Sort of a follow-up to my previous story, Satisfaction. I dunno, I'm on a Sherlock kick. Some brief warnings: yes, this story contains homosexual sex, including a semi-graphic description of fellatio. If you're not in the mood for that, you should probably go read something else. Also there is a very brief mention of a past sexual encounter in which consent was extremely dubious, which may be triggering to some people.
P.S. I don't own anything. But feel free to tell me I'm awesome anyways.
There was something heartbreaking about how hungry Sherlock Holmes was for compliments. Every time an honest "Brilliant!" or "Amazing!" fell from John's lips, the consulting detective's body would subtly arch, as if John had just scratched a sweet spot. It made the doctor want to coo.
The feline metaphor was getting out of hand, but honestly, Sherlock fed into it constantly with unerring precision. He really was an animal in a human body, all instinct and bristling whiskers. John himself had always been a dog person - Harry had been the cat keeper - but then again, cats choose their own masters. John was aware he did not have a choice in the matter. So he fed Sherlock, and cleaned up the messes he left in the kitchen, and stroked his ego until the great beast purred with triumph.
Tonight was bound to be a catty night, however, as it was John's late-night at the surgery and Sherlock was on a case - a particularly nasty one concerning a serial rapist with a penchant for mutilating his victims in ways that would prevent them from identifying him. When hours of plying every trick in his bag to get John to skiv off had failed to keep the doctor from leaving for work (whining, guilt-tripping, tempting - "Could be very dangerous, John!"), Sherlock had settled into a class A sulk, his aristocratic nose firmly raised in the air. No amount of patting or soothing or quince crumble would do for AT LEAST 48 hours.
John straightened his weary spine with a sigh before searching his pockets for the key to the flat. The windows were dark, so he knew that despite the lack of texts, Sherlock was out on the hunt. He probably wouldn't be home until the middle of the night. John resigned himself to being woken at 3AM by a passive-aggressive violinist once again.
He was just patting his hair dry from the shower when his text alert sounded. He eyed the phone warily, wondering what masterpiece of snark was awaiting him, before picking up the device and scrolling. To his surprise it was not Sherlock, but Lestrade, who had sent him nothing but an address and the words "Come ASAP."
Dropping the towel, John raced to his room and stumbled into a shirt and jeans before snatching up his medical kit and pounding down the stairs. For once the endless prejudice of the city's cabbies against short men was not in effect, and John was whisked away to the other side of town without even having to voice his urgency aloud. "I must look quite severe," John muttered to himself, but they were pulling up to the curb and before he could get his head on straight he was tossing notes at the driver and bolting up a stairway into a drab apartment building.
Police officers filled the hallways in endless parabolas, and John pushed past them with the thoughtless air of long practice, heading towards Greg Lestrade's strident tones. He found the core crew in a room on the second floor, where Lestrade and a paramedic were trying valiantly to interrupt a ranting, pacing Sherlock while the ever-crass Sally Donovan sniggered in a corner. With a pang, John noted the ripped, filthy quality of Sherlock's clothes, as well as the steady line of blood drops following each long-stride. "Sherlock," he coughed soothingly, "you're contaminating the scene."
The detective's body froze in mid-step as his long neck craned around. "John," he barked, then slumped as if his strings had been cut. The paramedic made to move forward, but the gangly genius merely shouldered him aside and tottered gamely toward his doctor, before collapsing in John's arms as if the last of his strength had been in those final faltering steps. John wheezed as he caught him and steered him towards a chair. "What happened?" he asked grimly. Though John's eyes did not leave Sherlock, his question was clearly directed at the inspector.
"He chased down the suspect, but he, er…" Lestrade scrubbed a sheepish hand over his steely head. "He didn't wait for backup, and the guy had hold of him for a bit…"
"I see," John said, his tone ominously even. Blue eyes flicked over long limbs, taking in damage - spreading bruises over the larynx, matted hair on the back of the skull, bleeding defensive marks on the hands, holes in the knees of the trousers. "We are going to have a long conversation tomorrow, Greg. About gyms and treadmills and department fitness passes." Sally Donovan snorted in the background, and the speed with which Dr. Watson's head whipped up to glare at her was almost supernatural. "Don't think you're exempt, Sergeant. If a nearly 40 year old war veteran with a game leg can keep up with him, what's your excuse?"
Donovan attempted to rally herself. "I keep myself fit, Watson, it ent my fault if the freak doesn't call for back up."
"Isn't it?" John retorted icily. "I've no doubt you're fast, Sergeant. I'm also pretty sure you're an apathetic waste of space who lets her ill-formed prejudices endanger British citizens on a daily basis."
"How dare you -"
"Did you even break a sweat? Or did you sit around, patting yourself on the back while Sherlock chased down the man who's been raping and blinding women for three months? Sitting here tittering while the bruises darken on his throat. You ought to be ashamed."
Sally was looking palely at Lestrade. "I…"
"Get out," the doctor commanded. "Get your smug stupid face out of my sight." Before I break it, was the threat John Watson didn't have to voice. Sally went.
John bent down to examine Sherlock's sweaty head. Gentle fingers probed the matted curls. Sherlock twitched as the doctor found the hematoma. "What happened?"
"Banged my head on the floor."
John huffed sadly. "All right. You idiot. You'll need stitches on that left hand. Anything under the clothes that I can't see? Anything that needs immediate attention?"
"Just bruising." The paramedic was sidling up to them, trying to communicate with Dr. Watson. Sherlock bared his teeth at the boy and growled like an ill-bred dog. John smoothed his hands automatically over that aristocratic brow. "Shh, now. I've got everything we need at home. No need, no need."
Sherlock hunched forward and lay his trusting head against John's bad shoulder. "Take me home, John. Please."
"All right. Can you walk?"
"Help me." John slid an arm under the detective's shoulders and levered him to his feet.
"Hold on a minute," protested Lestrade. "I haven't gotten a proper statement!"
A look passed from the doctor to the DI, one that said, I can hurt you. I can hurt you in ways you've never imagined.
"Guess I can do that tomorrow," Lestrade muttered quietly, and watched the two men stagger off into the night.
Some part of Holmes' vast mind was aware that John was taking most of his weight as they stooped carefully up the stairs to home. Furthermore, the extra burden did not seem to slow the good doctor down in any noticeable way. There was something… intriguing about that. Something evocative.
John removed his coat and hung it up before lowering Sherlock down to 'his' corner of the sofa. John knelt and began untying Sherlock's shoes, and simultaneously began to speak. "I'm going to ask you some questions that I'd like you to answer as honestly as possible, even if they seem irrelevant or obtuse to you, all right?"
"Yes," Sherlock agreed tiredly.
"How long were you alone with him?"
Sherlock thought about it. The effort of recall seemed inordinately strenuous. "About fifteen minutes."
"And in that time, there was a struggle, during which you sustained injury to your neck, head, knees, and hands, as well as bruising underneath your clothing. Did he get at you?"
Get at me. Sherlock took a moment to decipher that statement. "Do you mean, did he rape me? No. Although surprisingly I believe that was his eventual intent, despite the fact that I do not fit his preferred profile."
John let out a noisy breath and his fingers briefly paused in the act of peeling off the detective's socks. "I suppose I should be grateful for small favors. No, don't try to get up - I'm not going to yell at you tonight. That can wait for the morning." John stood, the tendons surrounding his ankles and patellae crackling. "I'd like to treat your knees, but under the circumstances I feel I should ask: are you all right with me removing your trousers? If not, I can give you the supplies and a verbal walkthrough."
"Don't be absurd, John. You have seen me in far less than my trousers," Sherlock murmured. A reluctant grin wavered across the doctor's weathered face. "So I have," he replied ruefully. "Here goes then." John's hands were surgically gentle on the buckle and the zip. "Lift up?" Sherlock did, and the ruined trousers were no more.
Dr. Watson surveyed the damage with a clinical eye. "There's quite a bit of debris. Some of it will come off with warm water and a cloth, but the rest I'll have to remove manually. How about a cuppa before we get started?" Sherlock sighed. Suddenly, the longing for tea was almost unbearable. Correctly interpreting his expression, John straightened, and a wave of gratitude hit the younger man as he heard his flatmate begin the familiar movements of the tea-time ritual.
Clink of cheap china in the sink, scratch of a match, whump of the gas catching flame, gurgle of water filling the kettle, clink of copper on cast-iron as the kettle settled over the grid. Sherlock tilted his head and rested his temple against the back of the sofa, careful to avoid the painful throbbing at the back of his skull.
His least injured hand was being molded around a warm cup. He opened his eyes and saw John's hand outstretched with two white capsules in the hollow of the palm. "Take these now. They'll help take the edge off while I'm cleaning and stitching."
"Not opioids," Sherlock confirmed.
"Not for you," John retorted with a grin. Sherlock washed them down with P.G.-Tips-two-sugars-dash-of-milk, and continued to sip as John knelt again, his blunt-fingered hands shiny with washing, and began to pick glass and particulate out of his flesh with needle-nosed tweezers. "Save the bits for Lestrade," Sherlock managed, biting back a yawn, and smiled when the doctor nodded once.
Sherlock was floating as the painkillers kicked in, so that he barely felt the sting of peroxide. The following iodine had a bit more bite and he flinched reflexively, but John held one warm callused hand behind his knee and kept him steady. Soon the feeling passed and his knees were wrapped tight in clean white tape.
"Time for the hand, I think," John said quietly. "But first I'd like to see the rest of the damage, if you feel up to it." Sherlock shrugged, then attempted to unbutton his shirt. John's warm fingers closed over his own clumsy ones and took over, steady and patient. Sherlock felt the friendly weight of a physician's focus cataloguing every bruise and scrape. After 97 seconds of scrutiny, John was satisfied, and sat beside him on the sofa. He pulled Sherlock's left hand onto his knee and carefully prodded the slashed tissue, evaluating the best way to stitch it back together. Once he had it straight in his mind, he took a sterile syringe and some lidocaine solution from his kit and began drawing up a dose, before cleaning an injection site and proceeding to numb the hand. The lidocaine burned going in.
After 30 seconds, he tested Sherlock's palm with the blunt end of his tweezers. "How's that? Numb yet?" Sherlock nodded faintly. "Okay. Palm up, stretch your fingers out, flat as you can make it. Good. Tell me if it hurts too badly and I'll inject you again."
John's stitches were elegant and rapid, the stitches of a master surgeon. Something in Sherlock mourned for the genius John must have been in the operating room, before that blasted tremor ruined him. Well… perhaps ruined was a strong word. After all, he still made this look easy. Having stitched up plenty of unmoving corpses in his time, Sherlock knew it was most certainly not. He watched avidly as his own skin was restored, every line of his palm perfectly matched together. Even if it scarred, everything would align as it ought, and that was a mark of quality.
John wiped down the suture with more iodine and bandaged it deftly up, before reaching for the bowl of warm water on the coffee table that he had been using earlier to wipe Sherlock's knees. Dipping a fresh cloth into it, he began wiping down Sherlock's face and chest. "Since a shower isn't in the cards tonight, unless you want an infection," he explained at Sherlock's bemused look. "Speaking of which, I'd better put you on antibiotics, but you'll need something in your stomach before we start that. Christ, I'm glad I made you get your tetanus shot last year."
"Not hungry," Sherlock mumbled.
"Don't care," John returned cheekily.
Sherlock's mind was still cycling through the case. "John, do you want to fuck me?"
There was a long, rather pregnant pause. "I'm… sorry, I don't think I follow," John replied slowly.
"I never understood some men's obsession with fucking," Sherlock explained pensively. "To fight for it, murder and maim for it. Never found the act very enjoyable, if I'm being honest. But I'd let you fuck me. If you wanted."
John's mind apparently seized on the front part of that statement and held on for dear life. "You don't like sex?" he queried.
"Tedious," Sherlock answered. "For the supposed Act of Love, it really is a cold business, isn't it?"
"How do you mean?" John's tone was genuinely perplexed.
"Well, it's all so physical. Nothing cerebral, no mental connection. Just two bodies - or however many really - fighting each other to reach sexual climax. Frankly not my cup of tea."
'Fighting each other,' John mouthed to himself, looking distressed. Sherlock's interest was piqued by the look on his face. "Er, that… sounds like a very specific kind of sex," John concluded after a moment, his brow still furrowed. "Specifically, bad sex."
"That has not been your experience?" Sherlock wanted to know.
"Maybe once or twice in uni, when I was too drunk to be a decent human being," his flatmate retorted.
Sherlock couldn't help the grin that snuck up on him. "John, you are always a decent human being," he corrected. "That is what's so wonderfully weird about you."
The doctor was gaping at him. He blinked his blue eyes rapidly, trying to snap out of it. "Right. Well." More blinking. "Can we… er… table this discussion till the morning? Because if I think on it anymore tonight, I'm either going to be very sad or very angry, or… well in any case my head will most likely explode."
"Oh," said Sherlock. Now he was confused. "Very well then. I suppose it is late."
"Yes. Yes it is. Here, eat these biscuits."
"John…"
"Just two biscuits and a pill. I won't even make you brush your teeth."
"I'm not… oh, fine! Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like a puppy who's been left out in the rain. It's exceedingly off-putting." He could see John internally debating whether to be happy that Sherlock was eating, or disgruntled at the canine comparison. He stifled a sleepy grin as his doctor ultimately shook his head and slumped in his seat. "Help me to bed then. My legs are stiff."
John frogmarched him to his room, then returned with two bags of frozen peas for his knees before retiring for the night.
Dr. Watson was setting out the jam and butter when Sherlock decided to make himself known. "Joooooohhn," came a pitiful moan from the downstairs bedroom. Grinning to himself, the physician popped two pieces of bread into the toaster and made his way towards his manipulative colleague.
Sherlock was propped up on masses of pillows, looking romantically wan. He was by nature very, very good at looking pathetic when he chose to do so, and John couldn't help but admire the skill just a little. "John, I can't move my legs," the detective whispered with great pathos.
"Well, that sounds very dire indeed," John rejoined pleasantly. "Shall I call for the hearse now, or would you prefer for me to wait until after you are dead?"
"John. This is no time for your juvenile attempts at humor. The pain is unbearable, I shall go mad."
"Hmm." John sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the sheet down, ignoring the fact that Sherlock Holmes was in his pants to examine the unbearable knees. "Well, I'm glad we iced these last night, but it looks like we'll need more peas. Possibly carrots if Mrs. Hudson would oblige us. And a bit of paracetamol. How's your head?"
"Miserable! Paracetamol, John, honestly… what are they teaching in these medical schools? Surely a Lortab would suit better."
"Why, Sherlock! You really are a genius. Why didn't I think of that?" John was brushing through dark curls, gently probing the head wound. "Oh right. Because you're a recovering addict. Funny how it slips the mind."
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, the picture of martyrdom. "Very well, Doctor. I suppose my suffering is really very meaningless… in the grand scheme of things…" John couldn't the hearty burst of laughter that emerged, which was only prolonged by the utter outrage spreading over his flatmate's face. "Come off it, mate," he managed between chuckles. "You can't fool a fool."
Sherlock drew himself up majestically. "I'll have you know that I have fooled you on no less than 43 different occasions."
"Mmhm. There's breakfast in the kitchen."
"Not hungry," pouted the detective.
"Well, you can't have your medicine on an empty stomach." John softened a bit - he really couldn't help it. "I'll bring you toast in bed, how's that?"
"Don't want toast."
"Eggs?"
"I loathe eggs."
"Muffin and fig jelly?"
Considering silence. "If I must," Sherlock said grudgingly. John chucked him fondly under the chin and smiled. "There's a lad."
Looking at the graceful man currently sprawled on the sofa in his dressing gown, John found it hard to believe that in ten-odd years of sexual maturity, no one had ever touched Sherlock with genuine sexual affection. Even in the army, when John's liaisons with men and women were brief and geared toward release, there had been laughter and silly talk, appreciation and fondness. To think that a person might have won the extreme privilege of intimacy with his extraordinary friend and proceeded to treat him like a meaningless conquest was frankly unfathomable. John decided he needed to know more.
"Sherlock," he began. One silvery eye opened and regarded him curiously. "Last night you told me that you found sex cold and disconnected. I was wondering if you could tell me more."
"Why?" the man shot back warily.
"Well…" John raked a hand through his hair, trying to tread carefully. "I was curious, because sex for me has always been very different. If you don't want to talk about it, I understand, but I really am interested."
Sherlock didn't speak for a time, and the only noise was him shifting on the cushions into a more conversation-friendly position. John merely waited, knowing it was difficult for the analytical man to put any sort of personal situation into words. "The first time I had intercourse I was seventeen and a sophomore in university. I had a lab partner, Victor, he seemed quite keen and wasn't physically repulsive. I wanted to try myself, see if sexual contact was less off-putting than its social counterpart. So I agreed to sleep with him. It was… awkward, fumbling, and he wouldn't stop pulling my hair. When I told him later that I hadn't enjoyed it, we had a row and he avoided me for the rest of the term. I was forced to finish all the labwork on my own."
"The second time was after I had become a user." Here Sherlock glanced tentatively at John, but John remained calm, receptive, and the detective relaxed. "My dealer, Vincent, informed me that he fancied me and that if I were short on funds, I might exchange sexual favors for cocaine or speed. Well, that wasn't how he phrased it, but that's what he meant. I told him I didn't care for sex, but he said it was different when one was high, so I decided to try it. He was right, the distraction of drugs made the ordeal less distasteful… he mostly desired fellatio, which is relatively easy to perform and not nearly as tedious as anal sex. After a while though, he grew rather… handsy, possessive, and I determined the drugs weren't worth the bother. When I tried to end our association, he broke my nose. Mycroft found out and I never saw him again."
"I see," John said quietly.
"After that I mostly got clean. There was a nurse at the rehab facility that expressed interest but I told him I didn't think that was very professional and he left me alone after that. Sometimes women or men try to chat me up, or even exhibit signs of infatuation, but a few clear signs of disinterest usually serve to deter them. Sally Donovan doesn't take hints well. I was forced to be rather blunt with her, and after that… well, she doesn't like me very much."
"That explains a few things," John said with a faint smile.
"What about you?" Sherlock asked. "You enjoy sex. How was it different for you?"
"Ah. Well, I lost my virginity when I was fifteen to a girl from my English Lit class, Mathilda Brant. She had red hair and she giggled a lot, which I liked at the time. We did it in the back seat of her dad's car and afterwards she cried and I'd never been so embarrassed in my life. We dated for about a month after that before she left me for the school running back," John reminisced. "I had a few more girlfriends in prep school, nothing ever very serious, and then of course when I went to uni I learned to drink and fool around with fellow students. I tried to get more involved with one or two of them, but I was never what women considered wedding material. Most people just thought of me as a good time, I guess."
"Idiots," Sherlock interjected scornfully. John blushed.
"Thanks? Ahem… then I graduated med school and joined the military, and they posted me overseas. It's hard to date when you move around so much. Sometimes I'd hook up with members of my unit when we needed stress relief, or sometimes we'd be stuck on a base for a few months and I'd meet a local."
"Ah, yes. 3C Watson emerges."
John shook his head. "Ugh, that… that nickname isn't really accurate. I mean I suppose I did have… em… relations on all continents, but it's not like I was constantly… you know what, never mind. The point is, I've had some awkward encounters and maybe even a little heartache, but mostly when I was with someone, it was… fun. We enjoyed each other, learned about each other. I'm actually still in contact with a lot of them."
"Yes, and with the women you've dated here. I've noticed that." Sherlock looked pensive. "You seem to approach your potential lovers from a friendly standpoint, rather than a purely sexual one. I, on the other hand, do not… make friends easily. Perhaps that is why I have never felt particularly connected during intercourse."
"Maybe," John allowed. "Or maybe the people you were with were actually horrible ingrates who had no idea what they were taking for granted." John paused, breathing deeply. "Look, pardon me if I'm being too forward, but I know you. You're brilliant and… and sensitive… I can't see how you wouldn't be an amazing lover if you were given the right, um, material to work with. You just had lousy partners. I sincerely doubt Victor made an effort to please or arouse you. As for Vincent… well, there's a word for what he was, and it's 'rapist.'" John realized he was nearly shouting, and pulled back with a visible effort. "Sorry, that's… sorry."
Sherlock didn't seem offended. On the contrary, his expression was almost soft. "Do you love me, John?" he asked huskily.
John's head snapped back as if he had been doused with water. A million defenses and denials sprung to the tip of his tongue. And yet…
And yet, he couldn't douse the light in those gleaming eyes, and that had to mean something. "I don't know what I feel," John answered slowly. "I suppose… yes. I love you. I'd take a bullet for you. But whether I'm in love… I just don't know. You're… different, from what I'm used to."
"From women," Sherlock deduced.
"Yes. From women."
"But you've been with men before."
"Yes, but not…"
"Not premeditated."
"No. That's a very good way to describe it actually."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Precision is my specialty, John. Unlike some people." John startled himself by laughing. "Berk," he chuckled. Sherlock smirked.
John checked his watch. "Damn, I'm supposed to be at the surgery in a half-hour. I'd better get dressed." He stood, cracking his neck. "Need anything before I leave? More painkillers? Tea?"
"No, John," Sherlock replied, shaking his head. "Though is it all right if I try to shower later?"
John trudged over, peering at him critically. "Okay. But take your phone with you, in case you fall." Sherlock grumbled, and on impulse, John leaned down and kissed his forehead. For a moment, neither man breathed.
"Very well," said Sherlock suddenly. "Good! I mean, thanks," John blurted, before escaping up the stairs, the sound of Sherlock's baritone echoing in his ears.
John got home well past supper time, tired and a little more settled in his mind than he'd been when he left. A bag of steaming curry boxes hung off one elbow, purchased in the faint hope that Sherlock might be convinced to eat a few bites. However when he opened the door he immediately saw that the detective was asleep, a bottle of paracetamol and a half-empty glass of beer on the coffee table beside him. John frowned - the aches really must have been bad if Sherlock resorted to Fuller's.
Looking over him, John noticed that the bandages were gone, and concluded that Sherlock must have had his shower. Gently setting down his bag, John perched on the table and lifted Sherlock's hand into his lap. The stitches looked good, no sign of swelling or infection, but the skin hadn't had time to close together yet. Quietly pulling ointment and band-aids from his kit, John covered the wound.
He twitched aside the edge of Shelock's robe to look at the knees, and Sherlock sighed and shifted. "Shh," John murmured. "Just me." The detective relaxed again, and John decided he didn't need to re-wrap, just put a few more band-aids over the bigger cuts. When he finished, he tucked the dressing gown back around his friend and shook out a blanket. Then he sat in his own armchair, turned the telly on mute, and watched a re-run of Being Human while he ate his tikki chicken.
John was in his bed, his shower-damp hair leaving spots on his pillow, thinking the crazed circular thoughts a man thinks when he's beginning to drift off. In that half-dreaming state the sudden shift of balance on his mattress didn't startle him as it normally would. He merely blinked his eyes open, meeting the gaze of the dark-headed man looming over him.
"What's wrong?" he asked hoarsely. Above him, Sherlock's adams apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"Show me what it's like, John," rasped that deep voice. John was slowly coming awake. "What?" he managed.
With a distressed sigh, Sherlock shifted until his forehead was lying in the crook of John's neck. "Good sex," he whispered. "Show me how."
"Oh," said John. Suddenly, here in the dark, it all seemed very black and white. "All right," he murmured.
Gently, cradling that dark curly head with infinite care, John rolled them until he lay warm and sturdy on top of Sherlock's body. Silver eyes were watching him, anticipatory, wary. "Tell me if you don't like something, and I'll stop. Promise me you'll tell me."
"I promise," Sherlock croaked.
"Thank you," John said, and brought their lips together. Slowly, almost chastely, he kissed Sherlock's mouth, before gliding his closed lips over cheekbones, eyelids, forehead, nose. His partner lay still beneath him, absorbing each sensation.
He returned to Sherlock's mouth and licked, waiting patiently until those soft lips opened. He dipped in with his tongue, letting the other man feel him, waiting until Sherlock explored him back, allowing them both to get used to the taste. He could feel himself hardening, and knew Sherlock could feel it too. He wondered if it would be frightening. He coasted a soothing hand through Sherlock's hair, careful not to pull.
Warm breath huffed from Sherlock's nose into his ear as he began trailing light, damp kisses down the pale column of that brilliant neck. Skin stretched and shifted as Sherlock swallowed. He hadn't worn a shirt to John's room, and somehow John wished he had, wished he could undress him, unwrap him like a long-awaited parcel. He settled for running the pads of his fingers down an alabaster chest. The contrast of textures between John's callused working man's hands and the detective's silky skin was an electric friction that made them both shiver. John thumbed a nipple, prolonging the feeling.
He mouthed his way across Sherlock's belly. Abdominal muscles contracted under his lips and nose. He skated his palms down the ribcage, his touch firm to avoid tickling. He licked the hollow of a navel and tasted salt. "John," Sherlock breathed, trembling. He lifted his head.
"All right?" he asked.
"Are you… going to penetrate me?" Sherlock whispered. Lust mixed with tenderness in the pit of John's stomach. "Not tonight," he said, shaking his head slightly. The body beneath him tensed, then relaxed, laxer than before. "It would be all right if you did," Sherlock said timidly, but John shook his head again, his cheek and hair rubbing against skin as he did. "Later," he said. "Not tonight."
He curled his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's pajama bottoms, giving him time to object or tense, but it seemed the moment of trust was holding. He pulled them down, leg by leg, until they were off and cast aside. John slid back up the bed, shifting until his upper body was comfortably situated between Sherlock's thighs. The younger man was half hard, not quite there, but it was enough to begin with. "In the interest of full disclosure," John commented as he trailed an exploratory finger down the side of Sherlock's growing erection, "I might be rubbish at this. I haven't had a wealth of experience."
Sherlock's voice was a bit breathless as he replied. "It's not… as if I… have much basis for comparison."
"Mmm," John mused. "I suppose we're in the same boat then." He opened his mouth and licked the line his finger had delineated before, and was rewarded by a faint gasp from above. Taking that as a positive sign, John bent down and took him in with lips and tongue.
"Oh!" Sherlock said, sounding startled. "That's…" John glanced up, concerned.
"Don't stop," Sherlock told him, a little thickly. John began again. He thought about what he liked, tried to mimic it. He explored how it felt to do this, how it tasted. The hips beneath him suddenly jerked, and he had to pull back a little to avoid choking, but it wasn't so bad. A long-fingered hand landed in his hair and began petting him tentatively. No, this really wasn't bad at all.
He slid a hand underneath his own head and caressed all of Sherlock's tenderest parts. He let himself get a little lost in the power of it, the heady thrill of having someone so vulnerable beneath him. "Oh John," moaned a dark voice, and the hand in his hair tightened. "John, John."
He felt it when Sherlock's testicles tightened, drew up against his body. He made a decision. He pulled back a little, held the glans in his mouth, brushing it with his tongue, sucking. With a cry like a sustained violin note, Sherlock came, and John swallowed him down as best he could.
He felt himself being hauled up, pulled into trembling arms. Suddenly that body that had been so still and fearful was plastered all over him, vibrant and tactile. Hands (one bandaged) swept up and down his back, clutched at his buttocks, raked through his hair. Kisses spattered his neck like drops of heavy rain. "John," Sherlock murmured. "God, John."
John couldn't help the growl that bubbled in his throat when Sherlock's body pressed up against his erection. He panted through it. "Are you all right?" he asked, concern cutting through the fog of arousal. Sherlock laughed, the sound full of joy and disbelief, and kissed him.
The uninjured hand was sliding between them, closing around him. "Want to please you. Want to give you… tell me, tell me how, John, show me…" John reached down and adjusted his grip. "Like this," he whispered. "Oh…! Just like that, yes, just like that…"
Sherlock, as always, proved a remarkably quick study.
Some things changed, and some things stayed the same. John still found himself nagging Sherlock to eat and sleep. Sherlock still irritated everyone and woke him and Mrs. Hudson up at 3AM with piercing concertos. He still chased criminals down dark alleyways and came back bleeding and dirty. Mycroft still kidnapped John and force fed him expensive coffee while issuing cryptic threats.
Sherlock still avoided human contact like the plague - with some new exceptions. If John were in the vicinity, now, Sherlock was never far away, and unless there was a body to examine, he was most likely plastered onto John's torso like a cheap jumper. Most of the Yard found this hilarious, and John let go of the last of his public heteronormativity with a resigned shrug. It really wasn't as terrible as he'd feared. At least he never got cold anymore.
Sally Donovan had cleaned up her mouth since John's rather intimidating scolding, but Anderson reacted with such vitriol to the situation that John was forced to get rather… instructive. The conversation went something like this:
"Fucking queers. Better get a sperm sample so we know what's original and what they left when they wanked each other off on the crime scene," Anderson was saying to his off-again Sally. In response, she'd gone a bit pale. "What?" Anderson had muttered, glancing furtively around, and that's when he'd seen John (with Sherlock curled around his neck) staring intently at him.
Anderson had puffed up a bit. "What are you looking at?" he'd snarled defensively.
John's expression was mild, but his eyes were colder than frozen nitrogen. He cocked his head. "Pressure points," he said after a moment.
"Excuse me?" Anderson sneered.
"I can see seven lethal ones from here," John commented pleasantly, his eyes flicking down the forensic specialist's uniform. "Two of which would not show up on an autopsy, if I hit them right." Keeping his gaze steady until Anderson blinked, John proceeded to turn and kiss Sherlock's adjacent cheek. "Isn't that right, darling?"
Sherlock had turned his own rather disturbing focus on Anderson. "Hmm," he'd mused. "I don't think I'd find a thing, John. Not if you did it."
John patted his lover's hand. "You're such a flatterer."
Anderson, feeling quite off-balance, had turned to Sally. "Did they just threaten me?"
"Don't get me involved in this," Sally spat back, and scurried away.
Later that night, Sherlock asked John if he could practice a few new techniques he'd been researching (for science). John proclaimed the results of this experiment brilliant and amazing. Sherlock's body arched under the praise, preening and triumphant.