Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.
A/N: For Angel, my John Watson who brightens my day every time I hear from her.
Title: The Anatomy of Infatuation
Summary: The anatomy of infatuation can be divided up into three key categories.
Pairing(s): Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warning(s): slash and . . . yeah, I think that's it.
Xxx
Prologue
Sherlock sends Mycroft a letter because while a phone call isn't beneath him, he likes the feel of the paper under his wrist, of the sound the pen makes as it travels across the paper. It arrives in Mycroft's office tucked inside a crisp envelope with no name and return postage, but Mycroft knows who it's from. He recognizes the tight, neurotic handwriting and toys with the notion of throwing it away because a letter from Sherlock promises nothing but paperwork and heartache. He thinks about burning it, but the idea of flames swirling around on the tiny corner of white paper makes him want to light a cigarette; and they both promised Mummy that they were quitting. He can't ignore it or more letters will come because Sherlock is more aggressive than cancer.
He opens it with a water and migraine pill in hand. It reads: Infatuation can be divided into three key categories.
There is nothing else, but the migraine comes anyway; and Mycroft chokes on the aftertaste of powder and lukewarm bottled water.
1: The Face and Neck
John's face is a constant study in tension. The muscles flex and contract; the ones in his cheeks knot together like tiny, angry fists; and the wrinkles that concave the center of his forehead are so deep Sherlock could wedge a coin between their folds. His neck, the stumpy length of it, bulges with the thick curated and jugular framing the center like legs to a half-finished picture frame; and Sherlock knows that means he's grinding his teeth or trying not to bite his tongue. The tension travels down and leaves through John's toes; Sherlock can hear the little digits curling and uncurling inside John's shoes—the toenails, though groomed to an almost laughable perfection, scrip-scraping at the fabric inside and turning into jagged crescents like cheese with missing bites.
John, in his chair with a forgotten cup of tea still desperately trying to steam, reading something in the paper that's making the muscle underneath the right side of his jaw pulse like a heartbeat. There's the tick-tick-tick as his teeth knock together; his brows furrow down to the point they would touch if they were longer. His lips, already thin, would purse so tight they'd turn white and almost disappear into the flesh of his cheeks and chin. Sherlock knew he was really tense when the skin around his eyes would collapse and tighten because his eyes were narrowing into thin slits, their color bright yet darkened by the pale hoods of his eyelids.
John, with his teeth click-clacking, he says, "Bloody hell."
Sherlock feels like laughing, so he does—light and controlled but enough to get John's eyes off the paper. "What?" Sherlock asks not at John's expression but at what's in the paper.
John shakes his head, pulse jumping, and says, "It's nothing."
Sherlock turns in the chair, curls up and perches like a bird of prey and says, "It's never nothing with you. It's always something. What is it this time? Child molester? Girl raped? Someone found dead or a bomb threat, perhaps?"
Each word pulls a muscle up or down, creates a new wrinkle or gets the pulse moving faster. None of the words elicit the correct response, though; so Sherlock throws out a few more words:
Drowned baby? Hit-and-run? Suicide? Beating? Cult gaining headway among the masses?
Nothing—just an over-the-top eye roll and curious tilt of the head.
And then it happens, that spark and moment where Sherlock breathes a little sharper. He asks, "Who is alive that shouldn't be?"
The expression comes like a curtain dropped. Every line and crevice, every jumping muscle and click-clack of teeth stops. John's face, while not going slack, goes still. It reminds Sherlock of pond water after the rock tosses into it finally sinks to the bottom. There's no evidence of the ripples; just the stillness that comes after they've finally stopped.
Sherlock doesn't care, but he asks what happened out of curiosity; and John's face does this twitch where it looks like, for a brief moment, the tension will come back. But it slacks off again and there is the emptiness.
"Wanker murdered his girl," John says and his lips curl together to form a thin, white line. "Enough evidence to put him away and he still got off."
"I'm not Jesus, John," Sherlock says and stands up to stretch his legs and fix the hunch in his back. "I don't perform miracles. I only go out to those who ask for help."
John sits straighter in his chair, uncrosses his legs and smiles the loose-lipped smile he does whenever he gets frustrated. "You don't even go when they ask, sometimes. You deem the cases beneath you."
Sherlock shrugs, looks around the living room and debates about picking up a little before he chooses to spin around and smile at the feeling of the cloth rope slapping his belly. "I'm not a common homicide detective, and you know that. Only the extreme circumstances."
John laughs and it's devoid of any emotion. He falls back into the chair, not defeated but not willing to try and chase the argument. His hand comes up to rub at his forehead creasing from the on-coming disbelief. "Sherlock," he says and he's laughing like something is funny that shouldn't be, "I can't even tell if you care."
Sherlock moves through stacks of case notes and files and half-filled requests, kneels down in front of John's chair so that his knees were touching John's and asks, "Why on earth would I waste time caring about them when I have to try and figure out how to care for you?'
He kisses John because he can, because he likes the feeling of John's cheeks beneath his hands; because John's jaw is a solid line in his palm and feeling the tension bleed out of the skin, leaving it warm and soft. Because John's lips do this odd thing where they start out thin and tight but blossom like something much sturdier than a flower. He doesn't promise anything when he kisses Sherlock, but there's security and it's enough for Sherlock to relax and feel something that might be security or arousal. He can't decipher it quite yet.
Sherlock leans back more than pulls away, and his lips are alive with the taste of tea and morning breath. John's face is slack but his eyes are so alive they do something more intense than sparkle or shine.
2: The Torso and Abdomen
"Your lungs," Sherlock murmurs as his fingers come to lay over John's ribs, "have to be the most arousing part about you."
John laughs and it hitches as Sherlock flicks a dusky nipple with his tongue. The water sputtering from the shower is hot today and fills the room with damp steam. The shower curtain is in a useless, dripping puddle in the bottom of the bathtub, the chipped tiled floor speckled with clear water droplets as they plummet from the showerhead specked with rust. John's head, the blonde hairs slicked down to the curve of his skull, is thrown back against the wall, neck straining, Adam's apple bobbing with every nip and tentative swipe of Sherlock's tongue.
"It's funny," John says with his mouth opened and tongue flexing in the cavern of his mouth, "because you're not trying to be sexy are you?"
The word sounds foreign in John's mouth; his tongue clanks against his teeth and the word is sloppy.
Sherlock shakes his head, wet curls slapping against his eyebrows. "Don't say that word," he says. "It sounds ugly when you say it."
John laughs again and it slips into a moan as Sherlock mouths at John's sternum. Sherlock's fingers tap out a steady beat against the curved bones sheathed inside John's skin. He's humming something, but the words are lost along with the meaning. It's just noise meant to make John shake and his eyes roll up with every vibration that buzzes Sherlock's lips.
"John," Sherlock says with his mouth full of skin and nipple, breathless and warm.
John toys with the possibility of being in love.
Sherlock slides down the length of John's body and settles onto his knees, the origami paper joints folding without a wrinkle. Sherlock's spine is a length of knotted rope wrapped inside skin so white the hot water streaks it angry pinks and irritated reds. His mouth, thin and ever-moving, mouths around John's belly button, leaves wet kisses on the shaking skin of John's belly.
Sherlock leans back and makes a noise at John's leaking cock, something like a sigh and a moan blurred together with a groan. His hands, skeletal and thin, run up and down John's chest, fingernails scoring the skin with deep magenta trails.
"Will you come if I keep this up?" Sherlock asks, curiosity heightened by his arousal, eyes bright and mad-dog feral. "If I keep kissing you and scratching you, will you come? I won't half to touch you?"
John nods, his head banging against the wall in an erratic beat similar to the one bruising his ribs.
Sherlock's mouth, the tiny suction cup, latches on to the skin around John's belly and sucks. He sucks the skin just like he would suck the head of John's dick—precise yet complicated, a little too much teeth, enough suction power to raise a bruise so dark the color won't fade for another days. It's imperfect, which Sherlock strives so hard not to be. It's clumsy and awkward because Sherlock's fingers are digging deep into John's chest and belly. He's trying to anchor himself into that moment, in the taste of clean and soap and warm human skin.
John comes so hard he blacks out. When he wakes up, Sherlock is smiling, his head is in Sherlock's lap, and Sherlock's speak of something wonderful just discovered. John just can't bring himself to care what it is.
3: Legs and Groin
John was never athletic as a child, but he did partake in an early morning run back before there were terrorists and bombs and kidnapped children to worry about; before there was Sherlock and the flat and the idea of falling in love with a man became an almost certain possibility. He hasn't run in he-doesn't-dare-imagine-how-long and feels loose. Not heavy or fat, but loose. The skin around his thighs and belly jiggle more than they used to—unnoticeable to anyone but John.
Well, John and Sherlock.
Sherlock's hand cradle John's thighs, not so much weighing as making sure they stay apart. Sherlock's face-down in John's crotch, his mouth stretched thin around John's cock, throat convulsing and tightening with each suck and swallow. His eyes are sharp and saturated with color. The blue isn't warm enough to be Hawaiian-sea but not cold enough to be Snow-Capped Hills. They flutter between the two; the pupils are swollen puddles of ink floating in the sea of odd-blue.
John gasps out, "Fuck!" He chokes, arches as far as his stiff joints will allow.
Sherlock hums around his dick and does this weird swirling thing with his tongue that has stars exploding like supernova behind John's eyelids. His hands scrabble for purchase on the ruined sheets; and finding none, curl into Sherlock's hair. The strands are greasy and damp from sweat, but they're far better than the softest threads.
I'm dying, John thinks as his chest heaves and Sherlock's mouth and throat seal tight like a vice grip.
John's perched on the edge, toes dangling over the cliff-face. He's thinking about jumping but not quite there when Sherlock's hand slides down the length of John's thigh and slips around his aching balls like a glove giving them a playful squeeze.
And with that he plummets off, falls face-first into this humid, spine-tingling, supernova-hot darkness while something hotter than fire rushes through his veins and finds an exit through his twitching dick. He spasms; he can feel his flabby thighs tightening, all ten fingers in Sherlock's hair gripping and pulling him.
It's only when he's completely flaccid does Sherlock pull back, and John opens his eyes to see Sherlock's mouth shiny and red, drool and trails of thick semen dripping down from his chin, skin so red he looks cooked, eyes bright like polished marbles in his head, hair a shade of brown so dark it could be mistaken for black—wet and shiny and soft like any woman's.
He smiles at John and John thinks he may be in love.
Sherlock smiles and asks, "Are you infatuated with me John?"
John wants to say, "No you git, I think I'm in love with you."
Instead he says, "I don't know what I am."
Sherlock nods, kisses each of John's thighs and moves to crawl on top of him, thin frame falling over John light as a dead leaf, bones the angles and points of daggers. They don't sleep, just breathe and enjoy the smell of sex, sweat and exhausted bodies needing a hot shower.
What Sherlock doesn't tell John: "You bloody idiot, I think I may be in love with you."
Instead he says, "We have a case."
And life goes on but now there's something a little extra—something warm and sticky and damn hard to define.
Epilogue
The message on the answering machine is loud but tired, the speaker teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown.
"Listen Sherlock," Mycroft is saying, the speaker crackling with each word, "I don't give a shit about your sex life. Kindly leave me out of it!"
Sherlock smiles until his cheeks hurt with the effort.