A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey who had to suffer through all of my mistakes, not just once, but twice with this chapter. I wrote this because there needed to be a small angst reprieve for the boys.
Warnings – Very, very dirty bits follow. Rated M.
Sherlock enters the flat quietly, expecting John to still be asleep. There has been no vomiting with the second round of chemo but John has been generally exhausted since his treatment six days ago. He hasn't eaten much more than toast, but at least is keeping it down. Sherlock is displeased with the weight loss but both Dr. Ryder and Hugo have insisted that it is not unusual. And it does not concern John.
John, however, is not asleep. "Hello," comes a voice from the kitchen and Sherlock feels a smile cross his face. John sounds good and if he's in the kitchen it means he is eating. The detective takes his coat off and moves to stand in the doorway. John is cooking - and not the toast or oatmeal that have become the staples of his diet. He is frying eggs and sausage and has a large glass of orange juice sitting on the counter. He scoops two of the sausages onto his plate and sets the pan back on the stove.
"Hungry, I see," Sherlock says. He takes a few steps closing the distance between him and his husband.
"Yes," John replies, looking back just as Sherlock drapes an arm over his shoulder. He kisses John's temple, distracting the doctor while he steals the fork and pokes a sausage.
"Hey, I'm eating those."
"You can make more," Sherlock says, happy to see a smirk cross John's face. Sherlock has become very thankful for the playful moments. John reaches out trying to grab the fork, but Sherlock holds it out of reach. John reaches again and Sherlock takes another step backwards, grinning as he takes a bite of the sausage. It's too hot though and John laughs as Sherlock struggles not to spit it out.
"You can keep that one," John concedes with a chuckle. He reaches out and pats Sherlock's chest gently before grabbing his food and moving to the table. Sherlock moved all of his experiments to the spare bedroom and has largely ignored them since John has been ill. His time at home has been spent focussed almost exclusively on John. John needs him the most during the very bad days, especially when there are nightmares. And the good days, while they have been few, are almost normal. Sherlock doesn't want to leave during those days; he wants to enjoy his husband as he is supposed to be and as he will be again.
He takes the seat next to John, feeling happiness swell inside of him at the sight of John eating. Sherlock reaches a hand up and brushes his fingers through the soft hair as John takes a bite of the eggs. The doctor's eyes close and Sherlock knows that he is enjoying the food. John is too thin but Sherlock pushes the concern away. This is their life for the next eight months, at least. Weight can be gained later.
Right now, Sherlock will just be happy that John is eating.
"Who done it?" John asks after a moment, and Sherlock pauses, confused. John laughs. "The case you just helped Lestrade wrap up? You've only been home five minutes, not even you can delete it that fast."
"Ah," Sherlock frowns; he had pushed it out of his mind. John is good today. "The security guard," he replies. "Boring. Would you like to go out? The park perhaps or to one of those horrible films you always want to see."
John sets the fork down and pushes the plate away, Sherlock glances at it, noting that he ate all but two bites of it. John crosses his arms and sets them on the table. He offers Sherlock a very specific smile and Sherlock is amazed as it shoots right to his groin.
He enjoys the feeling for exactly seven seconds, before his muscles tighten and the regret takes over. They can't, he knows better.
"I had another idea," John says. John leans towards Sherlock, who manages to not pull away as lips press against his. The soft sensation does nothing to curb the desire. Sherlock's chest tightens with nerves.
Sherlock wonders what John sees on his face as he pulls out of the kiss. "We can't," Sherlock stammers. "I mean, it's been, you are, we can't. It's -"
John smiles reaching a hand out and tracing his index finger up Sherlock's thigh. "We can, it'll probably be slow and I'll probably sleep for nine hours after, but I would like to try. I miss it, I miss you."
"I'm right here," Sherlock manages, finding it difficult to breathe. He wants to stand up and leave the room. He doesn't like the mix of emotions: the fear, the nerves, the overwhelming want. It isn't supposed to be like this with John, it's easy with John, it always has been. They should wait. Nine months is a ridiculously long time, but they have to. "You're sick," Sherlock says.
John frowns then and straightens in his chair. "If you don't want, I mean I know that I -"
Embarrassment. Sherlock sees embarrassment and rejection. His chest hurts as he stands. "No," he says. "No, John." Sherlock brings his hands up and cups John's face. "No, it's not that. I want to, God do I want to. I just, can you?"
John searches him, the doubt still apparent in those hazel eyes. Sherlock gives him another kiss, pushing away the other emotions and letting the desire bubble to the surface, the overwhelming, all-encompassing desire that only John Watson can awaken in him. He pulls back again and meets John's eyes. He wants John to see the emotion; he wants John to know that he'll never not want him. He wants him so bad that he's afraid if they start that he won't be able to stop.
John is so thin and weak; Sherlock would never forgive himself if he hurt him.
John reaches a hand out and settles it on Sherlock's hip. The unusually bony fingers send shivers up Sherlock's spine. He lets out a quiet gasp as he leans forward again. Their lips meet and begin to move easily against each other.
There is none of the usual desperate haste; the kiss is lazy and soft. They brush against each other, tongues forgoing the usual fight for dominance to dart out, taste and retreat. John turns in his chair and Sherlock feels a hand settle on his other hip. His fingers tighten and Sherlock can feel the heat even through his shirt. He angles his head slightly and John's tongue dips inside, the tip reaching up to dance across his palate. Sherlock moans and John's body respond to the sound.
John doesn't break contact as he pushes Sherlock back so that he can stand. The heat radiates off of the doctor as their chests meet. Sherlock loses all focus as John's tongue retreats and he pushes his forward, the taste of his husband flooding through him. It's delightful and he feels every atom in his body respond.
Sherlock pulls back and presses his forehead against John's, gasping for breath. Sherlock moves his hands up until his fingers are interlocked against the back of John's neck, feeling slight moisture from the unusual exertion. As Sherlock's palms settle along the side of John's neck, he instantly feels the scar, the new scar, the cancer scar. He pushes down on a cringe - not at John or the scar but at what was there, just beneath the skin just a few weeks ago. The small murderous cells that tried to steal his husband.
He is certain that he will never forget the way that the swollen nodes felt before the surgery. He never wants to forget the way that it felt to brush his fingers over those lumps, those poisonous cells. He'd touched them knowing they were going to come out, knowing that they were going to lose. They had to lose because he couldn't lose John. He couldn't lose everything.
He wasn't going to, this weak and thin man wasn't going anywhere. Those horrible treatments were going to ensure that.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock whispers in the close space.
John nods against his forehead, moving his hand from Sherlock's hips to wrap his arms around his waist. Their bodies press tightly together and the feeling of John stirring against his thigh causes the familiar warmth to settle in Sherlock's stomach. "God yes," the doctor whispers back.
They pull apart and John holds a hand out to Sherlock and they move quickly up the stairs. It is awkward as they close the door behind them; it's been a long time. But John takes a step forward and Sherlock leans down to meet him.
The kisses are soft again, and neither of them challenges it. Sherlock decides to let John set the pace as he is the only one who knows what he can handle. Sherlock lets himself get lost in the sensations, focussing on every gentle brush of John's lips as they move down to his chin. He lets his head fall back as the lips move under his jaw. As John starts to work on his buttons, Sherlock settles his fingers on John's lower back, pressing against the soft cotton there.
"Oh," escapes Sherlock as John gently drags his teeth over the Adam's apple. The sound brings a smile from John that Sherlock can feel against his skin. His shirt is pulled out of his trousers easily and warm hands flatten against Sherlock's abs. Fingers trace upwards slowly, bringing with them quiet gasps. The muscles twitch as ticklish spots are brushed and goose bumps break out over pale skin.
John chuckles as his kisses move to the hollow of Sherlock's throat. The fingers continue up and over collar bones, brushing shoulders as they push the shirt to the floor. Sherlock moans as they leave hot trails across his upper arms and John pulls back.
Their eyes meet and after a moment Sherlock grabs the bottom of John's shirt. He brushes the back of his fingers across the doctor's sides as he pushes the shirt up and over John's head. He tosses the t-shirt aside and examines his husband. The ribs are prominent and unfamiliar. Sherlock drags his hands down, noticing that the skin that is usually so dark against his no longer appears that way. The pink nipples stand out appearing much darker than usual. Sherlock happily brings his thumbs up to trace over the nubs. John wobbles and his eyes drift close. He pushes his chest forward into the contact and a groan escapes him. Sherlock leans forward, planting a kiss just below John's ear.
"Oh god," John says pushing his body into Sherlock's. Fingers settle on Sherlock's belt and start to work at getting it off. Sherlock moves his hands down, pushing on the waist band of John's sweat pants and the boxers follow them to the floor. John steps back kicking them away. Sherlock smiles, pushing John's fingers away and taking over on his own trousers. A moment later he is dropping them and his boxers to the floor, not missing the possessive look that crosses John's face. He feels his cock swell in response, blood diverting as he gets harder with every breath.
Their eyes lock again and John smiles at him.
"Lie down." Sherlock complies, smiling as he settles on his back. He expects John to follow him, expects the familiar, now lighter, weight on his chest. Instead, John climbs onto the bed and sits at Sherlock's feet. He places his fingers behind Sherlock's right ankle and brings his foot up.
The detective lets out a quiet moan as thumbs dig into the ball of his foot. His eyes close and he pushes his head back into the pillow. The foot massages were a regular part of their routine before the cancer, and Sherlock hadn't realised they were gone. Evidently John had.
Every muscle in Sherlock's leg tightens as John's tongue suddenly replaces his fingers. He shudders, curling his toes as the tongue traces underneath them, forcing into the spaces between them. John pulls back and digs his thumbs into the arch. Sherlock relaxes again; with just the thumbs the feelings aren't exactly sensual. A quiet sigh escapes Sherlock as John rests his right foot back gently on the bed and moves to other one. Sherlock closes his eyes enjoying the massage and hoping that he doesn't fall asleep.
"Mmmm," he hums as the second foot is gently placed back on the bed. He opens his eyes and meets hazel ones filled with desire. The warmth returns and he lifts his arm, reaching out for his husband. John doesn't move, instead takes Sherlock's hand and places a kiss against the knuckles.
John pulls his hand back and settles his fingers on both ankles. He brushes upwards, the touch so light Sherlock is certain that fingers are not touching skin. It feels as if they are just catching the coarse hairs as they move up and over his knees. Goose bumps sprout up all over his legs and his muscles tense, wanting to stretch. John leans forward as the gentle touch continues across his thighs. Sherlock reaches down to clasp on one of John's wrists but stopping the fingers doesn't stop the sensation as it continues to sweep across his thighs into his groin and a shudder courses through Sherlock's body.
"Ungh," he moans, arching up, and his cock begins to throb as it grows again.
John's free hand starts moving again, up and over his hip bone. The muscles in Sherlock's abdomen flutter as the gentle touch moves up and over a tender nipple. "John," Sherlock whispers pushing his chest up, desperate to increase the contact. John moves his hand back down, resting it on a hip.
"Yes?" John says, twisting the wrist that is still in Sherlock's grasp and managing to free it. Sherlock reaches above his head, winding his fingers into the headboard. He sighs as John moves over the other nipple and down the other side. "Sometimes it's nice to go slow," John says and Sherlock just nods.
Eyes close as John lowers his head, but when his cock isn't surrounded by the glorious warmth of John's mouth it shudders in protest. John places a kiss into the dark curls, brushing his teeth into the tender skin. "Not yet," John whispers and Sherlock wonders if the words are directed to him or to the cock twitching against John's cheek.
John's head moves up, placing a kiss just below Sherlock's navel. He sucks at the skin curling his fingers around Sherlock's hips as they push up into the contact. Sherlock is certain he'll bruise. The thought of John's mark against his pale skin shivers up his spine. He groans tightening his grip into the cold metal above his head.
John relaxes his lips and presses his tongue into the now tender spot. The hands abandon the hips and move downward through the dark curls. Index fingers and thumbs each grab a sack and Sherlock's breath catches. There is an aching throb as the first drops ease out of him.
"Oh, Jesus," Sherlock whispers out as John's thumbs dig into the sacks, a gentle imitation of the massage given to Sherlock's feet. Sherlock's head presses back into the pillow as the thumbs push the sacks up and he arches as warm breath hits him there. Sherlock brings his knees up and lets them fall to the side, opening himself further.
John takes advantage, sucking one of the sacks into his mouth. The tongue is rough as it ripples against the tender skin.
"God, John, yesssss," A hand is freed from the headboard and grasps John's hair. Fingers try to knot through it, securing a grip, but it is too soft, too short, and slips through. Sherlock lets out a grunt of frustration that morphs into a cry of pleasure as the attention moves to the other sack. He arches painfully as he grasps for a shoulder and squeezes. John chuckles and the sound vibrates up Sherlock's balls and through his cock. It stops under his pelvis and he thrusts, certain that he's coming from this. Coming simply from John lazily sucking on his balls.
"NO," he yelps as John releases him. He collapses back to the mattress amazed that he is still hard and still wanting. Oh so desperately wanting.
"John," he says again, encouraging his husband to move on.
"Still right here," John says as an index finger press into the hard member. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks down his body. John's head is resting on one of his thighs, allowing him to watch as his thumb comes up and the two fingers begin to push on the smooth foreskin. They push it up and over the swollen purple head. Sherlock watches his hips involuntarily thrust into the touch as John turns, placing a kiss into the thigh.
The index finger traces over the head, catching the liquid leaking out and gently spreading it. The finger begins tracing the veins, sweeping over the head before moving to another. The touch alone is not enough, but Sherlock is throbbing, aching to come. He's certain that he's harder than he's ever been before. It almost hurts. Every muscle below his rib cage is constricting then releasing at random, his whole body is tense, anticipating.
"John," he pleads. He squeezes the shoulder before moving his hand up to run fingers through the soft hair. "Please?" he asks. He almost cringes, hearing the whine in his voice. He can hear the ache, the want, and is certain John can hear it as well.
John moves his hand away and presses his chin into Sherlock's hip. The hazel eyes lock with the grey ones. "Please?" Sherlock repeats bringing a soft smile to John's face. Sherlock's heart swells with it, he loves that smile.
"Fine." The exasperation is feigned and they both know it. A kiss is placed into the hip as John starts to move. The expected action is for John to straddle him and reach into the bedside table for the lubricant. Sherlock knows he will choose the passion fruit one and his nostrils flare at the memory of the sweet scent. But John settles on his knees next to Sherlock's chest. Sherlock watches, confused, and reaches over to touch John's thigh. John leans over and gently brushes his lips against Sherlock's. Their tongues taste again, quickly, and John pulls up before it deepens. Sherlock sees the mischievous grin a second before John lifts his leg, shifting his weight. It isn't until John is facing backwards, straddling his chest that Sherlock comprehends.
"Oh God, yes," he says, resting his head back just as a warm exhalation hits his cock. The new position opens John up completely and the scent overwhelms him. He groans as a hand closes around him, moving slowly up and down. It's followed, a moment later, by a fire hot mouth.
"Fuck." He savours the sensation as rough tongue laps at him. He grabs John's thighs and pulls. He wants to taste, now. "Move back," he snaps and pulls again. John chuckles and it vibrates up him. Sherlock moans, his head suddenly too heavy to hold up.
John's moves backwards and his balls bounce against Sherlock's chin. Sherlock groans, bringing and index finger to his mouth and sucking on it. He shoves his arms between John's legs and wraps around his thighs. John is much smaller than the previous times they've done this and Sherlock reaches easily. He can feel John's pelvis pushing against his forearms, but he pushes the thought away. He uses his fingers to spread John's cheeks and rubs the wet index finger along the sensitive hole. John moans around him, as the muscles start to contract at the touch. Sherlock times it, finger pushing into John just as the dangling sack is sucked into his mouth. John bucks, stretching the sack, his mouth loosening around Sherlock as he gasps.
Sherlock pushes deeper, John's muscles alternating between acceptance and protest. When the finger curls against the sensitive prostate, John thrust down, pushing into Sherlock's chin. Sherlock grins as the first warm drops hit his chest.
John's hand tightens again, but the up and down movement stutters. "Sherlock," is puffed against Sherlock's hip. There is a hard suck on the sack and Sherlock curls the finger again. The thighs around him start to shake. "Oh, shit, that, yes, that." Another press against the prostate brings more hot liquid to his chest. He wants to taste John, it's been weeks, he desperately wants to taste. Sherlock contemplates a moment, knowing that to taste he might have to relinquish the control he is thoroughly enjoying. He immediately determines that it is a worthy sacrifice.
Sherlock allows the sack to slip from between his lips as he pulls up on the hips, pressing himself lower in the same movement.
"I want to taste you," Sherlock says, as his finger slips out of John. There is a grunt at the loss of penetration. John releases Sherlock, fingers desperately grabbing at a pale thigh Sherlock darts his tongue out, capturing the dripping liquid on the tip of his tongue.
It isn't enough, he wants so much more. He presses his tongue against the tender head, lapping at the sweet tip. John is so wide, the dark head so prominent and appealing. Sherlock wants to be fucked, hard. But he wants to taste more.
It is different, the taste, but not unfamiliar. The cock throbs against his tongue, and John thrust towards the contact. It isn't enough, it still isn't enough. Sherlock brings his knees up, plants his feet, and lifts is body. In one swift movement they are on their sides and Sherlock is pushing John onto his back.
"Sherlock!" John exclaims at the sudden change, arms flailing as he tries to stabilise. The movements stop and a groan escapes as Sherlock takes all of him. The throat opens as his nose buries itself into John's balls. The smell hits him again, so strong, and Sherlock sucks, pulling up and listening as John starts to wail. The head is released with an audible pop.
Sherlock is moving to repeat the action when he is unexpectedly penetrated. He thrusts forward, almost hitting the headboard, and then back against the finger. "Oh, yes," he hisses as the finger curls inside of him. The feeling swells through his pelvis and throbs up his cock. More liquid leaks out of him. The height difference is not as much of a hindrance with Sherlock on top and John lifts his head, easily pressing his tongue against the aching member.
Sherlock's hand comes up, wrapping around John, forcing his foreskin up and then back down. The other hand cups the ball sack, pushing it up. Sherlock's mouth closes around the head and John's hips begin thrusting a steady rhythm.
A second devious finger pushes Sherlock just as John tilts his head. Sherlock's hips hitch forward, meeting with no resistance, and he hits the back of John's throat. He pulls back and slams forward again, exploding. Sherlock keens out John's name as his fist tightens, forcibly moving the foreskin. John's outcry is muffled as he thrusts in the too tight grip, following Sherlock over the edge.