Per, John finds out, makes books for a living.
This is not entirely true. He makes his rent by working in the Preservation unit at the British Library. There he repairs and rebinds old books. But outside of that he does repairs on a contract basis and makes artisan journals to sell at high-end shops.
When John goes to Per's flat one afternoon he catches Per in the middle of making a book. Per explains with a wry grin that he can't just stop in the middle of what he's doing and attend to John's needs so John helps himself to a glass of wine from the open bottle next to Per's worktable and watches. He watches Per's long, strong fingers turn and fold and stroke over the expensive endpapers he's folding onto the block of blank pages. He watches the precision and the concentration, so much like Sherlock's, but absorbed by a completely different realm. He watches as Per carefully glues a rough, home-made paper of midnight blue swirled in lighter shades to two heavy sheets of cardboard to make the covers.
John has never thought much about books as objects before. If he considers them at all it is just as containers for more important things: stories, ideas, facts, illustrations. Books are to John, to borrow a couple of words, just transport. Per talks as he works, trying to disabuse John of this notion by explaining about different kinds of paper and leather and bindings and something called buckram. His voice is quiet and calm, somehow trance-like as he works, as smooth and careful and slow as the movement of his hands. He doesn't look at John as he speaks. John finds it surprisingly erotic to watch Per fondle paper and cloth.
While John appreciates that the books Per makes are beautiful objects he's not really quite sure he gets the whole artisan journal thing. He's not sure why people would pay so much money to pencil their own pithy lives and artwork into such a thing. He could barely imagine why anybody would do it on a blog, which, contrary to what people say about things living in cyberspace forever he thinks of as an entirely ephemeral place. All things there are so easily deleted or changed or stolen, lost to a blackout or an outdated piece of software, or diminished to obscurity by all the noise.
A book, especially a well-made and cared for one, can last forever – or so Per asserts – but who would want that: an everyday life going on its unremarkable way forever? And not even that, just a skeleton of a life trapped inside a cardboard reliquary? John is a doctor and a soldier, immortality was never a part of his design.
"The entries in your blog are down."
"Case load is down. Not so much crazy going on in the winter, I suppose."
"But there are other things going on in your life."
"I'm a doctor. There are confidentiality issues. You know that."
"Nothing else to write about then? Just the detective work?"
He tips his head at her. "Right."
She waits. He out-waits her. He's been a soldier. That's what soldiers do. Mostly. They wait.
"Do you think this therapy is helping you at all, John?"
"No."
Since supposedly getting laid Sherlock has ducked his head deep into some kind of heavy research that he's exceedingly vague about but which involves the kind of extended chemical models and calculus formulas that are far beyond anything John ever encountered in medical school. Looking at them only makes John feel like he's trying to read ancient Sanskrit without a transliteration scheme.
When he's not wrestling with higher maths and chemistry, Sherlock is engaged in an extended internet dialogue with police authorities in the Philippines. It is something that tends to go on all night long and often results in Sherlock being asleep on the sofa in the morning when John gets up and often times when he gets home from work too.
As far as he can tell, John has ceased to exist as anything to Sherlock but an annoying gnat that occasionally buzzes around Sherlock's head and causes him to snap irritably.
Sherlock, John can't help noticing, is losing weight again.
John deals with all this by picking up extra hours at the clinic and fucking himself senseless with Per. This works out well enough: the clinic is short since Sarah left. Per seems to think that fucking each other senseless without any promises of a return visit or never having any declarations of emotional attachment that last beyond the denouement of an orgasm are just fine.
If he bothered to think about it this might strike John as a bit odd and somewhat dissociative, but the whole point is not thinking and so he resolutely doesn't bother. On the odd unguarded moment he acknowledges to himself that both he and Per are grieving about denied love. They're both probably also grieving something else as well that has a lot less to do with anything denied them by anybody outside of their own heads.
John picks up an A&E shift at Bart's to reduce the number of unguarded moments he may have in any given day.
"You're bored." Per accuses him.
John blinks at him, comes back to the bedroom from deep inside his head. "How can I be bored when you lecture me like this?"
Per is sitting cross legged at the end of the bed, tousle-haired, his lips still swollen from their kissing, wearing nothing but his glasses and a book of illuminations spread out across his lap. The illuminations are his own, in the style of the Book of Kells, the Nativity of Mark that he'd made for his lover a few years ago. It is indeed beautiful.
"You don't even know what I was talking about."
"The difference between Japanese bindings and….green vellum….hinge….oatmeal paste."
Per laughs. "You're terrible. You don't even try." He closes the book and sets it gently down on the floor beside the bed, twists off his specs and sets them down on top of that. Then he crawls up the mattress until he is straddling John's thighs. He leans over and brushes his lips across John's lips, his chin, his cheekbones, his forehead. "You're a bad, bad man," he whispers.
"And you're insatiable." John whispers back, his hands closing together over the spread of Per's upper back. He tips his head to Per's neck and nips it lightly, moves down to the top of his pec and nips again, then up to his collarbone.
"Mmm. Yeah…I am. And I want you to fuck me."
"Yeah? It's been how long since we sucked each other off? One hour…maybe two? Seems longer with all that book stuff you were on about…."
"Oh, you are so mean…" Per brushes his lips lower, down over John's chest and pinches one nipple between his teeth. He pulls on it carefully, lets the sharp edges of his teeth draw up the short length of the nub until it pops free and then he soothes at it with his tongue.
"Jesus…when you do that..." John hisses, his spine curving forward, throwing his shoulder blades back like wings. His fingers tangle themselves in Per's hair.
Per hums humorously and kisses his way over to the opposite peak. "I want you to fuck me blind," Per growls against John's skin and his teeth clamp down on the nipple there to make his point. John moans and arches forward into the sensation again, feeling his cock start to thicken and draw up again like a drunk staggering to his feet.
"That's masturbation."
"What?" Per mumbles around his tonguing and nipping.
"Blindness comes from masturbation, not fucking. So it is said by the old wives."
"'T's why I only fuck men. Who'd want an old wife telling you stuff like that all the time?"
"I just told you that. Are you calling me an old wife?"
"Only if you really want me to."
"I prefer Emperor-God-King if that's alright with you."
Per chuckles against John's stomach. He turns his head and looks up at John with his green gold dragon's eyes, all dark and exploded with desire. He rubs his cheek against John's belly. "Whatever it takes…." He slides a long-fingered hand up John's side and over his shoulder and neck to stroke gently down the side of John's face. "Please…" his voice is suddenly soft and low and pleading and vulnerable and the sound of it practically blows the back of John's head off the way it forces a surge of pure animal lust out of his medulla. "Please…. god, please just fuck me."
"God'll do for now." John grunts, coming forward to kneel with his thighs spread as Per scrambles backwards so that he can lay out flat on the bed with John between his legs. John puts his hands on Per's face, running his thumbs back along the sharp cheekbones at the same time he runs his fingers along the jawline. His eyes trace a second, unfelt line after his hands as they travel down Per's neck and over his collarbones and pecs, and down the soft pelt of his belly to his thighs and the hard bony caps of his knees. John pushes Per's knees further apart and upward so that he is completely spread open before him.
John moves his hands from kneecaps back up the velvet soft skin covering the inside muscles and tendons of Per's thighs. Slit-eyed, Per watches him, hands spidering up John's forearms as he comes forwards. John lies out full on top of Per, their erections lining up side by side, his balls knocking and nudging against Per's. Per's long legs wrap around the small of his back, heels digging firmly into John's arse. They rock and shove and rub against each other. They kiss, almost like lovers. John snarls his hands into Per's hair and grips it tightly, feeling the strands bite into his skin. After a few minutes, John cups his body so that they meet only at mouth and groin and he rides the buck of Per's hips smoothly.
"Don't make me come like this." Per twists his mouth away from John's and whispers in John's ear, the tickle of breath sending shivers down John's spine. "I want you inside me."
John pushes back up to his knees, reaches for the tub of gel in the drawer of the side table, his eyes traveling hungrily over Per's body, taking in the slightly trembling thighs and heaving belly, the fingers plucking restlessly against the sheet. He scoops a dollop of gel up onto the two forefingers of his left hand and presses them quickly against Per's hole, smearing the stuff around and pushing most of it inside. Per shivers and groans in response and pushes up against John's fingers, trying to impale himself.
"No hurry," John says quietly, scooping up more gel and then rubbing the edge of his hand back along the curve of Per's buttocks. He turns his hands so that his slicked fingers trail slowly along Per's crack, over the sensitive opening and then pulling the balls up and forwards until they fall out of his hand as it continues up onto Per's cock to curl around and milk it firmly to the tip. Per groans deep and stuttering as John starts at the base of his spine and pulls his hand forwards again. "No hurry, baby," he murmurs, enjoying the smooth undulations of Per's skin under his touch. "It's okay. No hurry."
After a few more strokes Per is writhing, his feet catching at John's biceps and pushing back so he can lift his hips from the bed. John reaches behind him and grabs a throw pillow. "Lift up," he commands in a grunt and Per obediently arches again, his eyes eager on John's face. John slips the pillow under Per's hips and edges closer in.
John teases his two fingers against Per's opening again, but doesn't drag them away this time. Instead he pushes inwards and feels Per open to receive his touch. He looks down to watch what he's doing, watches his fingers disappear into Per's body and then lets his gaze flicker up to Per's face, gaging how it feels to him. John drags his fingers out slowly, pressing upwards as he goes and devours the sight of Per tossing his head.
"God…John…"
"Yeah." John pushes in again, twisting his hand as it goes and Per responds with a deep shudder. This time John turns his hand sideways, rubs his fingertips along the inside crests of Per's hipbones.
Per hisses and arches, one hand burying itself in his own hair, the other fisting up the sheet on the bed. "Oh, my god John…Oh god …."
"Yeah. I know, baby. I know." John pushes in and flutters his fingers in the tight space, feeling for and finding the knot of Per's prostate. He rubs and rubs there and Per's mouth opens in a kind of silent scream, his long legs squeezing and kicking around John's upper body. "Is that good, baby? Do you like that?"
Per nods violently, tosses his head more, his hair hissing against the sheets with each movement. John's panting with his own desire now, so he knees forwards more and uses his right hand to guide the tip of his penis against Per's hole.
"Okay, baby, okay?...Are you ready?...Because I'm going to leave my fingers there and it's going to be tight…."
"Yeah…okay…just do it, John…. Please…Just do it…."
John slips his fingers out so that just the tips are still inside Per's body and he pulls up hard on the opening. He eases his cock in with a slow, firm push.
"Ohgodohgodohgodohgod…." Per chants mindlessly his voice rising with breathlessness.
"Okay?" John says shakily, unsure if he could stop if Per said no. But Per presses his lips together and nods briefly.
"Just...just…careful…." he gasps.
"Yeah," John says, squeezing and rubbing the lip of flesh between his fingers and thumb as he stirs his cock inside Per's body with minute shifts of his hips. "Tell me if I should stop…Just tell me…."
It only takes a long minute for Per's body to adjust to him, for the gel to work itself around inside him so that John can begin a real push and pull. Keeping the fingers of his left hand working the inside and outside of Per's perineum he scoops more gel from the jar by his knee and smears it clumsily on Per's straining cock. "Jerk yourself," John orders. "I want to see you jerk yourself off."
Per's laugh is half a moan. "I wasn't serious about the blind stuff."
"I was," John gasps his own huff of laughter that turns into a groan of pleasure when Per grasps himself and starts to masturbate with a quick, light flurry of strokes.
John works a rhythm that pushes his fingers in as he pulls his cock back and then brings them out to the tips again as he shoves his hips forward. It's too awkward and takes too much concentration to bring John off, but the double slide of it totally unhinges Per.
He whimpers. "Oh… I'm going to come…. You're going to…I can't stop it…I can't…."
John closes his eyes, listens to the deep-voiced moans, imagines them belonging to another person. He sees in his mind's eye darker hair, whiter skin, a thinner less muscle-defined body. He sees fingers calloused by violin strings rather than scarred from bookbinder's tools stroking and cupping the genitals on display to him. When Per starts to come, John half-opens his eyes so he can watch the semen stripe out across the skin of his belly. John keeps his head tipped down so he can't see Per's face.
Per's body shudders and goes slack around him, his legs falling limply to rest on John's forearms. John pulls his fingers out and grips tight to Per's waist just above the shelves of his hips. Moving ever harder and faster, John shoves and pushes and fucks in a way that couldn't be called a rhythm, more of a mauling.
All Per can do is cling to John's wrists and wrap his legs around John and keep up a soft moaning wail.
It seems to go on forever, and then, suddenly, for too long. John loses whatever trailing edge he'd been clinging to that made it work for him. He stops moving, lies still inside Per, presses his forehead into hard arch of Per's collarbone. After trying to settle himself for a moment, John tries moving again, but it doesn't feel good. It doesn't feel good at all. He's shrinking like a snail into its shell.
He lets the rest of his body collapse onto Per's, turns his face into Per's neck. "Bollocks….Lost it….I can't finish."
Per's hands smooth across his back. "You tired? Do you want me to ride you?"
"No…It's okay….I'm just…." He pulls out and rolls over onto his back. "Jesus." He puts his hand over his eyes and rubs them in frustration.
He feels Per shifting up onto his side. "It's okay. It happens." Per puts a gentle hand on John's belly and John can barely keep from pushing it away and snarling. He wants to snap that he spends half his bloody time at the clinic giving middle-aged men that particular pep talk. That is not the problem.
But he's certainly not interested in going into what the problem may be, so he just nods and closes his eyes and struggles to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Yeah. I know."
"It's probably just as well," Per rumbles his lips pressed into the hair above John's. "I think you may have been wrong about the blindness thing. Wouldn't do to have both of us bumbling about trying to find the bath."
The banter. Thank god for the banter. It puts John back on his feet, so to speak. "Mmm. Was having a bit of a concern there myself, but then found that it helps to open the eyelids."
"Ah, yeah…I see that now. Thanks."
"Glad I could help." They're both silent for a second and then snort with laughter simultaneously. Per tries twining his fingers with John's, but John uses the laughter to propel himself up and out of bed, pulling his hand away. "Clean up," he excuses himself, heading for the bathroom. "D'you want a towel?"
"Mmm. Damp…Thanks."
By the time John's left the bathroom holding a warm damp towel Per is drowsy and vague and allows John to clean him up before curling over onto his side and falling asleep. John curls around him for a bit, hoping that he will be able to drop off too, but he doesn't. Instead he gets up, slips back into his underwear and jeans and walks softly into the sitting room. He pours out the last of the wine bottle into his glass and perches back on the stool near Per's worktable, lets his eyes wander over the bookshelves behind it.
Classics mostly, some of them rebound by Per. John knows because of the binder's mark at the foot of the spine: a Celtic dog with one large paw raised, its head turned to look over its back. John had watched Per press the mark onto a piece of leather earlier.
There is a photograph there too, of course, of Per and his lover Paul. The two of them shoulder to shoulder and leaning against a brick wall. Per is laughing, his faced creased with smile and mirth bright in his eyes, his shoulders and head pushing forward toward the camera. Paul has his head back against the wall, short dreads standing straight up from his head. He oozes satisfaction, looking at Per from the corners of his eyes, eyebrows raised. He has just said something mischievous and naughty. His hand is wrapped around Per's wrist, warm brown against the pale boniness. It's not the first time John has noticed this picture, but it's the first time he's looked at it.
There is a set of books beside the picture with Per's mark stamped into them, years noted on the spine. Journals. John picks up the last one. He doesn't open it because it's tied closed, knotted closed, with a frayed leather lacing. He doesn't need to open it to know what is inside. The leather is battered and stained a horrid dried blood brown and sewage black. The stain spreads to the edges of the pages. It is bound with braids and twists of thick rusty wire that have punched through the leather and pursed and scoured it like infected stitches in a wound. John holds it in his hands and just looks at it, rubs his thumbs against the cover, this book of grief made solid.
John knows about grief. He's watched it over and over again from behind his doctor's mask and his soldier's armor. He's felt it. He's lost both his parents already, to age and illness, and friends to the wars. He knows what it's like to lose those definitions of oneself: son, friend, colleague. He's never really thought about losing a lover before. What that must be like. He's never had that worry.
He thinks of the word "bereft".
He thinks of the word "abandoned".
He thinks of the word "alone" in ways he never thought of it before, even when he thought he'd tasted every nuance and flavor of aloneness that there could be.
He knows he is not really thinking about Per.
John stirs himself, puts the unopened journal back on its place on the shelf, next to the photo.
He pads softly back to the bedroom and slips under the covers. He presses up against Per's slender back, slips an arm over his waist, buries his face in the ends of hair curling over the back of Per's neck. Per hums vaguely in his sleep, shifts his hips back into the cup of John's groin and sighs.
"I'm sorry," John can't stop himself from thinking over and over again. "I'm sorry."