Chapter 10: Need
In his dreams, Captain Holmes is restless. Without actually moving from the tangle of blankets and John he wanders down long corridors flanked by doors, his ground-covering strides driving him forward at a speed that would force anyone else to jog to remain beside him. The doors are wooden, steel, aluminum, plastic, opaque, translucent. Some are huge and some are tiny; some are of ancient craftsmanship, while others are quite new. All around is darkness but each step he takes forward the way is lit as if he were carrying a torch. There are no sounds except his own footsteps echoing off of the solid construction of his mind. He comes to a halt in front of a shiny new door, painted bright blue. He watches as his pale hand appears and pushes it inward. He steps over the threshold into more darkness. This darkness has a different quality to it, more like the darkness just before dawn; it is starting to fade from oil-slicked ebony to foggy early morning grey.
He stands and waits. The temperature here is perfect, not too hot and not too cold, the air is still like that in a gigantic underground archive. There is the faint whiff of old books and papers no one ever touches without finger cots. He wishes that he could actually see those things. So much to gain so close…but still out of reach.
Suddenly, a comfortable chair appears and he sits, his legs spread and arms resting comfortably. It seems to say this is as far as you go. He waits. Time passes immeasurably. There are no clocks, as in this place time is meaningless. He rests one elbow against the arm of the chair, rests his chin on his hand. He drums his long fingers against the strangely rough but soothing material of the other arm of the chair. The upholstery is scratchy and bumpy. He knows without looking that the chair is burnt orange in color and belongs in a sitting room only seen in old pictures in history books.
A tall woman in a white lab coat materializes from the inky depths he cannot probe. She seems to be speaking as she walks towards him, though he cannot yet understand the sounds she is making. Not yet. She holds her arms out in his direction and gives him a warm but slightly crooked smile. Her hands are empty.
In his dreams, he addresses her by her name. "Doctor Augustine?" She nods quietly, her wavy sandy ginger hair bobbing on her shoulders. Now she stands in front of him with her hands in her pockets as if she were pondering all of the deepest questions of the universe. She is not completely solid, more like a hologram projected onto smoke. Grace is close enough that he can see a bright flash of wonder in her brown eyes, as if looking at him is another student to be nurtured or an experiment to be cataloged, learned, and accepted.
Sherlock's voice sounds strange to his own ears, the far-sounding baritone rumble unrecognizable as his own. "I need to know." He refuses to acknowledge the strength of his desire to himself, even in dreams. He will admit to a pull of something as of yet unnamed.
"Not all things are knowable." She smiles again and then her image fades into the black velvet depths that are soon replaced with newborn golden light as he is pulled into consciousness, leaving him with the simultaneous feelings of breaking through water gasping for air and knowing there is something within his grasp that he cannot reach yet.
With a deep inhale, he is pulled back into the reality of lying naked against his lover's chest, the steady bass thrum of a heartbeat beneath his ear. The scents of warm masculinity and arousal replace those of moldering documents and hidden secrets. He turns his head just slightly so that the sparse stubble that has sprouted overnight across his jaw rubs against John's bare chest. There is the sound of a soft chuckle and then a hiss of pleasure above him as Sherlock scoots downward on the bed, his rough face leaving a trail of ticklish fire down John's torso. This he knows.
When he reaches John's rather proud arousal, he swipes down the shaft with his tongue and purrs a little when he takes the head of John's cock into his mouth. John bucks upward but with enough control that it becomes only an easy lift of his hips instead of a full-out thrust. John groans, thoroughly enjoying his lover's ministrations. After a time, he calls out to Sherlock in warning, his voice raspy and breathy. The captain merely grunts and proceeds to take everything that John will give him. Pushing himself up on his elbows, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as John reaches out to him. As always, the action causes John to inhale sharply, his eyes going dark as the fresh memory of what his lover has just done for him rolls over him with the power of a summer storm.
Their lips crash against one another. John's hand is curled around Sherlock's nape and Sherlock is balanced over him on his arms, the muscles tense from arousal and need. John flips him over and moves to return the favor. Before he can get to his intended target, however, the captain hauls him back upward so that he can capture the ambassador's mouth with his own. Sherlock's hands knead John's firm buttocks, the long fingers digging against the flesh with enough power to thrill but not leave any proof of his passing. John obliges as Sherlock's kisses become frantic, searching things that seem to live their own lives. For an instant, John pulls away. Their eyes lock, lusty azure crystal peering deep into searing emerald flames. He cannot help but drink in the desire on his lover's face, as much to him as his heart is to Sherlock.
"What would you like?" John whispers into Sherlock's ear then giving it a swipe with is tongue for good measure; his voice is a rumble in his throat and he cannot take his eyes away from his lover's face. His strong fingers tighten against Sherlock's scalp, feeling the dichotomy of hard bone beneath thin flesh and the luxurious silk of that mane.
Sherlock understands. "You." He answers plainly, letting his eyes tell the rest.
John inhales sharply and nods his answer. Sherlock moves from underneath him, walks two paces to his bag, withdraws a tiny bottle of clear liquid and then returns to the bed, this time covering John's body with his own. He prepares his lover gently, expertly, noticing John's flagging erection struggling to come back to life with each thrust of his fingers. He enjoys this part as much as the actual intercourse itself. When he is satisfied that John is ready, he moves himself into position, ever so slowly pushing into the tight heat that is open only for him.
John moans and wraps his legs around Sherlock's hips, his powerful thighs pulling his lover closer. The thrill of the heat of John everywhere around him forces minute electric shocks down his spine and his thrusts become hurried, desperate; John cants his hips forward and meets every single one of them until he is coming for the second time, his arousal completely untouched and finally, finally, Sherlock is falling over the edge and drowning in the sensation of his own orgasm. The growl that bursts from his throat is primal, possessive. It is a safe fall, however, for as soon as he pitches forward, John's arms are around him, one hand running down his back and gently back towards his neck with gentle finger touches. Together, they drop back into the blue shades of sleep riding on a heady mix of scarlet desire and something deeper without a color that neither of them will name.
As your bony fingers close around me
Long and spindly
Death becomes me
Heaven can you see what I see
-Dream On (C) Depeche Mode