Anyone who's waiting on any of my WIPs and just happens to trip upon this, I was watching POTC trilogy this week (still, I know, but I can never get over how awesome that universe still is even after six years since "At World's End" was released) and ignoring my exams, so. . . I'm sorry.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, nor any opinions on Christianity. I'm not Christian and I did not do any research.
Virginal! John, top! Sherlock, scientist! Sherlock, bottom! John, priest! John. Set in late 16th century
"But Holmes—"
"Watson, here I assure you and your irrational insecurities and I swear upon the Lord that you worship with all your soul, I value your companionship and I always will. But I must return to the siren call of my work. Without me, it lies rusting atop my desk and in my last moments, I will not have myself regretting that I couldn't bring it to a more successful conclusion."
I am more than overwhelmed to hear that. I choose not to say any much more, knowing Holmes' steely determination and his iron-strong resolve.
"I vowed to always protect you," I say in a small voice.
"I made you swear to your Book to never protect me again," Holmes reminds me. I notice that, for my sake, he does not refer to the Holy Bible as 'the Book' in that haughty tone in which he refers to it in front of the priests of the Church, "If you are the man I know you are, you will look away this instant and make preparations with me to go back to the town."
I gulp saliva down my parched throat. I steal another glance of him. He knows I do that, and my meagre attempts at covering my acts up are of no value, for Holmes always knows, "You are wanted."
Holmes suddenly turns to me and I can do nothing but turn and gaze into his eyes. Nobody could suppose that Holmes was a thirty-three year old man. His eyes had the shine of a boy who had just stepped into his adolescence and the wisdom of a seventy-year old man. It would take a far better man than me to pull back at this instant, so I raise one hand and rest it on his smooth cheek.
His gaze drops down, and so does mine. If I were to indulge in the original sin now, I would gladly do so. If I were to go to Hell for this, I would go there. The world might know me as John Watson, member of the clergy, priest of the parish, but in my heart and in only and only the Lord's eyes, I was Holmes' companion above all.
"So are you, Watson," he whispers and draws closer. I do not pay any attention to swatting the mosquitoes that may be biting me. I stay where I am. I profoundly do not care if anybody makes out the wrong idea of what we are doing, even if they would be right.
Might be right.
And might not be, even if I'm all alone with Holmes at this point, with boundless green plains stretching on wherever my eyes go, except for dotted with trees and rocks, and they should be right. I've been alone in a room with him several times, the door locked on us. But I've never felt my conflicts mollified as they are now.
My heart is hammering in my chest, my blood singing atrocities in my ears as our noses touch. I have never found myself close to another person before in this manner. I had to remain celibate, retain my virtue as a priest, even though most commit all sorts of activities behind the backs of the Bishop. But this, I cannot run away from. My companion is here with me, and he is honouring me with his presence and tolerating me, a part of the entity he loathes with all his heart. How can I back away?
"Holmes," is all I am able to say, but Holmes reaches out at that and puts his finger on my lip. The sensation of it is so unbelievably perfect that I want to open my mouth and take his finger in, kiss it, him.
May the Almighty forgive me for that, because my actions are guaranteed by my own subconscious, which is in turn a part of Him.
"Shhh, Watson," he traces my lower lip with his thumb. So much time has passed since we became quiet that I did not realise that the twilight was turning into a dark night. In the blackness of the cold cave, where we are at folly to not have lit a fire to keep ourselves warm, I do not know what he looks like. But I can only imagine myself, and I know that he must be in the same situation as I, if his hot breath on my lips are anything to go by.
Suddenly, he draws back, the sound of fibres rustling against his body movement, and I'm encased in a guilt that he always tends to drive away when he is near. What was I doing with a man like Holmes, a man of science, ahead of his time and the opinions of those of the Church, a man to whom only his work mattered? How could I let myself seduce him like that?
"Come outside, Watson," I can see the wiry outline of him against the entrance of the cave as he stands up, "I should want to see you."
I stagger to my feet and follow him blindly without thoughts. I'm not capable of thinking anymore. He wants to see me. I shall give away to him every last of me, whether I am capable of not.
When I come out, I see the blackest night upon us. The sky is encased in countless stars, but there's no moon. I look at Holmes for guidance, but he is only staring up at the vast atmosphere, and I cannot bring myself to believe that had I not escaped him from the prison, I would have to visit two graves, not one.
"Holmes," I say as feebly as possible. I want him to know that he can walk out of this anytime and it will not hurt me in anyway, except for a stab of disappointment. But I wonder, am I ready for him? For I truly do not know what I'm getting into. I hope he does.
He turns back to look at me, his face so unearthly pale that if I didn't know him, I would have asked him to back off at once. For me, he is the moon tonight. I do not know whether for the next nights too or not.
"You're cold," he examines as he comes over to my side. Sometimes I forget breathing, I'm so focused on his features. I am uncomfortable, I do not deny, but more uncomfortable seeing that he isn't worried in the slightest. A slight fear grips me. Does he know what I am thinking of him? Or am I misconstruing his words? Why isn't he uncomfortable? Has he. . . before? I filter out the thoughts before they can infect me more.
"Obvious deduction?" I smile wryly, my feeble attempt at humour to cease the tension giving away.
He smiles back. I see the rise and fall of his chest and I know. We should have made a fire at least, for it is going to be a chilly night, but neither he nor I are willing to go search for firewood now. Now of all times.
"Lie down," says he in a sharp tone, and I can do nothing but obey. Even if it's night now and extremely cold, I lie down on the grass and fumble with my shirt weakly as he lies down beside me, watching me with wide eyes. I concentrate on my buttons rather than his intense scrutiny. He rests his hand atop mine and straddles me. I was doing with a man what I should have done with my future wife.
To my horror, he tears the shirt away in one clean, sure tug and I try not to worry that I won't be able to hide behind the barrier of fabric anymore. The realisation of what we're about to do hits me again and again, and although the precise details aren't know to me, I know intuitively that this must be what intimacy must lead to. I force myself not to extricate myself from Holmes' grip to preserve my overrated virtue. He strokes my cheek and touches my lips again. I lean into his touch and watch him quietly.
"Watson," says he quietly, "We part ways tomorrow. I could have been selfish and taken us away from this cursed nation of abhorrence."
My breath freezes in my throat. Holmes wants to be with me. There's no other thought which can light even a candle to its nuclear immolation.
"But I shall not do so," says he, with no kind of huskiness to his tone. How is he able to speak so normally at this point? "Tomorrow, you must be a stranger to me and return back to town."
"And what of you, Holmes?" I manage to wheeze out as he pins me under him, his gaze steady on my lips. "Why must you be so unjust as to deny me—?"
"I would never deny you," says he softly as he hovers over my lips. I realise, with appalling alacrity and some sort of fear, that he has lost his shirt and tunic too. I hold his jaw over mine and thread my fingers in his uncombed hair. He never bothers to comb it properly, although he has very strict washing days, "I just cannot deny my work."
And with a final prompting look at me, he leans forward and my whole life slows down in front of me as if I were moments away from dying. I prop up my head to meet his lips too. They're just as I have always imagined, plush and greedy, always wanting more, always pushing more, like he is with his experiments. But he is delicate with them too. Not the same way with me.
I did not know that a man could even kiss another man. I believed, naively, that there must be some force of God which must repel a man from being intimate with another man if he were even accidently strayed into that path. For it seemed most unnatural.
But feeling Holmes' lips on mine, moving, kissing, sometimes trying to take my lower lip in his mouth, is completely natural. I do not know what the acts of love are or what they feel like, but I shall somewhat know tonight.
There's wetness on my lips and for a split second, I realise that Holmes has opened his mouth against mine and is trying to push his tongue into my mouth. I'm horrified at that dirty act, all the pleasure of Holmes atop me forgotten. I want to open my mouth too, because it seems to be the only instinct my body is guiding me towards. It seems to be the natural state of lovers. But I stop myself and tear away from Holmes, spluttering slightly. I dare not think that we're lovers. But I cannot shake off the feeling that I've somehow disappointed him but not daring to assume so.
"Holmes!" I stammer lividly, trying not to look at him and contradict my own words. His gaze is soul-shattering, the sort of gaze I've seen one of the senior priests look with whenever they see the nuns.
"Hush, John," he utters. The first time I hear him say my name and I was so selfish that I was still wallowing in the sin we were engaging into. But then, I cannot help but wonder. How could love be decreed as sin?
"Let me not be Holmes for you tonight. Will you do me that honour, John?"
I say nothing. I simply nod numbly, mouthing Sherlock. I've never said his name in front of him. I've only allowed myself to revel in its taste when I'm confined to my quarters with nobody in there with me while I think about him. The knowledge that my companion, my best friend thought it an honour to hear me call him by his first name is overwhelming, to say the least.
I gently pull at his arm and he leans down to kiss me again, this time not opening his mouth. It is both a relief and an agitation. I want to open my mouth, I want to offer myself to him but now I do not want to be risked being called a hypocrite by my companion after having stopped him from doing so. His opinion matters to me, and I shall strive to my best to ensure that he thinks the best of me.
He makes small, guttural sounds against me, low groans and high whines when he grinds his hips into mine and I cannot help but respond—albeit inexperienced-ly—with same fervour. He trails his fingers on my arm and entwines his fingers with mine pushing down just when he grinds his hips into mine. I'm lost and defeated and half-hard. My toes are freezing but I cannot believe how incredibly hot my neck and my arms feel. The closest I can describe the sensations within me is as that of an animal in heat who has just found its to-be mate.
I let go of his hand, fling my arms around his neck and grasp his hair tightly when I feel his warm chest move in accordance with mine. The only thing I know is that I need to create more heat, more friction when he moves against me and I drag my nails across his unmarked skin. I have always told him how precious he is to the world, how much he can contribute to science by simply not being distracted by uncouth, ignorant masses who believe that he should be burnt at stake for digging out forgotten graves only for the sake of science and modernity. I have never told him how precious he is to me. I have never told him that he made visiting my mother's grave a journey to look forward to.
I hold on to him desperately when I recall that the hangman would've had his boots by dawn had I not done this. And even more desperate when I recall that he is going to go back to that Hell the next day and he will not allow me to stop him or protect him.
All my thoughts are replaced by a second bout of panic when I feel him straining through the material of his trousers. I have never been with anyone, let alone a man. I have never made love to, or with, somebody, and neither am I much acquainted with the fine points of it. I have only heard the phraseology. I pull back to look at him in confusion, trying not to submit to lust that awakens within me to see him like that, even in near-pitch-black darkness, his hair sticking up at all angles, his skin feverish and salty to taste, his breath almost gone. Lust is a deadly sin that one must not fall to, but I cannot help and rest my forehead against his to take a deep breath. He seems to understand and stops running his hands on my chest and my waist. I am both relieved and disappointed.
"You've never done this, have you?" he asks softly. Even though we are encased in miles and miles of silence and that nobody would hear us even if we shouted our guts out, I feel like I should whisper too, lest I should sever whatever new bonds we were forming in the silent darkness.
"I'm afraid not," I reply somewhat abashedly. I'm fairly anxious but I don't want him to stop, and before I can ask him whether it should matter, he tilts my face up and plants a chaste kiss on my lips. Before I can deepen it, he draws back.
"Don't be. I'm relieved that you haven't."
I'm relieved to hear that too. I wouldn't have been able to bear it had he stopped just because I was "inexperienced". Heat pools in my lower abdomen and in places I'd rather not think of at the possessive edge coming into his voice.
"Sherlock. . ." I say uncertainly when he only watches me and doesn't proceed further.
"Do you trust me, John?"
I look into his eyes, even though they are not really visible to me. "I trust you."
"Then you must know that I would not want you to do anything which you don't want to—"
"But I do want this," I say hurriedly, somewhat afraid that I might lose his warm weight atop me if I display even the slightest hesitation. I look away, "with you."
"But you don't even know what it is," he forces my eyes back onto his. I force myself not to flush with colour, even though I know he can't assess it.
"That is why I want it with you," I reply with a slight shudder. I don't know what this 'it' is, not really. But I trust him to show me. I only know that it is called making love. I've never engaged in voyeurism when I was young, and I've never been interested in anyone else like that. Holmes is, and will always be, the only one.
"You can say no now," he says, only a tinge of hysteria coming into his voice. "I might not be able to stop myself later."
I suppress a completely involuntary hitch of breath at that thought, the thought of seeing a man like Holmes. . . Sherlock undone with lust, with me, for me. To think that I would be the one to witness him like that, as the victim of his desires, is almost too much.
"I will never say no," I promise, my voice almost breaking from need. I shouldn't complain; if I persuade Holmes to let me protect him, there would not be a better time than when we make love. Other times, Holmes' thoughts won't be compromised. He will be walking to his death if he goes back into the town, if only to complete his work. How can he value his work more than his life when it is the sole culprit behind the execution order from the Church?
He does nothing, simply leans forward, and this time, instead of kissing me, he busies himself with my throat. I've never felt anything like this. I want him deeper in my skin. I want him everywhere, because I do not know which parts of me are not filled with him. He simply kisses and sometimes licks and bites the skin on my neck tentatively. I can tell that he is watching for my reaction. He swirls his tongue on the patch of skin behind my ear, giving me shivers all over and I can tell that he is smiling against the skin, the sort of smile he will never allow me to see and hence I must only picture it by the way it feels. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and tugs gently and I have to learn how to breathe again when he lets go. His hands are on me, roaming all over me till one of them, left or right, I cannot tell, begins to circle my nipple slowly. I cover his hand with mine as I adjust him on top of me. I want all of him as much as I can with the barrier of clothes. If only Moses knew how I was feeling now, he would have thought a little more before setting down the Ten Commandments.
"Sherlock. . ." I whine and he takes the prompt to kiss me. This time, I don't hold back. I open my mouth, perhaps because it was already open and I snake out my tongue to meet his. So wet, so hot. I cup his face, enjoying the feeling of smooth skin against my palms and he deepens the kiss, stroking and entwining our tongues together. I'm dying, and I don't think I can take it anymore. The hot slickness of his tongue moving against mine as his mouth does not let me shut my lips together, oh, so good, so indescribable. I'm not sure if I'm still breathing. My eyes are glued tightly together and I wish I had some way to know how Holmes and I would look like to a third person now. The sensations when I first kissed him were already so overwhelming that I cannot comprehend what I feel now. I am lost in a world he must have been building for me since the first time we met. There exists nothing for me but his sounds, his scent and the touch of his body.
He gives a nipple a sharp pinch that mustn't have been as gentle as he had intended to, and my eyes snap open, breaking me from the illusion that I was in Heaven.
"Sherlock!" I cry out and then muffle my sound behind my knuckles. Someone must have heard us, but he only brushes away the hair out of my eyes and smiles reassuringly.
"Shout all you like, John. There's nobody for miles. Most people must have retired to bed by now. . . As have we."
I colour slightly at that. I can see the outlines of his face. I know he is smiling. But I cannot shake off the feeling that we're committing a grave sin on top of the felony I had committed the previous day.
All such thoughts fly from my mind when he closes the distance between us again. We kiss for quite a while as I feel him almost trembling with the effort of keeping himself from lashing out. He rubs our clothed groins together and I let out a choked sound at that. I wonder if this is a dream, a temptation in the guise of what feels to be very real. My whole life has revolved around the Church and my theological studies. The crimes that I committed for Holmes against the Papacy the previous day make me wonder whether I could have been something else in another life, given different circumstances.
He buries his face in my chest, pressing kisses and biting his way through my skin to leave a trail. I keep raking his scalp with my nails and I kiss the crown of his head, for I feel almost paralysed with desire to be able to show him my love and my gratitude in any other way. I open my eyes and look up at the Heavens. I know that the Lord is watching me, and I have an impulse to hide what we are doing from Him, for the Bible does not preach or uphold this; in fact it condemns this. But the cold seems to have diminished, so I take it as a sign that the Lord is not averse to us making love, for our intentions are pure. I am not committing adultery, am I? I will remain true to Holmes till my last breath, even though as a priest and as a representative of the Church, I should condemn him. I was to sit at the jury of the Council of the Elders for Holmes' trial. But, he is my friend, and now my lover. How could I have sat in a jury whose members were going to be unanimous in their verdict, particularly to Holmes?
"Oh, Sherlock," I can do nothing but cry out as he tugs at my nipple with his teeth and glances at my face for my expression. There's the smugness of the scientist who knows he was right all along, but there's also ardent desire. He looks at me under heavy-lidded eyes and I discover that my mouth has run dry. I embrace his head tightly and let out another, "Oh yes, Sherlock!"
He laps at me with his tongue and continues watching me carefully. I try not to think that what he is doing to me is simply borne out of gratefulness for having sprung him from confinement. If it is, then this shall be the last time I will find myself in his arms.
He says nothing, he is only covered with a layer of sweat, the lustre of his skin giving the pearlescent glow an ethereal quality. I rub my hands on his back as he keeps teasing me, sometimes with an edge of ruthlessness to his ministrations and sometimes, he goes down, lapping at my navel and I can do nothing but to keep my legs shut in an effort to not spill over him. My eyes roll into my head and my toes curl at the sensations. At these times, I wonder if I will ever be a coherent man again, able to walk and talk at the same time. There's an edge of something that is akin to terror whenever I feel Holmes migrating southward, but I want him, it, too. I treasure the touch of him on me.
I am only capable of taking his name and forcing him deeper against myself. I want. . . what, I have no clue. Just that. . . I want. More. Deeper. Harder. Ruthless.
I almost tug his hair out when he bites near the skin below my navel and tries to force my legs apart. I do not want to. I might lose control of my lower half if he does that, and the thought of losing control of my body, which is completely mine, is unsettling, to say the least.
He runs his hand along my waist and bites there gently as he traces over the curve of my hips, kissing my knee and my inner thigh. I am almost trembling with the sort of fear which makes me feel excited, of all things. He traces a palm over my bottoms, bringing it slowly down and further nearer to the cleft and then slowly towards my groin. I squeeze my eyes and my legs shut at once as I bite down on my lower lip to avoid crying out. In the wake of my heart thundering in my ears, the world seems so silent that we might be the only ones on the Earth. It's unexpected to feel his hands on such an intimate area of my body but it feels so impossibly good that I grip his head tightly, forcing him deeper against me before he demands of me a most impossible request.
"Spread your legs for me, John," he manages somehow, with violent, sporadic bursts of breath in between, his hand still between my legs and his intention crystal clear.
This, I am not prepared for, "Beg pardon?"
It must have been obvious from my face that I was somewhat flummoxed at this. To say 'somewhat' would be somewhat of an understatement. Suddenly, I'm not sure if I want this. A part of my brain—the corrupt one, my father always said—wants him to touch me there, to relieve the strain, the pressure where no one has ever touched me before. I myself am embarrassed to see arousal heavy between my legs, but the way Holmes looks from me to between my legs makes me want to spread wider for him, to allow him to touch me there and do. . . unspeakable things to me. I had never thought that the acts of love would be so. . . dirty. And hot.
I prop up on my elbows as I lose Holmes' mouth on my body navel. That patch of skin stings to the cold like a thousand burning knives. Holmes leans over me and insinuates a knee, rubbing at my groin meaningfully, "Then let me do something else for you."
At length, I give him a slight nod and he kisses me gently. I feel reassured at that.
"Turn over for me, John."
I hesitate, but I have promised him that I would never deny him, so I obey, my breath stuck like a knife in my throat. I cannot see Holmes at this point, so I simply close my eyes and concentrate on the feeling of his large palms splayed on my waist.
Gradually, they go lower, rubbing the cleft of my bottom. I tense, but he rubs a finger down there and I feel the press of his nose and his lips against my bottom. I am completely red at the thought, but I bend a little more for him so that he can. . . do whatever he is doing. He presses the finger indignantly as I feel another hand cupping and squeezing my bottoms. I move against his finger a little and to my horror and excitement, I feel it going in deeper.
"Shall I. . . take these off?" comes his voice from behind me, and I try to tilt my head, get the best possible view of him from my extremely uncomfortable position. Holmes hooks his thumbs in the waistband of my breeches, and looks at me—expectantly, I note. He is sitting on his knees and just as tense as I am. Another caress causes me to nod slightly and I feel him taking my breeches off. I try not to think that I was now fully nude in front of him. I had never even thought that Holmes had interest in such things. I had assumed him to be celibate like I am—was. The chill, combined by the absence of his warm hands, feels like a slap on my bottom. I shut my eyes tighter and let him touch and explore.
"Tell me when you want me to stop," he says, but I tell myself that I never want him to stop. With that, he lowers me and kisses my bottoms, sometimes biting the flesh and dipping his tongue in its cleft. My face is burning at the thought of Holmes putting his face—in there. I know he can see my leaking length now and it won't be long before he would want to touch me there as well. But, for now, he simply dips his finger and his tongue inside, and I roll my hips upward. Oh, it feels heavenly, so much intense than kissing. If only he'd take my length in his hand, I'd come closer to a sort of peace that I've been thirsting for since the first time I kissed him. I wish he could touch me everywhere at once.
But he doesn't. He massages the flesh as a truly discomfiting whine leaves my throat unwillingly. I can feel him pushing my bottom cheeks wider apart and dipping his tongue further. I cant my hips up in an effort to meet his mouth. I grind my head against the ground, pull out a few tufts of grass in my desperation to be unable to do anything to pleasure Holmes the way he's pleasuring me. If I wanted something now—justifiably and unjustifiably—it would be having something inside me. What or how or why or for what, I cannot reason. I just want it, that's it. I cannot shake off this wicked intuition.
"Oh, Sherl. . . lock," I keep moaning unwillingly, but he doesn't seem like he wants to stop anymore. I would butcher the man with my own hands if he did that, "Oh deeper, Sherlock. . . more. . . yes. . ."
He sets up a leisurely rhythm, and for the first time since he began, I wish I could see him. I wish he could see me, thrashing and writhing and trying to keep up with him, because I know that would please him to no bounds. His tongue dips in and out of me, in and out, in and out, till I am beyond all kinds of reason. And yet, my upbringing, everything in me that was before Holmes had come into my life screams at me to make him stop. This is way more than simply sinful. This is utter blasphemy, not only against the teachings of the Church, but against nature itself.
He pushes his tongue deeper into me and I have to muffle my shouts behind my knuckles. I can't not cry out his name anymore when he begins to suck in earnest and stroke my hard length. Oh, the feel of his hand on me, oh how I want more, how I desire friction and release. I've had small urges from time to time, but nothing as intense as this. Oh, how I want him to break me and let me touch his manhood too and touch his with mine. How, how am I capable of thinking such thoughts suddenly is beyond me. I want to reach out for him, and so I do, only grabbing a few tufts of his hair and urging him deeper against my bottom. He almost stops, perhaps out of surprise, at which I give a loud, ungainly grunt of indignation and he carries on with his chore.
"Harder, Sherlock!" I urge him frantically, "Faster! Don't you dare stop!"
He snorts against me and his expert hands work me to the edge while his tongue moves in and out of me rapidly and his hand works me up to the hilt. I cannot fancy where Holmes must have learnt the art, but for the time being, I let myself phase in and out of the sensations of intimacy with him. How could the Church keep teaching about chastity? How could anyone remain chaste after they had experienced this? How could one live their lives knowing that once upon a time, they had experienced that very intimacy with someone and spent the rest of their lives not having it for every precious moment?
"Tell me how it feels," he grunts, "tell me where you like it the most."
I am too lost to comprehend the meaning of this, or even considering about teaching to the Sunday masses about chastity, temperance and faith and charity and humility. How can I ever forget for even one moment what Holmes is doing to me? Why did I get into this, knowing that he will be captured and executed one day and I will be able to do nothing but stand at his grave and hold back my tears?
His tongue invades me deeper, and I gasp out of pleasure again, realising, with some pain, that it is no longer only his tongue, but his finger as well.
"Holmes, stop!" I cry out. He has tainted the purity of me, I have tainted the purity of his mouth. . . or not, perhaps. The idea of Holmes doing this to somebody else is just too revolting for me that I don't want to think about it anymore.
But I feel one long, bony finger sliding into me in response. Finally, something inside is a relief, but not big enough, not big enough to completely satisfy me. I now know what the final act must be like, seeing as that is what I want to do to him.
"Oh Sherlock," I groan in frustration, my knees buckling, "feels so. . . feels. . . so. . . oh, Sherlock. . ."
He rubs the finger inside me. His breathing is erratic, I can feel it on my bottom cheeks, hot and like lashes onto sensitive skin. He bites without mercy and I jerk against him, groaning louder when I feel him deep enough. It's not enough. Every bone in my body is on fire and it's consuming me. I wish there were some way to let it out, but there isn't.
"Oh yes," I gasp, "that, there. . . yes! Yes, oh Lord yes!"
I am rutting against his finger and his tongue, moving in accordance. I want him to defile me, to ravage me completely. If only it were something bigger, I'd have had some peace perhaps. But I take advantage of him the best way I can. I spread my unsteady legs apart for him, giving him full admittance to my manhood. He only caresses, and licks the strip of skin between my bottom and my length. I try to reach out for him, force him deeper against myself, but my arms aren't long enough. I've never felt so helpless about my height before.
"Faster, Holmes, faster!"
He takes the hint and inserts another finger in addition to his tongue. This feels better, bigger. I move against him more roughly as he sucks, making filthy slurping sounds. I should've been embarrassed, but the noises only make me feel pleased, of myself, of my lover.
"Oh Sherlock, please!" I cry out when I feel one after another sharp shots of pleasure rack up my whole body. I've only had small urges but I've never been a slave to such base desires; but how can I refrain from being one when my mind is chanting only one word over and over again: more, more and more?
"Oh, unngh, Sherlock, please!" I slam my fist against the ground and sacrifice some more grass to my impending release. I cannot believe that he isn't uttering a single word against me. How can he not feel overwhelmed with the sensations and not say anything out of his self-controlled mouth?
But, as it turns out, he is no less a slave than I, "What. . . do you want?" he grunts. I don't think I've ever heard him speak like that, even when one of his experiments had failed and he had blasted apart the cowshed of the landlady's neighbour.
"Touch me again," I cry out, when he caresses my manhood again and my toes curl, "touch me please!"
"Where?" he demands, "Where, John?"
"Ah, Holmes, please," is all I'm able to utter, with incoherent spurts of breath in between. He speeds up and I find myself seeking friction with the ground instead to relieve myself. But he does not allow me. He laps with his tongue and squeezes my bottom cheeks to force them apart. I suddenly have an intuition to take something in my mouth, anything to keep from shouting out his name continuously. I'd have given anything in the world to kiss Holmes now.
I go mad like the Devil when his mouth abruptly leaves contact, "Where should I touch you, John?"
"You know where!" I spit it out in frustration.
"Where?"
My hands are trembling; my whole body is shaking with the fervour of small earthquakes. I've never felt so naked before, and perhaps I never will be again, if Holmes sticks to his resolve. But I will not say that dirty word to him, so I only fumble around till I reach his arm which is hooked around my leg. He entangles his fingers with mine and I lead him to my length, trying to wrap his fingers around myself, "I shall die if you don't touch me!" I gasp.
"Oh," he utters faux-unwittingly, as if he did not know. "Yes, there."
His touch on me is, frankly, relief, like balm to feverish skin. His wraps his fingers around me and starts to stroke me slowly again. With each stroke, he dips his tongue in me. I feel utterly sodomized as he manipulates my lower half to his wishes. I have never felt better. I wish I could show him too, how much I desire him, but at this point, I'm gone to the point of no return, reduced to only a groaning, slobbering mess of limbs stringed together by bones and joints.
As I approach my release, his strokes begin to lose their rhythm. He lets go of my prick and goes back to fingering me with more fervour until I can finally hear some words from him.
"Oh John," he moans, and the sound of him, his deep breathy voice, is sweeter than the sweetest hymns, "you. . .you feel so. . . so good, John. Oh," his voice rises, peaks and then drops back to low, "Oh John, you should see yourself now."
"Sherlock, I can't. . ." I wheeze helplessly as I feel the world around myself disintegrating at his words and his praise, "I can't hold any longer!"
"Oh John," I feel his mouth on my bottom again, and I roll my hips against him when I feel his tongue dipping in me again, "so much, John. Just let go, John. Just. . . let go."
I collapse on my elbows as I come apart in his hands with his name on my lips. I want to curse the world for not being able to see Holmes' face at this moment. I can hear his groans, his sighing and his breathy moans. I can smell the musky odour of his body. I can still feel one of his hands on me, squeezing and rubbing. I can hear him spending himself, can hear the desperation in his voice. I stay like that for some moments, while trying to look back and see his face. I can see only his hand on my hip.
"Turn around," he murmurs quietly after a long, long time. I close my eyes and collapse on my back, presenting myself to him with his fingers still inside me. After all that he did to me, I am now conscious of my nudity again. I know the gaze with which he must be looking at me, and I find myself powerless to return it, so I choose not to look at all.
When I finally open my eyes, I find Holmes watching me under heavy-lidded eyes like a gazelle and I am forced to return to painful sobriety. It is indeed marvellous how we came together after everything. We were two worlds apart. I was a boy adopted into a long-upstanding family of priests and ministers, and he of noble birth, who abhorred his family for engaging in slave trade and ran away from his native place to escape punishment after he had set free a row of slaves meant for their estate, and then devoting his entire life to discovering the hidden laws of nature. He is a outcast, threatened to be burnt for being the vessel of the Devil and going against what the Church preached. The society had ensured that we were to be apart, no matter what. And yet, here I am, submitting myself to his wishes.
I look down, and with a bit of shame, I realise that at some point he had undressed too. I try to speak, but my throat is parched and my lips seems to have been sealed together by a crust of dried saliva. I am sweating badly and my chest is heaving. Holmes mirrors my condition as he hovers atop me, our softening pricks touching ever so slightly. He sinks down and grinds his hips against mine, and I whine out unwillingly, my lips splitting from the cold. I have half-a-mind to drug him using one of his own non-malodorous chemicals and take him away from everything. Why doesn't he understand? He will be killed if he goes back into there. Why can't he start his life anew. . . with me?
"Sherl. . ." I rasp out after I've managed to find my voice. He takes his fingers out and offers me them, and I cannot help but take his hand in my grip as if it were made of glass. I lower my mouth and caress his arm, kissing and sucking on his fingers greedily. I can taste myself, the saltiness of his ejaculate on them, running my fingers over his sinewy forearm and there's naught but sweetness in it of our sexual activities.
He watches me, his mouth slightly ajar and panting, and I slow down, letting him relish the sight. There's not Sherlock Holmes, the scientist, or Holmes, my companion, with me as we gaze into each other's eyes for a moment, ignoring our state of debauchery and nudity. It's just Sherlock, my lover. I've always admired his slim and well-built body from a distance, when he and I sparred near the outskirts of the town. But now, when I'm so close to him, in all ways a man can be close to another, all I can marvel at is how, of all the people in the world, he chose me as his bedmate, if only for one night. He's so beautiful, so untameable, so wild and yet reserved. If only the world could see what I see in him, they'd know how much progress and peace he could bring into it and make it a more beautiful place to live in. How could the Lord and the Emperor not offer him pardon, after all he has done for the court?
I watch Holmes look at me with longing as he withdraws his arm and kisses the tip of the finger I have contaminated with my saliva. He caresses gently my manhood, as if almost taking a break from what we had been doing previously. Despite my release, I lean into his touch. I find myself ever so sensitized to his contact, and my whole body aches for him again, like it had some moments prior.
"I want you," I choke out, bucking my hips up in an effort to meet his hand. Without warning, I feel myself hardening again and he ruts against my hips when he feels it too. I turn away my face from Holmes, not wanting him to see. If I had the power, I would've done anything to stop myself from coming apart and being aroused even before the whole hour had elapsed. But I am only human. I couldn't.
He doesn't react. With one arm as his support, he traces his thumb over my lips. "This may be the last time we will ever be intimate, John."
"Why can you not see it as the first time we were ever," I look away, to not face him when I say it, "intimate?"
"Because," he gulps, and there is deep sorrow in his eyes, "there is no second time after the last time."
His words sting me, but before I can react, he is speaking again. I cannot afford to lose a single word of his, so I listen wordlessly, "Do not take this as my reluctance to engage in sex with you," I want to block out that word, despite all, but I cannot help myself. Just because I think that I might be committing a sin doesn't mean that I'll be confessing to the Lord. The Lord already knows and I am anything but regretful about being intimate with Holmes.
He drags his thumb down my lower lip, and speaks quietly, his voice unaffected as ever, "I'd eagerly have you for all nights of my life, past, present or tomorrow."
I am undone. I rest my palm on his cheek, my heart swelling foolishly inside me and he doesn't meet my gaze.
"And I do not doubt you, John. You went against your own beliefs for me, something I have never had the honour to do for you—"
"You know I do not—"
"You might not, John. But my usefulness to this society has run its course. Anything I publish, they'll burn it apart. My scientific findings will be lost to oblivion—"
"Your brother—"
"I will not accept a shilling worth of help from my brother!" he declares harshly, and I stop speaking, "All I will accept is this night—with you."
"I desire such nights for the rest of my life," my voice is close to choked as I try and beat some sense into that intellectual thicket of his, "You know I'd not explicitly say that under any other circumstances. But we, we can evade this, Sherlock. We can go to England, or Germania or even eastwards towards Greece. We can find our new lives there, we can convert to Protestantism. You can keep publishing without the interference of the Catholic Church and I—"
"You do not understand, John," he keeps taking my name, as if he wants to say it enough times before he. . . no, I stop myself, "England or Greece, people are same everywhere. Go North or South, I am not someone they'll see fit to let grow under their feet. How many times will I run? How many times shall I accept your protection? I am misplaced in this era, do you not see?"
My heart snaps into two, "You are not misplaced in my arms." I look away.
"True," he caresses my chin gently, "so let me have you, John. This is all I have to give to you, other than the animosity I manage to attract from people."
A single tear manages to break free of the prison I create whenever Holmes is around me, "And have you never thought of me? How misplaced I would be without. . .?"
"Without. . .?" he prompts, and I give him a slight push.
"Do not make me say that. It will do you no good."
"Likewise," he wipes the tear away from my face and I'm ashamed at myself for crying in front of a fighter like him, "do not make me say words of compassion or sympathy. You know it will do you no good."
"If I were to convince you to stay away from that infernal place, what would I have to do?" I ask quietly.
He watches me for quite some time as the sounds of our breathing and the beating of our hearts flood my ears. The sky is black as ever, stars watching over us, twinkling at the bittersweet sensation of our intimacy. I've given thought to intimacy once or twice, but always in a closed room, never under open skies and on grassy plains. I anchor myself to him and he buries his face in my neck, breathing in my skin and running his lips lightly over. My chest rises and falls, and so does his whole frame as I close my eyes, running my fingers through his dirty hair and tugging at it when I want to, just to assure myself that it's still him. Why is the Lord so vindictive? Did Holmes and I not deserve happiness? If only once?
He stops breathing and pitches his voice so deep that I can bury myself in it, "You would not mourn me when I'm gone."
I want to throw him off me and I want to smack him, beat him, love him all at once. Are my feelings for him so worthless when compared to his work? How can he possibly suggest such a cruel thing?
He kisses my jaw and breathes in deeply, splaying over me like a blanket. I wish I could protect him like that, splay myself all over him and take the beating of the world for him. I clutch him harder, and close my eyes. There's no looking back, "I want you."
He keeps kissing a trail down my neck. I turn the other way, displaying my neck for him, "What do you want of me?"
I gulp. "Everything."
He rises abruptly, and blinks. At length, he asks, "Are you. . . sure, John?"
"Well," I grow bolder at his uncertainty, "if this is the last night we will ever be intimate, I suppose we make the best use of it, shall we?"
Relief, I imagine, crosses his features before he lunges forward to tug me into a heated open-mouthed kiss. I open my mouth against him and tackle him dominantly, hoping that my desire is evident in my fervour. My grip on him must be rib-cracking, for he groans but he doesn't seem to be able to squirm all that much. He takes my lips between his teeth and tugs, and then releases and pushes at it with his tongue. I am silent, and so is he, except for our entwining sharp intake of breaths and quiet exhales. I grip his waist and grind his hips against mine. For one desperate, heart-stopping moment, he pulls away and gazes into my eyes. He is shaking silently, his curls dangling from his forehead and his face contorted into the most painful of expressions I've seen on him. I stare back at him, paralysed, unable to do anything, unable to think of anything to do even though I want to wipe that expression of his face and replace it with the ones that must have crossed my face when he had first pleasured me.
"Would you miss me, John?" he asks, and my lust-fevered brain stutters to a stop. "When I'm gone?"
My heart sinks. "Do not say that, Sherlock, do not," my voice breaks as I beg. "Is that your intention? Causing me so much pain that I—"
"I've caused you enough of pain, John. Any more would damn me for the rest of my life."
"If that be so, then know that if you interrupt us the next time, I shall damn you for eternity!"
Unlike what I had expected, his lips curl into that little amused smile he usually gives me, often accompanied by his eccentric sense of humour. How he manages to make me grief-stricken in one instant and amused in the next is still a mystery to me, "Would you. . . use that Book of yours to cast spells on me?"
I roll my eyes, my state of arousal half-forgotten as I chastise him, "The Holy Bible is not a spellbook, Sherlock."
"That's unfortunate," a huskiness creeps into the edge of his voice as he keeps rubbing himself against me. I look back into his eyes, drinking in the glorious sight of him, "it could've had more purposes as a spellbook instead."
I laugh at his insinuation and give him a little shove, "You. . . You are hopeless, utterly hopeless. You do know that witches and 'spellcasters' are burnt at stake, don't you?"
He chuckles, "As I had been tipped to be."
We both fall silent at that, again. I cannot help but think that Holmes is hell-bent on interrupting our night-do. He looks away, and, as all my hopes of consummating our union are completely crushed, he crawls off me and lays down next to me. It takes me a few more moments of staring towards the sky in mindless shock and disappointment before I turn to face him again.
I rest my forehead against his shoulder joint and pull his tunic closer to pull it over us. I'm beginning to feel the consequences of not lighting a fire.
"Sherlock?" I call him and fight against the desire to kiss his shoulder lightly. I see his eyes look towards me and then go back to staring at the sky. "Are you not. . ." I dread the word coming out of my mouth, "ready?"
"If I were not ready, I wouldn't have gone this far with you," he says coldly, and the sudden change in his voice makes the crushed feeling much more prominent.
I hate myself for being like this with him. I want to comfort him, I want to hold him, but my reserve and my reluctance to take any liberties with Holmes hold me back. Maybe he is. . . he has changed his mind? Maybe he doesn't want to make love to a man after all, I think, my stomach sinking into a deep abyss. Maybe. . . I wasn't as interesting and as good as he had hoped, I think as yet another blow is struck to my already crumbling self-confidence. I'd go to the ends of the earth for him, I know that, and now, he knows that. But would he do the same for me too? After all, his work is very important. He holds it above everything in his life.
But he had praised me. He had said that I. . . I felt good, I think with some smugness as I repeat in my mind that wonderful moment, his words that are like the sun on my heart for a thousand years. He is certainly not the one to shower anybody with hollow praise. He is, usually, very blunt about shortcomings except those situations which require tact, and extremely tongue-tied about praising others.
"You're quiet, John," he says, wrapping his trousers around our legs. I notice that his legs aren't touching mine, but I do not endeavour to correct that situation, unsure of his reaction to it. If he needs space, I'll put a thousand leagues between us. If he doesn't, I'll press him to my bosom and hold his soon-to-be-extinct form against my heart tight.
"So are you."
He seems to reflect upon that for a moment as he snuggles further into the tunic. I tentatively touch his toes with mine to find that they're close to frost-bitten, and I rub over his legs in an effort to keep him warm. To my surprise, he isn't much resistive to my touch, but then he mustn't be. I'm over-the-moon that he isn't.
"We should've made a fire."
"Yes. We'll be half-dead men by tomorrow."
Something seems to make him chuckle softly, but I do not venture further into whatever it is. My heart is restless while I'm still left in No Man's Land, unable to put my clothes back on in the hope that the night would be spent more meaningfully, unable to not put my clothes back on because of the cold, and of the sinking feeling that Holmes might not want me now that he has had his way with me.
"Your Bible does teach about the afterlife, doesn't it, John?"
I sigh. I do not like this newly-acquired habit of Holmes talking like a dying man, "Yes."
"You. . . get the, erm . . . comeuppance of your sins in the afterlife, don't you?"
"You've never sinned, Sherlock," I try, "not to my knowledge at least." That is true, anyway. Even after three years of knowing him, I don't think I have seen even a fraction of him. Tonight was a revelation. Who knows what the next night might bring?
"My sins are naught but numerous in quantity and sinister in nature. Only Providence knows how you came to be my companion."
I try not to look at him in surprise. True, our activities have left me somewhat emotionally vulnerable, but I did not expect Holmes to be a victim to the same. He has indomitable will and strength of character. He cannot be moved easily. He is not as weak as I can be. The whole situation—us lying half-naked with only our clothes as makeshift covers beneath and above us—is a little too gauche for me. I do not know about Holmes—he is usually awkward when expressing sentiment—but the absence of any such awkwardness on his part makes me do the double duty of being uncomfortable.
"We're only human, Sherlock," I follow the lead of his words and snuggle closer to him. I feel him stiffening against me, and for one moment, I fear that I've made the gravest miscalculation of my life. But then, he relaxes, but otherwise doesn't lean into my touch, "We men are naught but a bunch of sinners."
"That is contrary to what you teach at the parish, John," says he with a wry smile which warms my heart considerably.
"We must reach out towards Divinity, Sherlock, but never pretend to be the same," I chant automatically. The corner of his lips quirk up in a half-smile as he leans into me. I look at him and I open my mouth, waiting to be kissed. My heart is galloping and I reach out to touch his jaw but he surprises me by kissing the side of my neck and he opens his mouth.
"My priest. Always my priest," is all he says, his eyes hazy with lust as he takes my manhood in his grip and there's nothing else that I know of. It may have been the most erotic moment of my life. For I am, his priest. He is my God, and I worship him.
"My scientist," I whisper back, and even though I'm slightly afraid, I slide my hands tentatively to between his legs, and I'm not surprised to find him eager, only glad and very, very fulfilled, "Make love to me, Sherlock."
"With pleasure," he says, and closes the distance between us.
Next chapter? . . . not so soon. But it will be max 6 chapters. . . so, won't take a long while to get over
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