(*)*(*)
John's abruptly, coldly furious.
How dare—how dare—Sherlock ask him that?
What's it like? Now, come on—be serious!
But it's not cold, it's burning; it's burning the heart right out of him and he'd thought his heart was safe enough, now.
He rolls over, aggressive, and pins his source of irritation to the bed.
"Sod you," he growls, and it's hateful, this raw scrape Sherlock's left across his soul, his psyche. "Piss off." How dare he need an explanation for something so much theirs—who the fuck does he think he's fucking with, asking that? "Bastard."
"Jo—"
So it's John, actually, who instigates the threatened kissing. He plants his lips on Sherlock's as though they were a tactical assault. He bears down with hip bone and bent elbow and half his body weight thrown over top his flatmate's and he's actively trying to crush, to quell—to level to dust this rank insubordination.
Sherlock chokes, which is to be expected, probably: he's just had the air knocked clear out of him. Chokes and struggles and gasps—"John!"—but he's not struggling to get away, no.
He's…not struggling to get away.
He's scrambling closer, any way he can, and John can smell desperation in the very air between them. There's no air between them, not at all, not anymore, and the vanishing point between two mates having a much needed lie-down and two men going it at it like rabid dogs has well and truly vanished.
John recalls how his heart had been caught strangled in his throat the whole time Sherlock had stood poised at the top of St Bart's. Tastes the fear, the horrid last-minute hopes he'd had, all fallen down like Dumpty. Now he's spinning about in his head like one of Sherlock's teddies, round and round the garden, and—fuck—
It's grand.
That literally only whips up John's building fury to a frothing.
Grand! Who could imagine it would ever be grand? Sherlock's freaky as a whole circus in one go and is likely only messing with his head, with his very world-view, and John's been so utterly content with his very own minor miracle; this new one simply bowls him over. Miracle? What miracle? Shocking corker is more like, completely perpendicular to the entire known world. John's world is round and spinning no longer; it's flat and quaking like a boiled pudding instead. He absolutely hates having his feet swept out from under him—he abhors it.
"You bastard," he hisses at Sherlock, into Sherlock's mouth cavity, actually, and it's not love, nor the nebulous cloud of 'feel' that most closely resembles love that he's always (and forever) felt for this loon that fuels him. That's not the cause, no. It's fury. Plain old anger, and he's fucking full of it, to the brim.
Sherlock bites the imprecation right off his lips. Sherlock groans John's name, over and again, and his fingertips are everywhere they can be, clamping down, latching on, scaling parts of John as if he's Olympus in miniature. John groan-growls in wordless, frustrated response and kisses the little fucker in his arms harder, deeper, stronger.
Oh, but he'd love to give Sherlock such a pounding! Giant brat wouldn't be able to sit for a week after John was finished with him!
He hates him; John literally hates him. The man's a monster, a brute, and he's clearly starving for attention in this area, if in no other. John's certainly familiar with the cumulative bollocks-blueing feeling of not getting off for months and months on bloody end—this exceeds it, manifestly. It's been years, likely, for Sherlock, if not decades.
It angers him more that he feels so suddenly old, all at once. Sherlock is so smooth, so shapely and svelte under his lips and his hands. Fresh as a daisy despite the muggy overlay of exhaustion. No man who's experiencing a snog of the likes of this one should be simultaneously be comparing himself to Father William. No man!
"Cock sucker," he snarls, biting down on Sherlock's neck. "Ingrate—bastard!"
"I can be." Sherlock's panting now. "If you want, I will be—John."
John does not-no, cannot-reply. It's confusion talking; the poor git's addled. That's the reason why John nagged him into napping in the first place, isn't it?
The dim room has turned dizzy-bright with the flashes of angry red behind John's fluttering lids; that's the blood rushing to his head on it's inevitable path to points southward. He's not inhaling nor exhaling properly at all—he's in danger of hyperventilating at this rate. He's in danger of being more turned on than he is already—or should be, ever, in any parallel universe—by his utterly 'round the twist fucker of a mad flatmate.
"Oh, blast," he gabbles, and rolls completely over top of the mouthy, squirming detective, a last-ditch attempt to quash him. "Shut it. Go to sleep, will you? Just—go to—sleep. Now."
It makes no sense, but nothing ever really does. Of course, of course; when does it ever? When doesn't Sherlock turn all John's natural assumptions upon their respective heads; when doesn't he defy common illogic? Just all the time—all the bloody sodding time and that's brilliant, yes, but not so brilliant right now, when John's been tipped turtle, mentally.
Gawd, no. The bastard.
Something clearly has to be done about this. And it's clearly up to John to do it, because his ditsy, airy-fairy, games-playing roomie's not in control of a single sodding thing. He's hit the wall, proverbially; must have. Likely wouldn't know stress-relief if it slapped him across his face. Likely couldn't wank his way out a paper bag—he'd be much too busy deducing it.
"Bastard!" It's a very boring refrain, and he's damned sure 'Mummy' was married to Papa, or whatever the two Holmes brothers called him, but John just can't be bothered to yell a single thing more hurtful than that. Not to Sherlock. "Bastard, bastard, bastard!"
"Jo-"
Oh-god-Sherlock.
And that is why this is happening. It's Sherlock. It's all incredibly Sherlockian, and he's got a mate who's not only a noun but also a verb form and a bloody adjective, all by himself. The blasted Woman had it right, all along.
John is furious. So blindly furious he thrusts a reaching hand out and deftly rips down the waistband of his mate's drawstring sleep trousers. So incredibly angry he lays a nimble practised set of fingers on that same bustard's half-hard prick and fists it, pulling tight, pushing with bunched fingertips and squeaky-tight knuckles, and doesn't hesitate to stop for a second to add a little spit to the proceedings to make them go along that much more smoothly.
"Uh!" Sherlock yelps, roiling in his grip. "Gnghhh!" His eyes are wide, wide, and oh, so glittering-bright. Like a foxes eyes they are—they glow incandescent with every stroke.
It's amazing. John could care less; he's spitting mad. Just so.
"Sleep," he orders, biting off chunks of words viciously, "you will sleep, Sherlock, and if I can't make you sleep the one way, I'll do it t'other—and no more questions!"
"John—please, Jo—"
"Don't ask me stupid shit, Sherlock! And shut your stupid gob up finally-completely; not another word out of your lips do I want to hear, because it's only saying stupid things at me. Just sleep!"
Another hard snog, and Sherlock's bereft of English, but still noisy. He writhes a bit under John's mouth and hands, but that's alright then. At least he's paying attention to what's happening to him.
It's about par for the course. Except, not. John is swamped, just as abruptly, but with tenderness, and his flashflood anger is naught but a fleeting blip fading fast. How can he maintain it, when Sherlock looks like that, all worn down to the nub and needing of John's care? How can he be furious when it's this man? This man, above all others?
He can't. Can. Not.
"Come, Sherlock," he coaxes, his hand gentling, fingers settling into a smoothing, soothing rhythm, "come on, mate. Please, please…ah!"
"John."
Sherlock's chin comes to land sharply on John's tumbled hair and presses down firmly, almost painfully hard upon John's scalp. He claws at John, with fingers and toes. His voice raining down above Joh's head is not needy or weak or even much surprised, John notes. It's a deep timbre and velvety as ever, all whipped mascarpone laced with butterscotch and dark, dark honey, but there is detectible within the rubbly grate of strain on already stretched nerves. Just a little guttural gravel in the whisky-dulcet tones to whisk away the last of John's lingering subliminal doubts he's doing the right thing—the proper thing, just now. That his flatmate positively needs this all-out assault on his senses to happen to him; that his friend needs it more than anything on earth at the moment.
Needs him.
"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock," he chants softly, and the head of Sherlock's knob is glassy-hot with spit and dripping thin liquid in between his knuckles as he rubs a fine fucking good 'un out. He can smell the musk building, bitter and rich, and his hand cramps, he's yanking with such a perfect bow form, all across the instrument that is the detective's cock. "Sherlock, that's it." He's not thinking of cocks now particularly; if he is, he's thinking of cocks as a means to an end. "Good man," he mutters, over and over, encouraging. "Come on now, let it go—give it to me, Sherlock. Give me it, all you've got, mate."
"John!"
They pant at each other, entangled.
"Oh—John!" Sherlock gasps and arches, cheek sliding, gouging the harsh hint of skull bone into John's unprotected ear as he burrows his nose into John's hair; uses those violinists' fingers of his to latch on to John-the-giver, John-the-conductor—and that's what this is, all of it of a piece, what John is engaged in. His incredible anger was but the short fuse, the wick leading straight and sure down to the great well of warm, golden-hued tenderness rising swift within him for Sherlock. For Sherlock, the heated glow that's always, always present. It's care, is what, such a great lot of care he has inside him for this man, and that's what John does for Sherlock: he cares and he cares and he cares some more, ever so much, ever and always. "Jo-nnnnn….ooooh."
"Brilliant." John swallows hard. "Super. Yes, everything, you bastard, every little thing you've got, Sherlock, love. Give it over."
"Aunghhh…."
So sue him for it. There's times when a bloke's just gotta get off. John knows this from experience. There's times when his brain will implode if he doesn't. When sleep is elusive and the world just won't stop, round and round like teddies in the garden.
He's Sherlock's chosen light; so be it. Sometimes a flash of brilliance is what's needed to rest weary eyes, blind them, really. To stun a glorious mind into submission—to shock out the fuses on Sherlock's echoing Palace and cast upon all the many rooms a forgiving, welcoming, loving Dark.
"Oh—John….ah-oooh…"
"Very good, that's it."
John's nothing but praise for him, his detective, the only one in the world, as he rubs his damp hand down Sherlock's rucked-up pants to clean off the gobs of thick spunk. "That's fine, Sherlock, oh, just fine—you did so well; just relax. Enjoy. It's a bit nice, isn't it?"
At Sherlock's piggish grunt and half-nod, John's kind enough to haul the man's pants and pajama trousers up again to his waist, haphazardly, and to use the fine fabric to soak up Sherlock's spent seed, too, where it has seeped sticky into crease of thigh and the ruff of wiry pubes under his palm. He knows full well his mate abhors being filthy, unless it's the direct result of the Work; this he can do something about, yes.
"Sherlock," he murmurs kindly, contentedly now he's had his way, petting away all the while most assiduously. "Well done, Sherlock. Just fine, is it. Ever so fine. Sleep now, Sherlock—sleep."
"Mnngh…mmmph…mmm." A series of sweet sighs translate to virtual blasts of harsh air in John's audial canal. He hides his inevitable wince as best he can, stopping himself from jerking away abruptly to avoid them. "John….." Sherlock murmurs, slurring, smacking his lips, and then, seconds later, with enormous contentment colouring the word: "Ja…'hawn."
Dead silence, then, punctuated once only by a sudden, honking snore, like a bolt from the blue. Poor bloke can't draw a clear breath, likely, what with all John's hair, their pajama shirt lapels bunched up round their necks and his own foolish curls clogging up his highborn nostrils. Suffocating, how close they've become.
The doctor grins; tugs at various folds of fabric with all the deliberation of a chess master, seeking to array the board to his liking, and shifts the whole of his person minutely and ever so carefully, sufficiently to sort Sherlock's heavy head over to the dubious comfort of his good shoulder. Just there, where the bulge of gathered muscle will serve to free up Sherlock's airways.
An unintelligible noise from the detective informs him this is good—very good, what he's just done.
Sherlock's functioning as a shock blanket, really. To John's mind he is, at least. All fear, all worry over the service he's just mostly unthinkingly done for his difficult flatmate is completely obscured by the comfort of having the larger man's sodden afterglow half-pinning John's person down to the springy mattress. John had, it seemed, forgotten completely how very marvelous it felt to be held. Simply held close, like the merest child.
Well. That's all right, then. Fair's fair. He'll take that as his due. "Oh, Sherlock."
John's careful to stay still as a statue for a bit longer, to allow his mate a few moments to collect his breath and to succumb quietly into the eager hands of Morpheus. He hopes it'll be a least a few hours more than the one single set of sixty moments the detective promised him before, scowling.
Was a very decent wank, that—very fine. John's a bit proud of himself, really. He's not lost his touch a'tall, has he?
With a pleased sigh, and by dint of mentally heaving off, albeit gingerly, his nagging awareness of his own prick, still heavy and unsatisfied between his sweaty thighs, John closes his remarkably sticky eyelids thankfully upon the dimmed-out vision of the tiny brown spider yet spinning inconsequentially, the faint reassuring sounds of the passed-out detective huffing none so silently in his ear, the sensual feel of Sherlock's ridiculous down-stuffed mound of pillows cradling his stubbled jaw and takes up happily what he is handed by circumstance: his much-coveted nap.
God, yes. Bring it.
John's job's complete; his job's very well done, too. He's accomplished six sorts of impossible just now and all ages before brekkers, thanks. Cheers for that.
He's a stint down the surgery on first thing in the morning, after all.