Title: That Neck
Rating: R/Mature, just to be safe.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 896
Warnings: NECK. Consider yourself thoroughly warned.
Disclaimer: There would be more indecent scenes of, and with, B.C.'s neck if I owned this fandom. As such, I'm just a penniless university student that grins like a loon every time I see the neck. No lie. Ask alphera.
Summary: John Watson could write odes to that neck, had John Watson been the ode-writing kind of man.
Notes: Prompted and beta'd by alphera. UnBrit-picked though. If we've missed anything, do let me know. Comments are the cookies of the soul.
That neck.
From the moment you meet the infamous Sherlock Holmes, you notice a number of things: his piercing grey-blue eyes that can see through everything you are in a single glance; his high, well-sculpted cheekbones that accentuates his dimples when he lies through his teeth to get the information he needs; his tall, wiry frame that belies a quiet, yet palpable, strength that can strike at any moment; and of course his voice, with the ability to make even the toughest men melt like their insides were made of caramel but could easily cut through your defences and leave you as weak and pathetic as a new born kitten.
You don't instantly notice the neck, of course. Sherlock's penchant for wearing scarves to combat the English chill serves the dual purpose of keeping roving eyes at bay.
It was fortunate, or perhaps unfortunate, that when Dr. John H. Watson first met Mr. [First and Only Consulting Detective] Sherlock Holmes in a laboratory in St. Bart's that he was sans the scarf. In that instant, John knew he was well and truly screwed.
Now, John Watson prided himself in being a strong man, both in character and in physique – he'd invaded Afghanistan for crying out loud. But that neck. That pale, perfect neck. John Watson could write odes to that neck, had John Watson been the ode-writing kind of man. But that neck pervaded his very subconscious; taunting and teasing him with every turn of Sherlock's head.
That neck has also been the subject of many a daydream; and a few wet night time ones too.
Being in close quarters with that neck made it very difficult to concentrate on much else, but John Watson managed. Barely.
Sherlock has to know what it makes John do. What it makes him feel. The man saw through everything and everyone that it would be hard to believe he has not noticed how John's pupils would dilate the moment the smooth, long neck was exposed; that he could ignore the way John's breathing would hitch, just slightly, when Sherlock tilts his head back in thought.
And every time Sherlock spoke, the prominent Adam's Apple would bob with every vibration of sound that emerges from those soft, red lips. John would stare, transfixed and hypnotized, powerless to resist the sweet temptation of every movement Sherlock makes. The white perfection stands in stark contrast to the soft, dark curls that cossets it, calling out to John, asking – no, begging, to be claimed.
It was for these reasons, and surely not because John Watson was a lesser man, that when he sees the red and purple bruises marking Sherlock's once-immaculate neck when returns from a case that the dear Doctor Watson pushes Consulting Detective Holmes up against their flat's wall, pinning his arms immobile at his sides. Sherlock gave no indication he expected the assault, but the familiar gleam in those grey-blue eyes told John otherwise.
John waited, a heartbeat, then another, for Sherlock to fight back, to force his way out of the hold, but he didn't; merely kept his gaze steady with John's until John was the one who looked away, eyes travelling down those high-arching cheekbones, down further to stare unabashed at tender, tempting lips, before falling further still, to stop once his sights rested on the marred, discoloured flesh of Sherlock's throat.
It was not logical, certainly not proper, but John could not help the hum of anger that thrummed from his very core at the thought of someone's fingers squeezing the breath and life out of this brilliant man, staking claim on what was not his to take.
Tightening the hands that held Sherlock in place, John leaned his head forward, eager to close the gap between his mouth and that pale, now imperfect neck, to finally taste what has been owed to him since the instant they met. As if anticipating this, (and surely when was Sherlock Holmes not three steps ahead of everyone else?), the world's greatest detective tipped his head back, his black crown reaching as far back as the wall would allow.
The first touch of tongue against throat brought an unexpected gasp from Sherlock, it seemed even he was caught unawares as to how this would affect him. As John traced the finger-like patterns on the sensitive skin, he left long, cooling paths in his wake, eliciting a shudder from the other man he held anchored in his arms. When John's tongue danced over the prominent lump of Sherlock's Adam's Apple, he delighted in the jump he felt when Sherlock swallowed.
John finally stopped his exploration when he felt Sherlock's quickened pulse beneath his slick tongue, his lips closing over a virgin patch of flesh to surround it in the wet heat of his mouth. He pressed Sherlock harder against the unrelenting wall, trapping the lithe body against his own before he sucked on that pale, still perfect piece of flesh, biting and lapping his unforgiving declaration of ownership.
Mine. The way John Watson worried the skin beneath his mouth clearly professed.
The jerk of a slender hip, slotting a heated and unmistakable erection against his own was his response. Yes. Yours.
John Watson was a strong man, both in character and in physique. But even strong men knew when they were fighting a battle they could not possibly win.
-End-