I...after I would leave you room I would..." He cleared his throat. "Take care of myself as well."
"That's my point. You shouldn't have had to."
Sherlock swallowed.
"Well, I find you arousing, John. I find what we do to be sexually arousing I can't seem to help it. I've stopped trying to help it."
John softened at the misunderstanding.
"No, I know. That's not what I meant when I said you shouldn't have to, I meant it's not enough. I want to change it. Grow it."
"I don't understand."
"How many times have we done this?" He asked feeling certain the detective would know.
"27 times over the last 4 and a quarter months." Sherlock rattled off easily.
"Exactly." He studied his friend's face, but mostly just looked into those bright, bright eyes. "Have you been thinking about us?"
"I...yes, I have." He glanced away furtively.
John took that as a negative sign. He'd made a mistake. He'd leapt from the fun of a good but weird sex-thing and tried to turn it into an "us".
"Look if I've got the wrong idea..." John began starting to backtrack furiously.
"You haven't!" He said quickly. "You're worried you were being selfish. I assure you, John, I received just as much pleasure from our interactions as you did. I found them stimulating and not just sexually so. I have never shared a bed with anyone, I have never had the desire and I have never felt lonely...until you. I find my room lacking, missing something. I am restless there without you."
John tentatively put his hand atop Sherlock's, who gazed down at it. When he didn't pull away the doctor gave him a squeeze.
"I can't concentrate." He went on. "You haunt my thoughts and the only time I feel at peace is when we're...when you're touching me or I'm touching you."
I...haven't been on a date in about 4 and a quarter months." John admitted.
Sherlock looked puzzled but seemed to think this was the moment to offer an understanding gesture.
"I'm sorry, John. Perhaps an odd thing to say after such a confession but, I'm sorry."
"I'm not." He said and swallowed. No turning back now. "I am fulfilled when you're here and empty when you're gone. The last part is what I'd like to change. When this first happened I didn't know what to do or what it meant. You have this image of yourself, this list of things you think you have all sorted even if everything else is in flux. Sexuality, who you want to sleep with...who you want to make love to, it's all sorted. It's done. You never have to worry about it again. And then something like this happens. I fancy you, Sherlock. Whether I can wrap my head around that or not, it's true and I'm not going to fight it anymore. I gave up fighting it intellectually about 4 months ago. I'm ready to give up fighting it physically as well."
"Meaning?" His friend asked. He had pulled the sheets up higher, protectively over his body.
"Meaning, I don't want you to leave my bed. We've effectively had sex 27 times and never once have we been face to face. I don't want us to do this again only seeing one another's back. I want to look at you, touch you, have you touch me."
John steeled himself for an awkward rebuff. He was as prepared as he would ever be. His friend had made it clear on multiple occasions that while he was obviously not opposed to deep and meaningful friendships, romantic entanglements were-
"I thought you were happy to have me leave. I wanted...to stay. I always wanted to stay."
"You did?" John asked with surprise. "Which times?"
Their eyes met and John could see the effort this required of his friend.
"Every time."
"Sherlock Holmes..." John said with a smile and an affectionate shake of his head. "You and I are not very good at this, are we?"
"No, we're not." he said with a small smile of his own.
"But we could get better." John replied. Boldly, and trying to brace himself for the idea that it might be too much and Sherlock might recoil leaned in and brought their lips together.
"We've been in a relationship separately." He whispered against his lips. "We've been trying to work all this out on our own. What if we tried it together?"
"Are you asking me if I'd like to be your boyfriend, John Watson?"
"If you'll have me, Sherlock. If you're not worried about suffocating in the sharp air and bright light."
This time the kiss was initiated by Sherlock, slow, deep and hungry John was soon lost within it.
"I'll have you, John." He replied pulling away for only a moment. "You remeber too much even when you're drunk and I'm breathing just fine."
The kiss turned even more passionate as covers and sheets slipped away.
John bridged atop Sherlock as the other man ran his hands up and down his back.
"I'll be careful of your leg, I promise." He said.
"It's ok. It doesn't hurt right now. Is it ok if we get naked?" John asked and his best friend nodded. Faster than was needed John removed his pants and Sherlock did the same.
Finally bare, finally able to touch him John reached down and grasped Sherlock's cock giving it a slow stroke. The latter gasped in reply.
Their eyes met, finally and John was struck by unearthly beautiful this man was and how badly he wanted every part of him.
"John, can we make love?"
John groaned at the simple and erotic request.
"Sherlock, love, I want us to, I do but we need condoms and lube." He said still stroking him slowly while he own cock stood at attention. "I'm sure we have the former covered but I doubt we've got the latter. We'll have to make do." He kissed him again. "I think we can manage don't you?"
He made his point by grinding his against his lover.
"Yes, yes, we'll make do. Please do that again." Sherlock replied almost frantically.
"Legs up...we'll pretend."
Sherlock did as he was instructed his eyes on John, sincere and trusting. With his friend's legs raised on either side of her and John firmly between his thighs he started to mime thrusting, bringing their bodies together, erections rubbing deliciously against one another.
John leaned forward to kiss him before murmuring against his lips. "It's going to feel so good to be inside you. So deep inside your tight arse."
"Here I was thinking the same about you." Sherlock said, his voice wavering in a way John had never heard before.
The doctor grinned widely.
"Well, I guess we'll have to take turns. But for now, I'm the top."
He gave an especially hard "thrust" and Sherlock dropped his head back on the pillow, his curls fanning out just a bit. As Sherlock extended his hand to put each one on John's arse cheeks, John snaked his hand between them, stroking their cocks together as he gyrated against him.
"I want to come with you. In all this time we've never come together, not even in the same room. Come with me now, love." He knew this wasn't going to last long and that was ok. There was the promise of so much more on the horizon.
Sherlock whimpered and those sounds John had become all too familiar with began; the low moans, the little gasps and soon enough he felt the detectives warm hand circling his lower back. Due to their spacing, their frenetic movement and the emotion of the situation it wasn't as dextrous as it had been in the past but by God it was getting the job done.
John kissed him again, sweetly, softly muffling some of his lovers cries. God, he loved how vocal Sherlock was. At times he even seemed a bit chatty and there was nothing John loved better than a talkative lover.
But they were beyond words now, his pacing was becoming more erratic, more fevered and with a low groan he started to orgasm hard against the detective.
"Sherlock, please..." He begged though he wasn't sure what for.
"John...John..." Came the reply and he felt the strong body beneath him began to writhe in the midst of its own orgasm.
They worked their bodies against one another frantically, happily all sweat and thrusts and kisses and cries until finally they slowed.
They ended as they began, kissing softly, gently, curiously and John felt Sherlock's hand in his hair.
"I love you, John." He whispered nuzzling his face.
John was shocked. He knew they were friends, the best of friends. He even knew they loved each other but it just wasn't something Sherlock said. And that was ok. Except now that's he'd heard it, he couldn't ever imagine not hearing it again.
"I love you too. Stay with me tonight."
"I hadn't planned on staying anywhere else."
John rolled off of him and reached for tissue to clean them both. Sherlock lay there observing him seeming quite happy to be catered to in this fashion.
"That's the first time I've come with you with any friction whatsoever. Hands-free orgasms, that doesn't happen every day."
"No, I suspect it doesn't." He said smugly. "Though there was that one week we came quite close."
John chuckled as he finished his work on their bodies, determined they could shower the rest off later and curled up next to Sherlock. The latter wrapped his arms around him tightly.
"John?"
"Hmmm?"
"Should we become aroused in the middle of the night, can we do that again?"
John laughed.
"Of course."
"You'll get lube tomorrow?"
"Yes, Sherlock."
"We also need milk."
"You know the rule, put it on the shopping list."
"Shall I put the lube on there as well? So, Mrs. Hudson will see?" He teased, his lips close to John's ear, the warmth of his breath making him shiver happily.
"The lube I'll remember."
"I'm sure you will." He said laughter rising from deep in his chest. He was silent for a minute before speaking again. "You feel so good against me right now, warm and calm...you make me feel calm. It's fascinating how you do that for me. How you set things aglow. You and no one else. I would call you a conductor of light but that is a disservice. You shine all on your own."
John was speechless. Sherlock wasn't one for posey but every so often at times like this he let go with a string of prose the doctor wished he could scribble down before it was forgotten.
This was, however, the first time it had been about him.
"You make me believe." John said trying to echo the sentiment.
"In what?"
"In everything that's good in the world. In everything."
"My sentimental blogger." Sherlock said and John could hear the sleep creeping into his voice.
But John didn't want to sleep, he didn't want to truncate this moment in the least. He wanted to lie there feeling the warmth of Sherlock, smelling him, hearing his heartbeat and his breathing slow. He wanted to stretch this moment as far as it would go.
Then out of the comfortable darkness something occurred to him.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, John?" He said clearly more than half asleep.
"My leg doesn't hurt anymore."
"No? I'm happy to hear that."
"No, but don't you understand. It flared up, then it would ease and seemingly for no reason it would flare up again. It was the worst it's been lately, tonight especially. And now it's gone."
"Meaning?"
"It was psychosomatic this time round too."
He could feel Sherlock grow a bit more conscious at his side.
"Oh...oh of course. It was-"
"It was you. It was us. I was hobbling myself and my body was following suit. When we were getting on and getting it on I was fine but after it was over, when I'd feel guilt or stress or strain it would come back with a vengeance."
"Slightly similar problem, different cause."
"Yeah, it was me all along. Yet again." John turned on his side and smiled at his lover. "I don't think it'll be coming back again."
Sherlock nodded in agreement and gave him a kiss.
"Nor do I. John, that was a brilliant deduction."
"Well, it ought to be." He said as he settled in against him. "I learned from the best."