I'm sorry I can't write sex. This was supposed to be pure smut but the boys don't listen to me.
Threats and Confessions
John didn't like that he shivered when the blindfold covered his eyes. He wasn't nervous. He wasn't. At the same time without his eyes to watch the madman to gauge his mood he felt so very, very vulnerable. He raised his hands automatically to his face but warm slender fingers caught and held them, halting him. John took a deep breath.
"Is this alright?" The voice so familiar, so instantly soothing, shot straight through John.
"I don't know." He admitted.
The fingers left his hands and the blindfold was pulled off. Sherlock stood in front of John for a moment assessing the doctor's state, and then pulled him into an awkward hug. Their relationship was so newly physical that these hugs always started that way. John who'd always wrapped his arms around a woman's shoulders found himself instead with his arms around the man's chest. Sherlock who'd never really cared for this sort of touching was hesitant to initiate it lest it be misinterpreted.
John took in a deep breath of Sherlock's scent, and pressed his ear into the chest letting the rumble of his heartbeat sooth him.
"I can do this, just not with the blindfold." John said softly. "Let's start with something I can control. I'll keep my eyes closed until you tell me to open them."
Sherlock frowned at that. "It's hardly ideal conditions." He scrunched up his nose.
John just laughed. "And I'm not an experiment."
"No you're not." Sherlock assented. "But this is." He held up the blindfold.
John pulled back in the hug suddenly angry. "Yes I get it, 'I can do something interesting let's poke at it for science' and your bloody detecting."
"John."
"No, I. I just." John's shoulders grew tense and he tried to tell himself there was nothing to be angry about, but he couldn't help it. He felt like a science project, something to be dissected, and it felt just as he had always feared: like he was nothing more than his fucked up brain and his ears. "I need to go." He said and was out the door before Sherlock could stop him.
He'd never been so glad that the man didn't follow him. Honestly John was angry but more than that he was exposed. John didn't like the feeling it brought back too many actual and imagined fears. Recent fears of being injured and useless as people bled out around him, being confined to a hospital bed, being told his surgical career was over, and then earlier fears of being someone's pet project, or endless tests, of brain scans of experimentation of helplessness.
He was at his local soon and Jake the barkeep didn't ask questions simply handed him a pint and let him think. Or not think, depending on what he needed. Jake was good that way. John sat staring at his pint in appreciation and then declaring himself lucky not to have found a talkative barkeeper, and eventually admitted to himself he was ignoring the problem. He drank his pint and then a second quickly. He almost ordered another but his fears crept in again. The last thing he wanted was to drown his problems; he couldn't handle hearing himself that way, not for the rest of his life.
He paid quickly and left before he gave into the temptation. He walked away from Baker Street, and found himself on a park bench. The worst thing was he knew, he knew that the experiment Sherlock was running was for science, but also for himself. He closed his eyes and faded into his Music Hall. This place of echoes and darkness, sound and silence, it was Sherlock's perfect gift to him. He didn't need his iPod so fervently anymore. He could ride the bus and file everything away as he heard it and go over the sounds at his leisure. He hadn't once fallen into overdrive since his Music Hall had formed, and lord knows the smarmy git had tried.
He sat quite happily in the dark unlit Music Hall letting the faint echoes tease at him without drawing them out. The only sound was of Sherlock pacing on the dark stage, fingers tweaking the strings of his violin, not playing any notes just causing the slightest of vibrations. It was normal, and it was calming. He felt the shadowy seats around him, each with a voice relaxing comfortably not feeling needed not jumping and shouting, just company. John didn't think he could tell his therapist about his company of voices, she'd write something in her little notebook and Mycroft would have him committed. The Mycroft voice was high up in one of the boxes but it was 'hemhem'ing at him, that fake clearing of the throat that was considered polite but was really just obnoxious.
John frowned. The Mycroft voice liked to sit and observe it never really pestered him. With a sigh John let himself drift towards the Music Hall's doors, not quite peeking out, just close enough to the edge to monitor the sounds coming in. Yes the Mycroft voice wasn't in yet, just arriving. Which meant Mycroft was sitting on the bench next to John. Wonderful.
"Go away Mycroft." John said not opening his eyes. "I don't want to be kidnapped today."
"And yet any of Sherlock's enemies could have swept you up easily you're so distracted." Mycroft was adjusting his cuffs. He was always adjusting his cuffs.
"And that's why I don't lose my tails." John said quickly.
"Who says you have tails?" Mycroft arched his eyebrow. John couldn't hear it but he knew it was on the bland poker face of the pale man.
The absurdity of the question had John opening his eyes and leveling his own stare at the British Government. Mycroft's lip twitched just as much as he wanted it to in order to tell John that he was correct.
"What do you want?"
"You've upset Sherlock." The severe line between the man's eyebrows was as close to an angry pout John had ever seen, and he'd seen the man after warring with Sherlock.
"Yes well he's a grown man despite his behavior and your beliefs. He'll get over it."
"He'll get over his snit quicker when you apologize." Mycroft ordered.
John bristled. Mycroft did not get to order John around, no matter how used Mycroft was to having his orders followed.
"We'll manage our own affairs thank you Mycroft." John stood angrily and headed towards the parks exit.
"You will be careful won't you?" Mycroft's voice was half warning half worry. "So tragic what can happen nowadays. Even our war vets aren't safe all the time."
"When you threaten me Mycroft." John started boldly; never had he used the man's first name to his face. "Make sure to be specific. Because you're little mind games don't work on me."
His back was still to the well-dressed man and he was very carefully schooling his features, his shoulders, his spine, his face.
"You misunderstand me Doctor." Mycroft said softly coming to stand by his side.
John took in a sideways glance of the man, his face was weary. Not a put-upon weary used to guilt Johnm but a dead tired I've-been-going-straight-through-hell-the-past-wee k-and-the-world's-about-to-end-and-all-I-want-is-o ne-sweet-word-before-everything-dies sort of weary. It was disconcerting.
"Sherlock is very dear to me and you to him." Mycroft planted his umbrella in the soft turf leaning on it slightly. "That makes you very important to me. When such developments in your relationship upset my brother I have to ask myself is it worth it. Is the potential for some satisfaction really worth the stability you've brought him so far? Can I allow this development time to root? I find myself a victim of sentiment Doctor, and I don't like it. I can't imagine what it's doing to my brother. What you are doing to him."
John would have laughed at the Holmes' big brother speech if the man had not looked so damn wary. Instead he found himself fighting the urge to comfort the man. He would not comfort the man who was threatening him. John might do many things that didn't make sense, rooming with a mad man was one example of that, but comforting the man bullying him - he wasn't going to be brought to that.
"Sherlock is an adult Mycroft." John said eventually. "And an adult who loathes your attempts to manage him. You might worry about what you are doing to him."
"I can't stop Sherlock, I can stop you."
"You can try."
John walked away then. He ignored the car that crawled along beside him for two blocks and was relieved when it dropped back. He was as 'alone' as he could manage without trying to lose his tail. All he wanted was to go back to Baker Street and forget the day had ever happened.
He was denied this the moment he entered the flat and found Sherlock huddled miserably on his chair. The man was pouting. John refused to admit it was adorable. The angular man had obviously worked himself up into a great sulk; he turned his steel eyes on John the moment he entered. John felt the despair in those eyes and wanted to kiss it away.
So he did. In three quick steps he was beside his, lover? boyfriend? partner? and melting into him pressing his lips against his forehead, willing away the creases there. The man reached elegant hands up and pulled John further down and the kissed properly, all lips and heat and just a taste of tongue. John pulled back before it got too heated. He wanted so much more but was still so conflicted.
Sherlock whined. "You're going to make us talk again aren't you?"
"Communication is important Sherlock." John smiled lowering himself onto the couch.
Sherlock flung himself from his seat and sprawled across the couch landing his head in John's lap. "Communication is boring."
"I need this Sherlock." John said softly running his fingers through the messy curls affectionately. 'And I think you do to.' Was left unsaid, although they both knew what John meant.
"What upset you so much?" Sherlock asked. "Not the blindfold, that's happened before, something fundamental about that experiment though."
"Yes well, blindfolded in the middle of a kidnapping is different than in your own home." John said rolling his eyes.
"I thought you wanted to try our echo location theory."
"I, well I do and I don't." John bowed his head. "Look, Harry and I, we weren't close growing up and after dad left things got difficult. She spent time telling me how she was going to sell me to the government and then she'd explain all these horrid experiments they would do to me whenever she was angry. Sherlock, she was always angry, she was a teenager whose father had left as soon as she came out. It was a hard time for all of us. She'd say these things and I'd hear them over and over and over. I internalized them; the specialist already ran tests and talked in whispers about my 'potential'. I was terrified. So when you want me to do these things and it's exciting because it's you and I'm safe, and then it's terrifying because what if it's everything I feared? What if all of this leads me to be locked up in some government facility, where all I am is a pair of exceptional ears and not a person anymore?"
Sherlock was quiet analyzing the outpouring of feelings John had given him. John let him absorb it. Many felt Sherlock incapable of emotion John knew better. John understood that Sherlock took each emotion and observed it explained it to himself so as not to be overwhelmed by it. John understood that Sherlock saw so much and felt so much that he had to control it however possible. John gave him the time to do so, unlike others who assumed him cold to the world.
"I'll never let you be someone's ears." Sherlock muttered.
"I know." John assured the man. How was it he was spilling his darkest fears and comforting this man John wasn't certain, but it felt right. He stroked his fingers soothingly through the mass of curls and relaxed, their breathing synchronized and John felt himself counting the seconds of intake and exhale as they existed. It was mesmerizing.
"Slower than next time." Sherlock said eventually breaking the trance.
John smiled. "That would be nice."
"And tea."
John actually snorted at that. "A cup of tea would be lovely."
"Not tonight though?" Sherlock looked up inquisitively.
"Don't think I could."
Sherlock nodded in understanding then his mouth pinched as though he'd tasted something exceptionally sour. "What did Mycroft want?"
"Big Brother speech," John rolled his eyes.
"He threatened you!" Sherlock's eyes narrowed in immediate rage.
"I wouldn't worry about it." John shrugged. "He's not so intimidating when you've seen the baby photos."
Sherlock let out a barking laugh at that his eyes twinkled merrily at having pulled a prank on his brother without his knowledge.
"So how about a different experiment then?" Sherlock demanded suddenly flipping over and sitting up.
"Oh? Do tell?"
Sherlock shimmied until he sat over John's lap and their heads were so close they were breathing the same air.
"I'd rather show you."
Long warm fingers moved their way under Johns sweater tugging on it gently until John let his arms raise up an the garment was pulled off. There really was no sexy way to remove a sweater, but he counted it as a win that his head didn't get stuck. Sherlock dove in as soon as the wool was removed and captured the man's lips with his own.
There was a confusing moment while they were engaged at the lips trying to figure out which hands were dealing with which buttons until they ignored the shirts entirely and slender fingers batted away the doctor's hands. John put his rejected hands back into the curls he loved so much and focused on telling Sherlock how much he trusted him and loved him.
He didn't even question that he loved Sherlock. He'd loved Sherlock from the first day they'd met, from the moment he'd been caught in the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes his heart had deserted him and told him to follow. To run. To fly if the man asked it of him. His heart had even told him to kill when it wasn't asked of him. Sherlock was everything in an instant; it took weeks for the rest of him to figure it out. The rest of him seemed determined to prove it was just as interested as his heart.
Those deceptively warm slender fingers had wormed their way down and relieved him from the strain of his zip and button. They slid gently around him causing John to arch.
"Jesus Sherlock." He managed pulling the two even closer with his right hand while his left fumbled with Sherlock's pants. He shifted suddenly depositing Sherlock on the couch as he pressed even closer into him chests pressed against each other shirts leaving button imprints on their skin. Their mouths were wet and dancing against each other absorbing each groan and word as the affection it was.
Hands gripped each other and found a rhythm that had them both arching and panting. It was an eternity and a second that they were fit together perfectly. John came first. His hand stuttered and clenched causing Sherlock to buck suddenly and whine. John pulled back slightly to look into those steel eyes.
They were blown wide but still watching, cataloguing observing every moment, just as John had every sound. They really were perfect for each other. John smiled and kissed Sherlock's forehead again. Then his left cheek then his right, and back to his mouth squeezing ever so lightly and stroking all the while.
John kissed him deeply then shifted back so Sherlock could see him more clearly.
"Next time you'll come first." He said softly. "My hand won't touch you at all." He let go and the man bucked again whining at the loss of contact. He didn't move to touch himself though, he had deduced, even as aroused as he was, that John had a plan.
He raised his hand to his mouth and licked a wet stripe along it suggestively. Then let it hover just beside Sherlock's aching member.
"Next time it won't be your mouth I plunder." He said with a smirk he let the wet hand fall enough to grip Sherlock firmly and then let the man deduce the phrase. Two pulls and the composed man was over the edge, eyes closing finally as the pleasure was too much to observe externally.
John made himself move before Sherlock could object and grab a cloth to clean up some. He managed a perfunctory job before long arms pulled him down to cuddle. John snagged the afghan from the sofa's back and allowed it. He would never have guessed Sherlock was a snuggler, but the facts didn't lie, and it was deliciously decadent when an elbow wasn't shoved into your ribs.
Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about the other experiment. Tonight he would enjoy the rather pleasant results of this unexpected experiment. Although one set of data wouldn't be enough for a solid conclusion, they might have to repeat the experiment quite a few times to be certain. Then again how certain was anything really?
Both doctor and detective slept comfortably on the couch with matching satisfied smirks in the corners of their lips. Mycroft would not like this development at all.
Mycroft wasn't even supposed to be in this story, but he just shows up randomly and makes himself indispensible, I couldn't write him out if I wanted too ... I'm certain that's how he got his 'minor government position' just showed up and they had to give him a job and now he's the British Government because they'd fall apart without him.