Chapter 11: Phase Change

Promises: Men going at it.

Warning: Autoerotic asphyxiation is mentioned in a forensic context. None of the sex actually practiced in this chapter is autoerotic ("which is fine, by the way") or asphyxiative ("bit not good").

Sherlock woke from a long sleep on the blackcurrant jelly bed. John was no longer clasped in his arms, as he had been when Sherlock had closed his eyes. Instead, he was searching for data. In Sherlock's crotch. With his lips.

"John?" mumbled Sherlock. He was naked, and his limbs were flung out to the cardinal points like the sails of a large and gangly pinwheel.

On the rare occasions when he slept, Sherlock liked to spread himself out. It was part of his overall plan for appearing bigger than he was. During waking hours, he was able to make strategic use of a booming voice (his overcoat, sadly, was still on Baker Street), but asleep, he had to make do by spreading his limbs like a four-armed starfish. John, who was trickier and more subtle than he looked, had apparently taken advantage of this and ensconced himself between Sherlock's pale thighs while he was still unconscious.

Sherlock correctly deduced that this was turnabout for having been pushed out of bed.

John looked up at Sherlock, his face lit by the warm peach-gold glow of the bioluminescent plants that filled the room's lamps and sconces. The light they cast was flattering to John's skin. He looked as though he were made of butterscotch. Although the plants had been blue-green when Sherlock first arrived, they'd recently added silver, gold, and a peachy and decidedly non-alabaster flesh tone to their chromatic repertoire. Sherlock suspected they had cribbed these colors off of John.

"Want you," said John.

"Want me what?"

John kissed Sherlock's inner thigh, then licked a trail from the spot he had kissed up into his pubic hair. "Does this give you any idea?"

It was very hard to think when John had his sex voice on. Sherlock felt his blood rush south, where it formed a welcoming party in his hardening cock. The welcoming party's banner read, "Take me, John."

"Some," said Sherlock, by which he meant, "virtually none." He didn't like to admit to being out of his league if he could help it.

It occurred to Sherlock that his anatomy was becoming more Keplerian under John's influence. A few words or a touch from John, and Sherlock's prick would orient itself towards the object of his affections, its graceful curve rising towards him in silent and hopeful longing. As with most human males, his awakening desire expressed itself cylindrically. If it was odd to have all one's squares and triangles rush to one side, it was no odder than having a portion of one's body expand itself into a rod for one's beloved's perusal. In both cases, the relevant organs did their best to get closer to the places on their lovers where they might be housed.

Oblivious to these deliberations, John was busy finding out more about Sherlock's pubic hair. With his nose. Which was nuzzling somewhere Sherlock had never been nuzzled before.

"Blow job," said John. "Want to give you one."

"Ah," said Sherlock.

"Will you let me? I know … well. You've never had one."

It was clear that John knew a lot more about the situation than Sherlock did.

"If you'd like to blow on me, you may. I trust you."

John's round eyes somehow went more open than they already were. He looked simultaneously touched and incredulous.

"Sorry," he said, regrouping. "Maybe they called it something else at Eton. Fellatio?"

Sherlock frowned. John had said "fellatio" before, right after the Keplerian reinforcements had barged into their room to watch them breed. Sherlock hadn't had time to inquire what it meant. Was it Italian? Adagio, allegro non troppo, fellatio. It sounded like a tempo marking. There was something operatic about it.

"Fucking hell." Only John could swear and have it sound that fond, that inclusive and empathetic. "Sherlock, how … how much did you delete about sex?"

Tedious, thought Sherlock. It was one of his many mental synonyms for "mortifying." Not because it had to do with sex, which didn't alarm him. It couldn't. He'd never had it. No, it was embarrassing because it had to do with things that he didn't know, and which John thought he should.

"To tell you that, I would need to know what I deleted. I don't know what I've deleted. That's the whole point of deleting it."

"Humor me. A rough estimate."

"The unnecessary parts!"

"Shit. So … pretty much all of it?"

This seemed likely. Sherlock checked his mind bordello for information, but the only noteworthy thing in it was his mind-John, who had shucked his mind-shirt and was lounging around by the Jacuzzi. A building permit tacked to the door indicated that the entire area was of very recent construction.

"OK. We don't have to do this, but I want to suck you off. Which is probably a more accurate term than 'blow.'" John searched for terms that Sherlock would know. "I want to give you an orgasm with my mouth."

"Why?" Sherlock's intellectual curiosity demanded to be satisfied. Sherlock's cock had other priorities. It reached up and tapped John on the chin, in case he was having trouble locating it. Given the state of the thing, this was unnecessary.

"Because I haven't done anything for you yet. And I want to."

"You've done plenty for me."

"Not sexually. I haven't got you off yet. Not on purpose. It's different when you do it on purpose. I want to make you feel good. You made me feel – ungh, Sherlock, fantastic, back at the pool. I can't stop thinking about it. And …"

Sherlock knew more about what "and" meant than he did about blow jobs.

"Romance," he translated. This was a subset of sentiment. "You're a romantic. If you're taken to the lab, you want to have this to remember. You want to be able to look back and imagine us together. John, I …"

I what? Won't let them take you?

If there was a way to prevent John from being taken when their captors willed it, Sherlock hadn't found it. John had already been taken from him once, at the cleansing pool. It was infuriating, and it made Sherlock want to kick something with his size-11 feet.

"Yeah," said John. "So. Can I?"

Sherlock didn't correct his grammar. Although he was not usually concerned with etiquette, doubts about the appropriateness of giving one's beloved a lesson on auxiliary verbs ("I don't know, can you?") during an affectionate moment crept into his mind. Also, there was the distinct possibility that a corrected John would refuse to pleasure him.

"Yes," said Sherlock, and left it at that.

"Oh God," said Sherlock.

John was licking him. Holding Sherlock's testicles aloft, he licked a warm, wet, targeted stripe down the seam of his sack to the plain of his perineum, then back again.

"All right?" said John.

It was better than all right. John's attentions made the fine hairs on Sherlock's legs stand on end. Like his cock, these oriented themselves towards John.

"Ungh," remarked Sherlock, who felt a sudden need to express himself with grunts.

John correctly identified this as assent. He took one of Sherlock's balls into his mouth and sucked on it. Sherlock's erect penis throbbed impatiently against his stomach.

"Give me feedback," said John. "I want to know if something isn't working for you."

Sherlock calculated the probability of things not working for him in this particular situation as … low. Not five percent, not three percent, just ... quite low. The haze of enjoyment he was currently experiencing made mathematical precision impossible. Seeking more information, he propped himself up on his elbows and stared at John, who was busy petting the underside of Sherlock's cock with his face. Sherlock groaned and fell back against the jelly.

"Look at you," said John. "Gorgeous. You're so …" He lifted his head and stroked Sherlock's side, gentling him as he would a horse. "I want to do everything to you at once."

Sherlock nodded, overwhelmed. He felt as though John were already doing everything to him at once.

"I don't know how long I'll last if you suck me."

Saying the words made them more real. A shiver of electricity fingered Sherlock's spine.

"I don't mind. God, Sherlock. When you get excited, it's so fucking hot I can hardly stand it. I wouldn't care if you came in five seconds. Does it bother you that we didn't draw it out longer last time?"

"Possibly," said Sherlock. It was a three-syllable word for "yes."

"It may just be that you're inexperienced," said John, licking his lips. John had a pronounced virgin kink, and it seemed to be getting worse. "Premature ejaculation – not that I'm saying you're premature, because any time you come, it's Christmas, as far as I'm concerned – it's more common in men who don't have sex often. Your body thinks it won't have the chance again, so it hurries to make up for that."

Sherlock wished John's body would hurry. His erection bounced against his stomach, trying to flag down physical attention.

"Do you want to think about dull things while we do it? You know, digits of pi after the decimal, the periodic table. Some men find that helps them slow down."

"I like the periodic table," said Sherlock. His cock thickened a bit for emphasis. "John, get on with it."

John scooted back on his knees and rubbed his short hair against the insides of Sherlock's thighs, letting Sherlock feel him there. Then he crawled over Sherlock and kissed his bare hip.

"Want you," repeated John. "I'm going to take you into my mouth now, all right? Tell me if …"

"Binary system," proposed Sherlock. He was willing to sacrifice nuance if it would mean getting in John's mouth faster. "If I don't say no, it's yes."

"All right," said John. "We can continue to get a feel for things as we go. I'll check on you periodically, but otherwise, I'll keep going until you tell me to stop."

John closed his mouth over the tip of Sherlock's prick. His tongue – his clever, amazing tongue – rested gently against the frenulum.

Sherlock gasped as a jolt of pleasure shot through him.

"All right?" said John. It came out a bit garbled. He had a dick in his mouth, after all.

"Yes," said Sherlock. Having John touch him there, even in the absence of motion, was incredibly arousing. John pulled off him, then sank back down on him. Sherlock watched his own pink slickness disappear into his lover's. In color, in texture, the inside of John's mouth mirrored the slippery tip of Sherlock's penis. It was like a neon sign from the universe proclaiming that one belonged with the other.

Sherlock liked silky things, and John was surprisingly silky. Bits of him, anyway. His hair, when Sherlock stroked it, was splendidly soft. His face was weathered, as befitted a soldier, but sun and bullets hadn't touched him everywhere. The skin of his arse was especially smooth and fine-grained, as Sherlock had discovered by pressing against him as he slept. Out of all of John's silkinesses, however, the most luxurious was to be found within his sweet, hot mouth. Sherlock moaned with pleasure as it enveloped him.

John pulled off him again. "I'm going to go all the way down your shaft, then back again. Too much attention to the head will make you go off sooner. That's where most of your nerve endings are."

Sherlock didn't put it past his nerve endings to figure out where John was and then migrate to suit. He nodded anyway.

John took him in, moved down until his lips were halfway to the base, then came back up again. When he reached the crown, he gave the underside of Sherlock's glans a lingering lick, then moved back down. He did this several times, and each time, the heat in Sherlock's groin became more intense.

"Too much," blurted Sherlock. "John, I'm going to."

John pulled off him again. "Let's rest a moment, then I'll keep going. God, you're tightly wound. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

Sherlock looked down the length of his body. At the moment, his physical form mostly reminded him of a sundial, with the gnomon pointing fiercely to John o'clock.

"I could do this to you all night."

"Keplerian nights last three times longer."

"I stand by my original statement."

In addition to being enthusiastic, John was the nicest feeling thing in the history of nice-feeling things. From a purely tactile point of view, John was a marvel. Sherlock tried to explain to John how nice he felt in the hopes that John would suck on his penis some more.

"You're soft, John. So soft. The inside of your mouth. To listen to you talk, you'd think you'd be all prickles."

"You're babbling," said John. The skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. "I'll chalk that up to my sexual prowess. Do you want to continue?"

"Let's."

"OK, focus on breathing. Breathe in, then let it all out. If you breathe too shallowly, you'll be more likely to come."

"Autoerotic asphyxiation," recited Sherlock. "Carbon dioxide build-up in the brain."

John gave him a complicated look. "Of course. You don't know what a blow job is, but you're familiar with that."

"Necessary information. Important to distinguish between homicide and inadvertent self-harm in cases where the victim has died from lack of oxyg— gah, John, yes, more."

John was brilliant. He licked and sucked but withheld the pleasure of his hands, knowing that any added sensation would shatter Sherlock's already precarious self-control.

"I'm getting closer – no, don't stop." Sherlock clutched at John's shoulders with his thighs. "Please don't stop."

His partner shot him a look of pure lust, then took him down to the root. Sherlock made a mental note that begging turned John on.

"Ohhhh, God," he drawled. "You're exceptional. Please, John. Will you let me penetrate you some day? Not just your mouth, but …"

John, whose mouth was full, gave an amiable grunt. His tongue was slick and his lips were wicked.

Sherlock was babbling for real now. He heard himself praising John's technique, begging John to continue, pleading with John to let him come, asking John if he could fuck his face. At this last request, John thrust two hands under Sherlock, grabbed his arse, and began fucking his own throat with the head of Sherlock's prick.

Sherlock bucked and cried out as John suckled him. It was too much. The pleasure needed to leave his overworked system, and the only pathway out was through his prick. For a moment, every muscle in his body seized up – his abdominals, his quadriceps, his biceps, all mimicking the absolute rigidity of what John was sucking. Then the orgasm hit him. It slammed into him with the intensity of a meteor crashing into an Earthly sea. With his pulsing cock as the epicenter, waves of pleasure expanded out from his core. They surged into his belly, his thighs, his nipples, his fingertips. He swore he could feel them in his hair.

The pleasure had unmoored him. He had never felt so liquid. For a moment, he could see himself as if from above. Head tossed back, arms in disarray, thighs wide apart and trembling, he flooded John's mouth with the evidence of his joy.

A/N: Much gratitude to everyone who's commented or favorited. This chapter goes out to mattsloved1, who says she's writing me a Christmas fic! Please accept this traditional holiday depiction of a blow job. I believe that's how we express heartfelt appreciation.

Also huge thanks to staceuo, who sent me a necklace made out of an actual vinyl record with pandas on it. So badass.