Author: tigersilver
Rating: NC-17 (I think, maybe. Yes, likely...)
Pairing: Sherlock/John Fandom: BBCSH
Word Count: NFI (WIP!)
Warnings/Notes: Tis a little something I am playing with, this. Read as you like?
Sherlock's got a stock line and he's not afraid to use it.
After a gun and a Chinese and a pool and madman, a Madam and a ravening H.O.U.N.D., he's re-evaluating his data set, though.
The doctor is a medical man: useful. Obvious, but indeed proven useful. 'Go deeper' Sherlock asks, and Watson does.
The doctor is a head shorter but packs a careful punch. His science isn't Sherlock's science (speaking of boxing, now; the art of fisticuffs) but it's more than adequate.
The doctor is socially adept. At times too much so, but Sherlock's not quibbling. Correction: Sherlock seldom quibbles.
The doctor is light to his dark, is compact to his lean: all in all considered, a pleasing parallel. There is balance, and Sherlock is terribly fond of balance.
The doctor is dating. The doctor is pulling, which is the more surprising, and Sherlock is not pleased.
There are twenty-four hours in every day; Sherlock prefers to exact the most from them. Watson's a pernicious time-waster. He sleeps, he eats and he works as a locum. He flirts, which is atrocious on many levels, and he has an assortment of mates to waste his time with other than Sherlock. Worse, he appears to pick up more as he goes along (Lestrade, possibly even Donovan. Oh, god…Mycroft? Abominable!)
In that lowly span of hours, Sherlock chooses to spend his time usefully. Watson does also—to a point. Then he founders. Again with the sleeping, eating, chatting, and eternal hopeful eye towards a mythical, long-denied 'compleat' shagging.
Sherlock requires to divert Watson's wasted time to far more useful, rewarding endeavours: to wit, the Work.
This has not a thing to do with John's height, his eyes (clear, blue, honest) or his state of fitness, post-psychosomatic limp. Not a single thing.
The Doctor (John) proves oblivious, impervious and adamantly resistant to all Sherlock's attempts at amicable diversion. This will not do.
Sherlock finds himself somewhat illogically squeamish at the concept of insinuating certain narcotics into Watson's diet. Mores' the pity; efficaciousness is clearly called for.
Further, Sherlock has discovered he's a prior obligation he simply cannot refuse. Mad men should be put to death instantly upon identification of such (Mycroft agrees, Sherlock knows, but he's proving to be as ham-handed as always in the proper handling required) and Sherlock has been handed a duty. Mummy has always expected him to understand that 'Duty' comes first.
With age (and a certain amount of grace, quite possibly pick-pocketed from Watson) Sherlock juggles dexterously for a bit: Watson and Work. At times literally. There was the Circus incident.
It compounds his frustration immensely and to an incalculable degree that he has not found an opportunity to employ all his very estimable charms upon Watson.
See previous: fisticuffs, Watson's understanding of; see also, gun, Watson's possession of. There's no happy end to that road, Sherlock concludes.
Sherlock's got a stock line: It's not his 'area'. That deliberately vague and sweeping statement never precluded his prior exploration of such (a wearisome time, best forgotten, but useful, in the mechanical end of it, also criminal motivations). It may (it is) time to alter his studied approach. A little bit.
It's Watson's area, though.
In an act of near-desperation (mad man in the near offing) Sherlock charges in. Full-barrel, whole-heartedly, with enthusiasm. Well, more like he thinks intensely about his line of next attack.
Scenario is crucial, however: what choice? Bath, armchair, tea-making, bedroom, alley, crime scene, the Yard?
All are tedious, expected. Boring. Dull. Bah-and -humbug, as Uncle Sirius would say.
London, too. Tedious this season, and chock full of terribly close-by assassins (courtesy resident mad men, or one in particular.) It's clearly the best option, the only option, really—full retreat.
A general weekend away is proposed by Sherlock as an off-the-cuff holiday; is accepted eagerly (cue Watson's confused coos of pleased surprise.) It's not at all an illogical choice, though. (Sherlock rather enjoyed slouching about in the wilds of the moors, as he recalls; they are attractive, visually, and John deserves 'attractive, visually'. Besides, the owners of that bloody bed-and-breakfast owe Sherlock a huge favour; time to cash it in.)
Sheaths and essential items for the act of sexual congress are acquired. (Mrs Hudson will not cease her annoying winking-and-smiling act, though.)
Research is complete; Sherlock fully recalls all the details of the sex act, having undeleted them. Mad man deferred for the moment by artful dodging; Lestrade blocked from texting: no distractions on horizon.
Mycroft provides a car (as he should, the great arse, for complicating this matter beyond anything sensible.)
Mummy (dear God!) texts to Sherlock her approval.
Impervious, oblivious, adamant John Watson is bundled into the car (sans the Anthea-woman; grudging point to Mycroft for his forethought in removing a possible target of John-flirtation) and the two embark on their stolen-away and potentially 'dirty' weekend. 'Dirty ' in hypothesis, at least. Sherlock spends the entire travelling time mentally poking at the concept of 'filthy' to see how he likes it. He concludes he might very well be amenable, if only to update his data set. John naps.
"Right," John asks, sober-sided and very blue of eye, the moment they've plumped their bags in a room boasting one large bed and one bed only. "What are you up to?"
"Me? Nothing." Sherlock rolls his eyes. Derisively, but inside he's quailing. "Why ever would you assume—there's no evidence, John. You're barking up the wrong tree."
"Bull."
And with that strong statement, Watson takes off down the pub.
Sherlock lurks. On the fringes. Until John's had his two to get on with and waves him over.
"Sit," he says, patting the stool next to him genially. "Drink. Talk." He burps gently and equally gently edges a bowl of stick pretzels and a pot of seeded sweet mustard in Sherlock's direction. Ever hopeful, Sherlock's John is. "To me. What's going on with you, Sherlock?"
It's the apogee, the nadir. The head of the fount, cresting.
There's not time; Sherlock doesn't know (as in, can't quite predict with accuracy) and he's frightened (terrified) and Watson—Watson is very dear.
Very dear.
"Time," he barks out. He can't help sounding low and gruff; there's no room for wiggle in John's searchlight azure gaze. Not anymore. "I don't have a lot of it; I want to spend it with you, John."
"Well."
And by 'spend', Sherlock means…well, he's prepared, at least.
John 'hmmm's' under his breath; cracks his neck easily, rolling it, eyeing up the deserted taproom. Sips his third pint slowly and nods kindly to the tender when he slides a bespoke whisky before Sherlock's clasped hands.
"Thanks, mate." The tender goes away again, but it's not far.
Sherlock cringes, a little bit. He'd prefer no audience. It's likely John might shoot him down.
It's quite likely.
"I thought," John begins, but then he stops speaking. Full stop, though his lips stay parted, just a bit. He licks them. Gives Sherlock the once-over, up and down. And grins. "And I appear to have thought right, this time. Correct me if I'm wrong?" he adds politely and Sherlock flushes scarlet. He gulps at his gifted whisky, though more because it's a method of stymieing his own unwary tongue.
He would very much like to reply 'Obviously!', but he doesn't. He doesn't.
Watson is entirely correct in his deductions. For once. But then, Sherlock couldn't have made it more clear.
"No? Alright."
Of this he is certain. 'Apply my methods,' he says to Watson, and Watson does.
The satisfaction in laying this particular trail of breadcrumbs is quite shallow and soon passes. He's not heard Watson's reply.
"And what do you expect, if I may ask?" Watson prods, and his smile is a little bit too jovial and Sherlock is suddenly of an impulse to down his entire tumbler in one go and beg for another. "Drawing upon your methods, mate? I can attempt, but why don't you just save us the trouble and tell me?"
Of me. That's the hidden phrase, the real arse-biter. It's what Sherlock wants of the Doctor (John) and he—to be terribly brutally horribly honest, does not know. Can't be sure.
"…Sherlock?"
But it's more than this, surely, this polite banter in a B&B's bar room, John jousting pretzels and Sherlock breathless with hard liquor, downed quick. No cases pending, no distractions, solely gone away for the chance to be.
(Filthy, dirty)
Be. With John. Before he cannot (and sod those mad men and their foolish angry ways; Sherlock will never quite forgive himself for being even the slightest bit attracted.)
"Well," John says again, after a long pause. "Was thinking about a bite but it seems I'm not hungry, after all. For food. Come up, will you?"
Sherlock takes the opportunity to barge ahead of Watson and lead the way. It is a show of bravado he blames the whisky for entirely. But it does settle his gut and that's…good.
"Take off your kit, then," the Doctor remarks, a few moments later. Ever so casually, as he does the same. "Can't do this clothed, can we? Well, we can, but…"
Sherlock does. Does do precisely what John's doing, one cuff button at a time, one finger of each gloved hand.
He cannot not, and this is again 'his' area, he hopes. His territory, conquered. Yes, again, as it was once, long ago.
It is incredibly chuffing to see (and feel) his erection bulging impressively behind his tight sage-green y-fronts. And John's John Thomas isn't one to sneeze at, either. Sherlock is pleased.
He's been circumcised; John has not (his more parochial upbringing, perhaps) but both organs are about the same girth, though Sherlock has a bit of a lead on John's length, as he does vertically.
Again, pleased, though the feeling is much more primal. Sherlock firmly stomps down the urge to giggle his Cro-Magnon triumph. He's fairly certain John won't like that.
"Well, come, then. Bed," John beckons and they sit, side-by-side at first, until John leans in and presses a brief kiss on Sherlock's naked shoulder. "That's nice," he mumbles, licking off the saline sheen Sherlock's already developed. "You don't taste of all those nasty chemicals, cheers for small favours."
Sherlock groans; there is no room in his mind for levity at this point in proceedings. It's past time, actually, to bring to bear the newly undeleted experiences of his 'area'.
"You might, you know?" John adds carefully, nudging his bared thigh and hip so it's almost atop Sherlock's and peeping sideways and up at him. Sherlock labels the look as 'flirtatious'. "Tell me how you like it. Not about to deduce, mate."
What utter nonsense, Sherlock thinks, eyeing John's smirk warily. Empirical works best in these conditions, always.
"This."
Sherlock has a possibly regrettable tendency to swoop. He leverages his height to advantage, more like. And John is eminently swoopable-upon, ergo.
John stares up at him wide of eye and spread-eagled of limb, having been smashed summarily into the duvet.
"I shall demonstrate." Sherlock blinks pointedly down at his flatmate, flexing his hips so their cocks rub in passing. "Problem?"
All larger concerns aside, this is practically a moment of truth, here.
John shakes his head: 'No!' He doesn't articulate his enthusiasm but then Sherlock doesn't require it. He can plainly see everything he needs to: erect nipples, heavily engorged cock, tightening of the abdominal muscles, perspiration springing up in John's chest hair and under his armpits, leaping tendons in the neck region, dilated pupils, rapid pulse—the litany goes on. Evidence.
Sherlock's lips twist; he can't stuff back a chuckle.
The kicker is the Doctor's return smile for Sherlock. It's slow and mischievous and very, very inviting.
"Have a go, then," he murmurs and hooks a ready elbow round Sherlock's neck, hauling his head and shoulders within a reachable distance. A bout of rather sloppy, nipping, slurping mouth action ensues. "You're the brilliant one here, aren't you? Show me; prove it."
Sherlock's eyes flash green: a challenge!
His nostrils flare wide and he instantly employs all the tricks he has in waiting: the pelvic thrust-and-roll, the suction applied to the sensitive area of the collarbone, the tongue tip twisted wetly into the ear canal, the panting and huffing of an oxygen-intake system suddenly functioning at a much higher rate of speed.
He moans John's name, because that's always highly effective, and he makes certain to keep their persons always in contact. He fingers John's ribcage, telling out the bones. He grips his hips and he fondles John's drawn-up tight be-furred bollocks; all of this is most satisfactory. And he throws his all into the snogging that's going on, because he wants to.
There is nothing here that is a turn-off, nor off-putting. John Watson is very tasty and Sherlock has worked up an appetite.
But the surface of their respective skins pull against each other: it's a bit dry down there even with the beginnings of pre-cum smearing about. Time, then, for the aides Sherlock has acquired, before damage results and there's bruising he doesn't intend. He does, actually, intend for some bruising, but more in the manner of visible love-bites, applied at and above collar level and then, too, perhaps a few scattered about on John's nice, tight arse cheeks.
Or across one of his thighs. As they are—he examines one quickly and concludes—quite delicious.
He swarms out of the bed without vouchsafing a single warning word (he's sure John will wait on him with some degree of patience and understanding) and goes about tearing into his overnight, still on the floor by the door. The supplies are quickly located, being the last thing Sherlock packed prior to their 'retreat', and he's bounding back atop John before a 'boo' may be said to a randomly passing goose.
He has the tube open and the sheath packet torn in an instant.
But then John lays a hand over Sherlock's busy fingers and says 'No.'
"No," John says, quite equably. "Sherlock, stop."