This chapter turned out to be much, MUCH longer than I thought it would be. In retrospect, I think I should have broken it into two chapters. Well, it's done and I'm happy with it, so I'm posting it anyways.
It also turned out to be a lot more emotional than I expected. I worked very, VERY hard to do justice to the story in my head and give it full expression. In short, I wrote my heart out! So if you're reading this and like it, do take some time to let me know that you did and why you did (in some detail if at all possible). I feel drained and in need of some fuel in the form of encouragement if this story is to continue….
Happy reading!
And wish you all a happy, contented and peaceful 2016!
The lush greenery surrounding their secluded lunch table at the corner of the busy outdoor restaurant was almost blinding in the afternoon sun. The stylish outdoor alfresco dining section was set amid beautiful flowerbeds and patrons were shielded from the sun by perky sun umbrellas.
John looked around vacantly even as the fingers of one hand drummed nervously on the table from time to time. He was trying not to stare at Victor as he perused the contents of the file that John had handed him only moments earlier. Come on, buck the fuck up will you! What is so wrong with what I wrote? Why did everything go arse-up? How do I make it better? Have I lost the chance of being with Sherlock for good? Tell me, tell me how to fix it…. Come on, come on….
Victor was sitting upright flicking through the pages and seemed to keep going back to the front page repeatedly, the frown on his face deepening as the minutes ticked by.
"Would you gentlemen like some coffee or tea?" John looked up inquiringly at Victor who nodded briefly and placed an order for two coffees. Unable to stay quiet much longer he blurted out, "Well?"
Victor closed the file deliberately and slid it across the table. He stayed silent as he looked at John.
He looked stunned.
"How long have you known Sherlock, John?" he asked.
"Just over five years. Why?" John replied
"Nothing, just curious," Victor said, shrugging his shoulders.
John asked again impatiently, "Well?"
Victor continued to maintain thoughtful silence.
John leaned forwards and pleaded, "Please, Victor. I know this is a personal matter. And I would never have dreamed of talking about it with anyone." He let out a frustrated puff, "But there is literally no one else I can talk to. And I need you to tell me where I went wrong. Because I can't figure it out." Seeing the hesitant look on Victor's face, John hastened to add, "Look I don't care what it is, but for God's sake, tell me. I feel like I'm at my wits end."
Victor pursed his lips and stared at the table for a few moments and then took a deep breath and leaned forwards, his eyes still reflecting stunned disbelief.
"You…." He shook his head and stopped as though struggling for words.
John grit his teeth in frustration and almost growled, "What is it? Out with it. I can take it."
Victor gave a curt nod.
"John, you went to the most observant man on the face of this planet with 'Safe-words'? With a list of your 'Limits'? Don't you think he already knows? You…. Bloody hell…..This is a man who can deduce your thoughts from the twitch of a single facial muscle, who is perceptive to the point of being a freaking psychic…."
Victor paused and shook his head, as though trying to gather his thoughts.
"You went…. You went to the most rational man ever born, a man I might add who worships Logic as though it were his personal God, insisting upon 'Sane'!" His voice rose in indignation as he stared at John with incredulity, his hands raised in a 'what-the-fuck' gesture, "You went to Sherlock with a demand for 'Safe and Consensual'? The man who…. who….the man who….." he shook his head again, "Screw it. You took this…" he tapped an accusing finger on the file. "You took this to the man who jumped off a freaking roof for you, for your safety! The man who spent two years in constant jeopardy fighting Moriarty's web, getting shot at, stabbed, captured and beaten- all so that you could be safe! Who took a bullet from your wife and then did everything to ensure that your marriage would stay intact! The man who shot a media tycoon in front of dozens of witnesses so that you and your family and your happiness could be secure! Without any thought for himself, and never mind the consequences to him!"
Victor's voice shook with passion as he cried out, "In which universe did you think that Sherlock Holmes would allow anything to happen that could even remotely compromise your safety, let alone endanger it himself? Or force himself upon you without your consent?"
John listened to him, his gut twisting as he recognised how damning Victor's words were when viewed from this different standpoint. Holy fuck…Fuck, fuck, fuck…..damn it all to fucking hell…he's right….oh shit, what did I do, why did I not think? He's right...He sat back, his eyes bulging with wretchedness as he stared at Victor.
Both stared at each other for a while, allowing the words to soak in.
Victor's expression softened as he said after a few moments, "Sorry, John. I didn't mean for it to come out so harshly."
John shook his head, "No, you're right. But….everywhere I looked this is what was suggested…"
"John, I know that this is the norm for all other people. And maybe it is necessary for them….but you know, we're talking about Sherlock here," Victor's voice was gentle now.
There was a lull in the conversation as their coffee arrived. John sat frowning at his coffee cup, torn between accepting the truth of Victor's words and the need to justify his up-until-now seemingly sensible actions.
He started, "I know what you say makes sense. But what about the BDSM stuff that really bothers me? Shouldn't I be clear about it right from the start?" He grabbed the file to open the relevant page and pointed towards it. "For instance, there are certain types of bondage that may trigger my PTSD. I don't want to have that done."
Victor chuckled loudly. "John, in all the time that I have been with Sherlock he has never tied me with so much as a shoelace!" John's brow furrowed in confusion, so Victor clarified, "If he wants me to stay in a particular position he just places me in it. I'm bound. I'm bound by the strongest rope that can bind me."
"What's that?"
Victor's tone was reverent, "The will of my Dom, Sherlock's will. The pleasure of my Dom, Sherlock's pleasure."
John sat back, his mouth agape, his eyes looking startled as though he had had an epiphany.
His voice was a low hiss, "You're in love with him! You are in love with Sherlock!"
Victor gave a short laugh, "Aren't you?" He shrugged and chose to ignore John's visible flinch at his blunt assertion. He continued in a dry tone, "Sherlock arouses strong emotions in whomsoever he meets. People loathe him or love him. And sometimes they fear him."
Victor took a deep breath and sat back again. A further pause ensued. Then with eyes fixed on the table, finger absently playing with a spoon, as though musing aloud, he said softly, "Love is not a potent enough word for what I feel for him." He looked up with a wistful smile, "John, I am his. His to own. His to use. His to command."
John protested, "But that gives him unlimited power over you! What you are describing, that degree of surrender would strip you of all identity, you're left with nothing!"
Victor smiled, "On the contrary, it brings out the best in me, because I want to offer him my best. I consider myself a reflection of him. Whether I am in his presence or away from him, he remains my Dom. Whatever I do, I do it for him. To please him. It really is that simple."
John looked haunted, his jaw clenched in desperation.
"I….. I can't do that. What he is asking for, what you are telling me, it's impossible! I'll be left with no identity, I'll become a mere shadow of him!"
"Quite the opposite actually! In giving up everything, you will gain everything. Therein lies the dichotomy, the beauty. And it is not that hard. Just let go and do what your heart wants you to do anyways. Stop overthinking it and let go. It is like flying off a cliff. Like free fall. Do it and you will realise all your fears were meaningless."
John's voice was strangled as he cried out, "What if I get hurt in the process? Where is my safety net in that?"
"Your safety net is your Dom. It is Sherlock. It is your trust in Sherlock. Then it is his job to look after you." He implored, "John, I used to be scared too. With what he asked for. I was in the most wretched place you could imagine. Sleeping with strangers, getting degraded and used daily, called a faggot both at home and college, hating myself."
He looked up and stared into the distance for a long time, as though looking into the deep past. When he turned his head towards John, his eyes had tears in them.
"The most…" He swallowed back his tears and clenched his jaw, "The most guys that gang-banged me in one night is eight. They….. they would call me faggot….cunt….cock-sucker, as they fucked my arse and my mouth….I went to sleep most nights covered in bruises and bites…. my father had disowned me…...I was failing all my modules, my assignments….I had always loved to paint, I was very good at it…..learning art, painting is all I ever wanted to do….except for this miserable need I had to please, to be submissive, to have some pain and roughness during sex…I think I broke the record of finding the worst way to go about it," he snorted ruefully.
"I had lost all my self-worth. That was my basic visceral need. Sherlock saw it and filled that need. By just the sheer force of his personality. Look at me, John. I paint for a living, my paintings sell very well, I am wealthy and most of all I am happy. This is what has resulted from my free fall, straight into Sherlock's safe hands. I told you a good Dom does not give you what you want, he gives you what you need. Ask yourself this, what do you need? Not what you want or what you desperately desire. What do you need?"
John's hands were clenched into fists on the table, frustration on his face as he protested, "I can't. I can't let go like you say. Sorry. I just can't."
Victor's eyes were pitying as he shrugged, "Then you can't. What more can I say? It is ultimately your choice. There is nothing that I or anyone else can do."
"So what, that's it?" John said incredulously. "I offered everything that I could and was summarily rejected." He leaned forward and hissed in anger, "Tell me, tell me you know what it feels like to offer so much of yourself and be told that it is not enough?"
"Oh but you didn't offer much did you?" Victor asked. "You offered him terms and conditions and contracts and negotiations."
John felt anger simmer inside of him, righteous anger, legitimate anger… this is so unfair, I'm just being told to give up everything. What about…..
"What about what I want? Where is the guarantee for that? I am half of this relationship! He takes everything, what do I get in return?" He looked furious.
Victor leaned forward, desperate for John to see. "Don't you get it, John? It's not about you. Whether you get any pleasure from the act itself or not depends upon whether Sherlock chooses to give it to you. And you can try and earn it by pleasing him. But it is not of any importance within itself. It is about your Dom's will, his pleasure. That is where your pleasure, your happiness will flow from."
John shook his head in confusion, "This is so skewed, it makes no sense."
Victor looked at him worriedly as John stared at the coffee cups, breathing heavily.
After a while, jaw clenched, John spoke through gritted teeth. "Are we done here? Good. Look, thanks for your time, but this is bullshit. I'm going to go home and ask Sherlock fucking Holmes where he gets off putting ultimatums on a relationship both of us are a part of and a friendship that has endured so much over the years. This is not fair and I need for him to know that."
He made a move to leave. Victor grabbed his wrist briefly to stop him.
"John, please don't. Don't go to him in anger. You will lose. Trust me on this. He rarely gets angry as a Dom, but when he does he is lethal, he can eviscerate anyone's psyche completely."
John said grimly, "Yeah well, we'll see about that. Thanks for lunch."
"John, please, don't….." Victor pleaded ineffectually as John turned and stormed off, leaving an anxious looking Victor behind.
John sat on the park bench, his fingers viciously tearing page after printed page into little bits, the mechanical actions giving a physical form to his fury. He welcomed the anger like an old friend, too long, I've tolerated this nonsense for too long….he's been playing me like his violin, teasing me for fucking months with promises of sex…..he knows, he knows the effect he is having on me, but he fucking strings me along….. you know what they call someone who just strings along someone and doesn't put out, Sherlock?….a fucking tease….that's what you are, you fucking wanker….a fucking tease, that's what…..Kneel for me, think this way….oh no, no, John whatever you are thinking is wrong…..can't just shag me and get it over with….What the fuck does that Victor know….how close a friendship Sherlock and I share….he's only ever known Sherlock as a Dom…..
He'd walked around for a couple of hours in the vicinity of 221B giving vent to his frustration, not yet ready to go home and face the man who had once again turned his world upside down. He nursed his anger with relish, it had been a long time since he had been this furious. It felt great! I'm right, I know I'm right….
He stood outside the pub hesitantly for some time. Fuck it, I need some liquid courage if I am to confront Sherlock about this.
He went in.
It was half seven and dark by the time John opened the door of 221B and slammed it shut.
Sherlock was sitting at the table in the living room working on John's laptop and surrounded by papers.
John snatched the laptop, "Oh no, you don't! Use your own fucking laptop." He closed it and dropped it pointedly on his chair. He stormed off into the kitchen, every jerky movement broadcasting anger and warning of the impending conflict.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they followed John into the kitchen. He listened to the banging of kitchen cabinet doors, the slamming of the cup on the table, the harsh tinkle of cutlery being abused.
Alright then….Few beers down and spoiling for a fight.
He stood up and moved with deliberation to the uncluttered part of the room, subconsciously broadening his stance for balance, hands loose by his sides in readiness and waited grimly.
Even as the kettle started to boil, John came out of the kitchen and just looked at Sherlock, his jaw set, his hands clenched by his sides.
"Just wanted you to know that I went to see your friend, Victor, today."
Sherlock's eyebrow rose, "Oh!"
John moved closer. "I thought maybe…just maybe he might be able to explain what I seemed so incapable of understanding." He came and stood right in front of Sherlock, peering up at his face, anger etched in every feature. "Well, guess what? He spouted the same nonsense as you have. I should have fucking guessed. He's been your Sub for what, fifteen years now? Spreads his legs for you obediently, does he? Well, his advice was that I should become your bitch too, spread my legs and let you take your fill! Let you do whatever you want with me."
Sherlock looked down at him, eyes narrowed dangerously, his voice cold, forbidding, "John, I would seriously advise you to desist from making comments about Victor or indeed anything right now. You are not yourself. Go upstairs, sleep it off. We'll talk tomorrow."
John asked belligerently, "Or what? You're going to beat me up? Well, go on then. At least that way perhaps you would be able to bear to touch me. What does it take, huh? Oh, pardon me for not understanding. It's your way or the high way, is that it? Every single fucking time for the past five years, it's always YOUR WAY!" he shouted. "Let me just jump of the fucking building, why don't I? Because I know what's best! John take Mary back, go on then, be a good little boy. And now?" He jabbed a finger into Sherlock's chest. "Now I'm supposed to allow you free reign, a complete carte blanche, while I get nothing in return? Well, you listen to me, Sherlock. I am fifty percent of this relationship. What about what I want? Huh?"
"And what is it that you want, John?"
"Don't play dumb, Sherlock. It doesn't suit you. Make a fucking 'deduction'," John replied, his head tilted on one side, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"This is not what you need." Sherlock's voice was stone cold.
"Oh so you're going to now tell me what I am feeling, is that right?" John snorted pointedly.
"I am telling you to stop. Now. Before you get in too deep. Walk away. You do not need this."
"You want me to stop. You stop it!" John yelled as he pointed a finger at Sherlock. "Stop teasing me. Stop torturing me with your games. You're asking me what I want? I want you to fucking touch me. Shag me. Or perhaps you're not fucking man enough to fucking do it, then let me shag you. Don't you fucking tell me you don't know I've been getting off thinking about you for months now. You're the great bloody Sherlock Holmes! You know EVERYTHING. What does it take for the great Sherlock Holmes to touch me, huh? he snarled, looking feral with his lips drawn back. "Oh, but you won't do it till I submit to you? You want me to kneel for you, huh, is that it?"
He went down on his knees in front of Sherlock and yelled out with his arms held wide in dramatic emphasis.
"Look, Sherlock! I am on my knees. See? What else would you like me to do? Would you like me to grovel, lick your shoes perhaps? Or maybe suck your cock? Or would you like me to strip and present my arse to you like Victor, huh?"
"ENOUGH!" Sherlock roared, that devastating baritone seemed to swirl and reverberate around the room endlessly. "KNOW YOUR PLACE!"
John froze, stunned into silence, his eyes widening in awe as they looked up at Sherlock, his pulse quickening…..Oh fuck, fuck….what did I just say?…..look at him….I've never seen him look like this before….who is this?
John had seen Sherlock angry, vicious, frustrated before. But this…..this barely restrained fury in his eyes was new. It was frightening. Sherlock stood tall, vibrating in anger, his eyes glittering like diamonds. As beautiful as they were cold.
"Theatrics are the uncouth expressions of the pathetic and incoherent. You will never belittle the magnificent symbolism of the act of Submission in my presence again. IS. THAT. UNDERSTOOD?" Sherlock said, thunder in his voice.
A spark of fear went through John's body, his heart lurching in his chest with excitement and hope. He could feel his cock stir to life and thicken, seemingly propelled by the sudden gush of adrenaline that had started to flood into his system. His face felt warm, his palms moist. He licked his lips unconsciously.
"Yes.". He bowed his head, whether in submission or sheer relief, he did not know.
There was pin-drop silence for several moments.
"I want you to get up. Walk to the fireplace and stand facing it. Your hands on the mantelpiece, feet spread apart. Head down, eyes closed. And not another syllable out of you until I give you permission." The order came out in a stern, uncompromising tone.
John bowed his head further and unclenched his fists. He stood up on knees that had started to tremble and slowly walked up to the fireplace. Please, Oh God, it's finally happening….. He held the edge of the mantelpiece, just below the large mirror, with both his hands. Spreading his legs, he bowed his head down and closed his eyes as he had been ordered to do.
Moments passed in silence.
John strained his ears to hear anything…. Movement, rustle of clothes, anything.
But the silence was absolute.
One minute…...two minutes…..
The anger had drained out completely of John's system and normally would have left him feeling hollow. But he was vibrating with anticipation, with need. His crotch felt uncomfortable, his hard cock felt cramped in his snug jeans. The tremor in his knees was getting more violent as time passed, he was literally shaking with excitement and fear. Where is he? What is he going to do? Is he going to come and pull my pants down and spank me with his hands or with his riding crop? He is so furious, he will punish me for sure…. Isn't that what Dom's do? Discipline their Subs? I went too far, I should not have mentioned Victor…..I shouldn't have said any of the things I said….Is he going to fuck me in this position? Am I about to be fucked for the first time, standing up in the living room with my boots on? God, could he possibly do anything more humiliating than that to me?
Three minutes…..four minutes…
Sherlock stood rooted at his spot. His tongue absently ran back and forth over his lower lip, his pupils blown, dark and fathomless as he watched.
His ever observant mind was aware; of his own nostrils flaring in anticipation, like a predator who had subdued his prey and is about to feast on it; his cock hard between his legs eager for friction and warmth and tightness, eager for a willing orifice to sink into; the wave of powerful Dominance that was surging through his veins; his eyes hungrily taking in the sight they had waited so long to see- John Watson, standing submissively with his head lowered, his arse subconsciously arched back, waiting desperately for Sherlock's touch; his to use, his to abuse.
Look at him, he's gagging for it! I could go there and strip him bare, fuck that virginal arse to my heart's content, flog him, mark him, hurt him. And he would take anything I did to him. Because he is desperate. For me.
He waited resolutely to let the weakness and the arousal pass, immobile except for a slight twitching of his hands. This is not my Sub, it is my friend, John. The point is not to fuck him but to show him that he is mistaken. He mouthed silently to himself. Steady Sherlock, it is John…..
Five minutes…..six minutes….
John was sweating freely now, desperate want, fear and hope making him feel light-headed. Where is he? Fuck he looked so glorious. Like an angry young God. His eyes…..have they ever looked more beautiful? Has he left me here? Is this my punishment? What possessed me to say such things? To Sherlock of all people? His heart was thudding wildly in his chest. The moments seemed to be going by in slow motion. He tried to deep breathe, feeling the onset of panic about to rush in and engulf him. Can I turn around and see? But I've been ordered to stay here with my head bowed down and my eyes closed…I can't even ask if he is there, I've been told not to speak…..He could feel his fingers cramp as they desperately held on to the edge of the mantelpiece. The urge to let go and check for Sherlock was great. But even greater was the need to obey, because Sherlock has ordered me too. Victor's words flooded back into his consciousness.
If he wants me to stay in a particular position he just places me in it. I'm bound. I'm bound by the strongest rope that can bind me. The will of my Dom, Sherlock's will. The pleasure of my Dom, Sherlock's pleasure.
So this is what he meant! I couldn't move even if I wanted too, he thought in awe. What else was Victor right about?
Just when he felt that his knees could no longer support him, that all he wanted to do was slide down and crumple into a heap on the carpet, he finally, finally heard Sherlock move. He came and stood by John's side, inches away without actual touching. His voice was firm.
"Settle down, John. Breathe deeply for me."
The unexpected flood of moisture in his eyes took John by surprise. I thought you were gone, you'd left me here….Please, Sherlock, please help…..
"Open your eyes, but keep your head down. Keep breathing deeply. You may moan, you may say my name or you may cry out the names of all the Gods you like. But do not speak, unless I ask you a question. Nod if you understand." Sherlock ordered.
John nodded shakily, that firm voice keeping him anchored, even as a strangled sob escaped his throat. Sherlock hadn't even touched him yet, and he already felt ruined. He opened his eyes and stared down at himself. His brown shoes, his bulging crotch, his chest moving in and out rapidly as he panted, the visible violent trembling of his knees. The empty fireplace looked cold and dead, covered with faint black soot.
A large pale hand came into view and fluttered over the strained denim of his crotch.
"Watch, John. I'm about to give you what you want." Sherlock's voice was pure husky seduction.
John gasped as the hand expertly undid the buttons of his jeans, the sound of the zip being pulled down loud and obscene. Gentle fingers pulled down his pants till his erect leaking cock and his balls were exposed; Sherlock adjusted his pants so that the elastic band cradled just below his balls, pulled tight underneath. A warm palm cupped his balls and rolled them around gently.
"Sherlock….." John moaned, his eyes closing of their own accord with sheer pleasure.
"Eyes open, John," Sherlock reminded him, stilling his hand till his order was obeyed. "Watch."
Sherlock's hand moved again, tugging at the full testicles, a thumb caressing them with firm strokes as his palm cupped them. "Full. Ready to shoot their load….waiting for me to do this…." The hand moved to fist the hard cock.
"Oh God, Sherlock," John cried out loudly.
Sherlock's grip was firm but gentle. He moved closer, almost covering John's back, still managing to keep some space between them. His left hand moved to hold John's left hip, the grip firm but without digging his fingers in. He bowed his head slightly, his lips whispering obscenities directly into John's ear.
"Look John, see how your cock looks in my hand." He stood just holding the cock, neither stroking nor squeezing.
John looked down at his wet hard cock in Sherlock's fist, just the cockhead jutting out, leaking with need….long, slim, bony fingers curved around the thick length….the fair delicate wrist. Hot, hot….why is everything so hot? John felt hyperaware of everything, as though time had stopped, as though his awareness had expanded, as though he was out of his body watching something in slow motion. Sherlock's fingers light on his hips….. Sherlock's body warmth transferring to him in waves of delicious heat…the occasional brush of Sherlock's chest wall against his back as he inhaled…Sherlock's smell—the smell of his aftershave and his body, like a pheromone mix specially created to drive John crazy with lust… the small puffs of air coming out of Sherlock's nose as he breathed.
"I could touch you like this every day, John. Bring you off with my hands. Is that what you want?" the husky baritone murmured lazily in his ear. John's cock twitched and jerked of its own accord.
And then Sherlock finally started stroking, that talented wrist flicking to move the hand along John's length, the thumb gathering moisture from the slit and spreading it around. Slow, languid strokes mixed with squeezes of the shaft.
"Oh….hun….Jesus…..Oh God…..Sherlock…" John gasped and moaned as jolts of pleasure coursed through him.
John's cock leaked more and soon squelching sounds accompanied his moans. it sounded like a filthy, pornographic movie were playing at loud volume.
"Hun….hun…oh God…oohh….hun...Sherlock….please…oh God, Sherlock"
"Or would you like me to bring you off with my mouth, John? I've been told I am spectacularly good with it…that my lips are beautiful, they're made to stretch around a hard cock….Would you like to see what they look like while they service your cock, John? Is that what you want?"
"Please…..please, Sherlock…oh my God…." John was whimpering now, his hips wanting to move, fuck Sherlock's fist. But they were held back by Sherlock's unrelenting grip on his hip, fixing him in place.
Sherlock strokes were getting faster, the head of John's cock appearing and disappearing within his fist as the foreskin rolled over with every flick of his wrist.
"Or perhaps you would like me to prep myself daily, get my arsehole slick and ready for you to fuck….well, since as you said I might not be man enough to fuck you? Hmmm… Would you like to fuck me, John?"
John felt torn, like he was dying, a deep disconnect between his body and his soul.
On the one hand his mind and body were at the most dizzying level of arousal he had ever been in; his cock was twitching and jerking, his balls tight and ready, every muscle was contracted as he raced towards completion; his mind effortlessly conjuring the lewd images that Sherlock's word-pictures painted ….. he could feel his orgasm build as Sherlock's fist now stroked him from root to tip….. On the other hand, Sherlock's words were exploding in his psyche with the power of miniature acid bombs…the sheer wrongness of it all…no, no, Sherlock, not like this…this is not what I wanted…..this is not what I meant…..for you to pleasure me….to masturbate me fully clothed with only my dick hanging out. His body was relentlessly moving towards the most intense orgasm of his life while his soul was sobbing…..not like this, not like this….
Every nerve ending felt like it had caught fire, he felt like he had been riding on the crest of this orgasm forever, never to find completion. He sobbed out in despair, "Please help, please Sherlock…please Sherlock…..."
Soft, gloriously velvety lips pressed against his temple. "That's it. Keep your eyes open. You can come now, John. Come for me." The words were murmured in a tender, caressing tone as Sherlock gave a deft flick and squeezed and John erupted.
"SHERLOCK! Oh God….oh God….Oh my God, oh fuck," The first ribbon of hot semen shot straight into the fire-place. The next few painted Sherlock's hand, even as he continued to milk John till the last drop.
John held his head down, gasping for air like a drowning person who has just been saved, relief and pleasure at his climax surging in powerful waves through him. His blank eyes stared at Sherlock's hand, the white, viscous fluid pooled in his cupped palm, held under John's still weakly dripping cock.
It was several moments before his thudding heart and heaving chest regained some measure of normalcy. He slowly became aware of his surroundings and that Sherlock still stood there, immobile with his palm still dripping with John's semen… Fuck...did I really come that much?...Sherlock has not come…what can I do? Should I give him a hand-job too? Perhaps he'll let me give him a blow-job? I can barely stand, don't know if I'll be able to do it….have never done it before….easiest if he just fucks me….don't have to be conscious for that, just lie there and let him take what he wants…..will my knees ever stop trembling? Maybe if I ask, he'll tell me how he wants me to make him come….can I take my hands off the mantelpiece now?
Slowly he let go of the mantelpiece with one hand and moved it towards Sherlock's crotch, unsure if he needed to ask permission to move. Only to find his wrist caught in the vice-like grip of Sherlock's free hand almost immediately.
John looked up in confusion.
"Never without my permission." Sherlock's face was an impassive mask, his eyes cold. "Put your hand back where it is supposed to be," he said, releasing his grip on John's wrist.
John moved to hold the mantelpiece again, a sudden spurt of tears of overwhelming humiliation flooded his eyes. Sherlock stepped back, hand still cupping John's come. And watched closely.
John stood with his head bowed, his now limp cock hanging out of his jeans, tears in his eyes. What just happened? I wanted him to touch me….and he did….why do I not feel happy, sated? I need for him to feel pleasure, to have an orgasm with me….this has no meaning if he is not pleased….this is not right, it's not enough…..Sherlock waited till the breathing had calmed down, till the tremor in the knees had subsided, till the shoulders had stopped shaking.
"I want you to let go of the mantelpiece, John. Stand straight. And when you feel that you can maintain your balance, tuck yourself in and come here." The instructions were clear, the tone firm and commanding.
John let go of his grip slowly, having to really work at it as his fingers seemed to have gone into spasm with their crushing grip of the marble. He stood and moved his legs around, moved his wrists to regain feeling. He adjusted his pants and buttoned his jeans. Slowly he turned around.
He turned and walked towards Sherlock, eyes still staring at the carpet. He felt broken, devastated.
"Be careful what you wish for….."Sherlock's whisper startled John into looking up.
Sherlock stood with his right hand spread away from his body, pointed at the floor, covered with the congealed mess of John's semen, the creamy viscous liquid dripping agonisingly slowly on the carpet.
John met his eyes, those beautiful irises looked hazel and shone in the muted light in the room with that all-knowing gaze that John normally hated. John's face was covered with sweat and tears. He made no effort to hide the wretchedness and humiliation on his face. Where can I hide? He stripped me of everything….I'm naked, laid bare, broken…
He can be lethal, he can eviscerate, Victor had warned, a caution John had chosen to ignore in his ignorant bravado.
"Is this what you wanted, John?" the voice was soft, gentle. "My touch, getting off with me? Me to Dom you and humiliate you? Or perhaps you want me to be your boyfriend, fun, laughter, going out, holding hands, making love, a warm body to sleep next to? The Greek idea of Ludus or playful love."
John looked silently at him with miserable eyes and waited.
"Listen to me very carefully, John. This may be what you want, but it is not what you need. We lived together for eighteen months, sharing everything. It was the best, most fulfilling period of your life. Because you knew you belonged to me. My friend, my blogger, my side-kick, my doctor when I was hurt, my mother when I did not eat, my body guard when I needed protection. There may have been petty annoyances, or bigger threats like Moriarty, but you knew your place was by my side and you revelled in it, you glowed with confidence. The confidence that came from knowing you were an integral part of Sherlock Holmes."
John stared with wide eyes, the words seemed to resonate exactly with his innermost thoughts and experiences.
"Then I jumped….." Sherlock drew closer and looked down at John, his eyes seemed to bore right through John's soul, the focus was so intense. "It almost destroyed you. Your identity was gone. Who is John Watson without Sherlock Holmes? You found Mary and decided to get on with life. But within yourself the sentiment you had for me had morphed. From friendship and camaraderie to desire, need, love. From Philia to Eros….. what we had before couldn't possibly give full expression to the wealth of sentiment you feel for me now."
The wretchedness dropped off John's face as he focussed on what was being said, drinking in the words with a frown on his face.
Sherlock's eyes flicked all over John's face, intense with the need to make John see. "Your fundamental need is still the same. John, you don't need sex, you don't need romance. You need to belong. To know that you are integral to something bigger. To know your place in life without doubts. To know that you're home. You're mine, John. And I….." He paused to take a breath, and his voice wavered for the first time that evening. "I am your home. But your trust issuesarepreventing you from letting go completely. You need to reach within you and fight that which holds you back."
They stood looking at each other for several moments.
John's cry was the anguished cry of a tortured soul when it came, "I can't!"
Sherlock clenched his teeth as he absorbed the impact of those two words within himself.
John's voice was strangled with grief when he continued, "I'm scared, Sherlock. It frightens me," he cried out. "I can't. I can't let go totally. Sorry…. I just can't." He shook his head with frustration. "Don't you think I've tried? You are in my head, ALL the time. Ever since I met you, you've been the centre of my universe, the Sun around which I orbit. To let go totally, give up all control…...there will be nothing left of me… You left me. For two years. It was as if the John Watson I knew ceased to exist. How can I trust that you won't leave again? Get tired of me? I have to protect myself."
"For those two years I was working to protect you. I may not have been physically with you, but you were with me constantly, John….. But if you can't find it in yourself to let go, then there is nothing I can do; this is your choice, your decision, your surrender. I can only show you."
Sherlock took a deep breath and hung his head down in defeat, his shoulders slumped.
All this….. What a magnificent waste…..all this sentiment, everything is in place, but he won't take that final step. What can I do? Nothing….. He thought dejectedly, the sadness writ all over his countenance.
"No….NO…" John's cry was reflexive. Sherlock looked up frowning.
And then for the first time in a very long time John Watson surprised him. Before he could react, John had stepped forward and embraced him. John's head was on Sherlock's chest, his hand gripping his already tight shirt in a desperate grip, murmuring words against his chest, "You can't give up on me, Sherlock. On us. I will try. Help me, please."
After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock's left arm came up to hold John close. It was not the touch of a lover but a friend's embrace- strong, unflinching, rock-solid.
John desperately held on, taking comfort from the strong arm around him, the steady loud heart-beat under his ears, burying his nose into the nape of Sherlock's neck and breathing him in as though his life depended on it. They stood quietly for some time.
And finally gentle fingers rose to John's head and stroked his scalp, his short hair. Soft lips pressed again and again on his forehead. A soothing, deep voice murmured against his temple, "It is going to be alright…. Give it time….I'm not going anywhere, my love."
John froze at first at the unexpected endearment. He looked up in wonder, his eyes darting searchingly all over Sherlock's face. Sherlock never says something he does not mean to say. Sherlock looked down at the eager face turned towards him. John was seeking confirmation desperately, leaning forwards, his lips begging to be kissed. He smiled reassuringly and murmured, "Not yet, John. When the time is right."
He tightened his arm and pulled John closer. John allowed the promise in Sherlock's words to permeate into his tortured soul as he melted into Sherlock's arms and sighed…..yes, yes…..for this I can do anything…I will try harder, Sherlock, to let go…..
It had been a long, emotional day.
He stood there for a long time in his friend's arms, body limp, mind blank but at peace. Finally.