Due to this chapter, I have changed the rating of this story to M just to be safe. Please be aware that this chapter has a different tone from previous ones in that it is more sexual. I apologize if any of you do not like this. However, this chapter unexpectedly came to me and I was so excited that I just had to write it. Plus, I thought that it was a refreshing break from the super angsty tone that has been prevalent throughout the story thus far (though there is still angsty feels in this one too).
Also, just letting you know it is very likely that I will not be updating this story for a couple of days. I have sorely neglected my other fanfics and want to give them some love too, but I will be back as soon as I possibly can.
As always, many thanks to all of you who have been so amazingly supportive. A special shout out to EJ 12212012, beemoh, tosinadekunle, lovePEOPLEandCOWBOY, and Teshka for your recent reviews. A final thanks to BlackPanther1987 for your suggestion for this chapter, it is awesome and I have added it in. :)
John walked back to Baker Street with a spring in his step and a grin on his face. His time with Mary had been lovely, absolutely lovely. The play was wonderful (Benedict Cumberbatch had proven a most excellent choice for Hamlet), dinner afterwards was wonderful, Mary was wonderful, it was all just wonderful.
John had no idea how he had gotten so lucky. Not many women would have forgiven so easily for his horrible mistake the other night. But Mary...she was different...she was special. As soon as they met outside the theatre, she had rushed forward to embrace the doctor and to apologize for their row. She went on to say that she understood how important Sherlock was to John. What's more, she emphasized that she respected John's relationship with the detective, and made it known she wanted to be a support to the men, someone who brought their friendship together rather than pulled it apart.
And right after she uttered these compassionate, amazing, sweet sweet sweet words, John knew that he could fall in love with this woman. She was quite different from Sherlock. Unlike the detective, she was stable, steady, reliable, and dependable - and John realized that this was not a bad thing. In fact, it was something that would balance the electrifying friendship and partnership he and his flatmate shared. So John Watson leaned in and kissed Mary Morstan's happy lips and, for those few beautiful seconds, all of the world was unified in harmony and bliss - from the frigid corners of the arctic to the hottest edges of the tropics.
His weathered hands and her delicate fingers stayed intertwined for the rest of the day - during the performance, as they walked to dinner, and even as they sipped their wine and enjoyed their food. John found himself moaning when they reached Mary's front door and it was time to say goodbye. But his moan of disappointment turned into a moan of pleasure when the pretty little woman leaned forward and grabbed his lips in a rough, heavy kiss.
Thus, as the former army doctor entered the living room of 221B, his thoughts were on Mary and only Mary. He could smell her, he could taste her, he could feel her gentle touch in his hand still, and all he could see was...Sherlock. SHERLOCK! Suddenly, John stopped short, his heart catching in his throat and threatening to choke him to death as it increased to a terrifying, powerful speed - for right in front of him was the most dizzying, beautiful, enticing, and absolutely tantalizing, tormenting sight that he had ever laid eyes on.
The curly-haired consulting detective was sitting in the kitchen, completely absent to the sights and sounds of Baker Street. He was deep in his mind palace, his full lips slightly parted, his eyes closed, his long eyelashes falling serenely against his porcelain skin, his slender fingers steepled elegantly under his sharp chin. The skull from the mantelpiece was peacefully watching from the kitchen table.
Sherlock's face was the epitome of grace and beauty and, yet, that is not what had John's attention. No. John's attention was in a much more southern region, and the poor doctor's face was frozen in a look of pain, lust, desire, and sheer horror. The detective was wearing clothes. He was definitely wearing clothes. It's just, he was not wearing them with the care that he usually did. For someone who claimed that his body was merely transport for his mind, Sherlock certainly took great pride in his appearance. He only wore the finest, most expensive clothing, and he always made sure that everything was well-pressed, lint-free, and perfectly in place. Heck, even when the man chose to wear nothing but a bed sheet (which happened more often than you might expect), he was picky about the fabric and somehow managed to drape the sheet gracefully and modestly around his slender body. But the man currently sitting at the kitchen table had very clearly thrown these clothes (a light grey nightshirt and royal blue cotton trousers) on in haste. Especially the trousers, which were barely on his bony hips and hardly left anything to the imagination. There on the kitchen chair for all the flat to see was a very exposed arse...and it belonged to Sherlock Holmes.
John told himself to stop looking - it was not right for him to stare. No, he really should tell Sherlock. After all, what if Mrs. Hudson came in? She often stopped by to see how the two men were doing or to bring by some cooking, and Sherlock would likely be mortified if she witnessed him in such a state. Yes, John decided that the right thing to do would be to gently tell Sherlock to pull his trousers up a bit. But as he walked forward and witnessed the look of pure concentration on the detective's face, the way those luscious brown curls fell across his forehead, that flawless milky skin, and...oh dear god...those plump, plump arse cheeks (Damn it, John! Don't look at them! Stop!), he thought better of it. After all, it wasn't right to disturb the man when he was so deep into his mind palace. No, the best thing to do would be to leave the detective alone and walk away. John should just go to his room and act like he had not seen any of this. Yes, that was the best option.
And with that, the doctor made a sharp turn and headed for the stairs leading to his bedroom. But as his hand touched the banister and he made to ascend, he found himself looking back for one last peek. Damn it all to Hell, Sherlock Holmes was truly the most beautiful creature on the face of this earth. Those very plump, very pale, and infuriatingly firm arse cheeks...and that very dark crevice of an arse crack travelling in a perfect line down the middle of that porcelain skin. Suddenly, John wanted his tongue to journey down that deep crevice, to explore the mysteries that lay there - the tastes, the sights, the sounds. Oh how John longed to open that crevice, to stretch it to its breaking point and discover the forbidden, sacred cave within. The idea of entering Sherlock sent John's stomach tumbling in hysterical pleasure - and John was gone, his blood rushing to his crotch, his knees giving way underneath him, everything around him blurring except for Sherlock bloody Holmes and his stupid, annoying, frustratingly marvellous arse.
The former military man didn't know how it happened, how he (he, who had faced battle with an unshakeable strength) lost his willpower. But lose it he did. He was tumbling into his favourite chair, pulling down his trousers, yanking at his pants, his manhood absolutely hungry and swelling. And then his hand was pumping up and down his length, and he was spilling spilling spilling into his pants, biting his tongue to keep from screaming, all the while his eyes never wavering from Sherlock, from the two creamy boulders separated by that deep, dark, marvellous crack.
But suddenly the detective began to stir and John sat up in horror. The doctor moved faster than he ever had before, pulling his trousers up with shaky hands and hurrying to his room. Then, he made a less than elegant dive for the bed where he spent the longest time biting into a pillow to stifle his hurried breathing.
When Sherlock left the comfort of his mind palace and opened his eyes to the light of the flat, the air was silent. He and the skull were alone. He reached a hand out to rub the skull's smooth head, a sad smile on his face. Yet, when he felt a cool breeze brushing him in an area that it definitely shouldn't be, he sat bolt upright. His long fingers reached back to discover that a very large portion of his arse was exposed to the world. His jaw clenched in mortification and he quickly guided his trousers up to his waist, breathing a sigh of relief that John was not home yet.
Yes, Sherlock often said that his body was merely transport for his mind - and he truly believed this. But, while his mind was strong, it was held back by the annoying weaknesses of the body, such as the need for food, drink, and sleep. And while Sherlock required less sustenance and rest than most, he was still human. To be human was to be vulnerable. Naturally, Sherlock Holmes hated to look vulnerable because he hated to look so weakly human.
The detective hid his humanity behind elegant shirts, long coats, and tailored suits which enhanced his height and hugged his form in all the right places. He knew he was good-looking; better than good-looking because his metamorphic eyes, bleach-white skin, and cello-like voice gave him a strangely unique, almost other-worldly appearance. And so, he dressed in a way to highlight these striking features, to emphasize his mysterious, enigmatic aura. To be naked was to be the epitome of vulnerable. For instance, if one were to see the detective's bare body, they would observe that he was not really as tall as he seemed and that, though his thin frame may look appealing under a suit, it appeared much more bony and frail in reality.
And, further, it was when one was naked that one gave into the finer emotions of lust and desire in the act of sex. It was when one was naked that they let go of all reason to have their mind clouded by the rush of passion that came with making love. It was when one was naked that they were completely at the mercy of another, that they revealed the depths of their caring for that person, and that they, therefore, lay themselves out on a platter to be hurt. Caring is not stable, John. It is not based on reason. It is not rational. It makes the mind weak. Because if you care, you will get hurt.
So perhaps now you will understand why Sherlock Holmes never ever wanted to be seen naked. Perhaps now you will understand that this was the most naked he had ever been outside of the privacy of his bedroom or bathroom. Perhaps now you will understand why he was so mortified to find that he had just exposed more of himself than he ever ever wanted to. Perhaps now you will understand why he was so incredibly relieved that John was not yet home and, therefore, had not seen the detective's near-naked shame and vulnerability.
But wait. As Sherlock's sea blue eyes darted around the flat, a knot formed in his throat. There was a dent in John's favourite chair that had not been there before...and the chair was an inch closer than it had been previously. Which meant that it had recently been sat in. As the detective inhaled, the knot in his throat tightened; there was a faint but fresh chlorine-like odour filling the air that most certainly had not been there earlier.
Observing a scene generally left the detective feeling smug and satisfied, while those around him were sent into blushes of humiliation. But this time it was quite different - this time, Sherlock Holmes' face was burning as red as a Baldwin apple.
The detective's face was burning out of sheer and utter humiliation. Yet it was not only humiliation at John's having witnessed (and responded to) his vulnerability. No, there was also the humiliation of realizing that he had thought - if only for a second - that if anyone were to see him in a vulnerable state, were to react to his being in a vulnerable state, he would very much like it to be his loyal, dependable, wonderful blogger.
And perhaps the most humiliating part of all was the realization that he, Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, was far more human than he had ever imagined.
Emotions. How disgusting. And yet, how intriguing.
