John sat sprawled on his chair, his lolling head supported by one hand, absently staring at the television with heavy lidded sleepy eyes. The soothing voice of David Attenborough droned in the background, the television was bathed in a blue hue as all manner of exotic sea creatures moved about in the deep ocean.
He had woken up this morning to find the flat Sherlock-less and a brief message on his phone.
I am at the Yard. Rest. Take some more pain-killers. Will come to get you after lunch. May need your help later for this case. – SH
He'd spent all morning like a love-struck teenager, moving around the empty flat in a trance….touching things, Sherlock's things, smelling his pillow, running fingers over his chair and thinking about the previous night. It would have felt like the most hedonistic, wild dream that his rabid mind had conjured up out of thin air due to desperate longing, if not for the soreness in his arse that made itself known every time he moved.
He had replayed every single act, every word out of Sherlock's mouth, every sound they'd made, every visual of Sherlock's naked body in his mind's eye. He remembered his stuporous mumbling in Sherlock's arms on the sofa, saying that it had been nothing like vanilla sex or rough sex or love-making. He had pondered over an apt descriptor of what the fuck had happened last night…the closest that he had finally gotten was…. Possession? Everything that Sherlock had done and said screamed of ownership…like an owner taking what was his due, his right. A Master using his possession. Not the touch of a lover, but that of a Dom… And why is that not humiliating? Why does it feel right….. as if that is the way it is meant to be?
He'd stood under the hot shower, revelling in the massage provided by the powerful jets of the shower head that Sherlock had insisted on installing all those years ago when they'd moved into 221B. He may neglect his bodily needs when he's immersed in his mind, but fuck if he's not a sensual being at heart…..Look at his clothes, his bedding, the way he plays his music, and this bloody shower…..
After gently cleaning himself between his cheeks, shit that stings….his hands had moved to his cock. He'd been walking around in a semi-aroused state all morning, as image after erotic image replayed in his mind. He stroked his cock, it felt good to finally get the edge off. Can I bring myself off? Did he say anything about being allowed to masturbate? He did say I cannot come without permission when he's fucking me…..what about when I'm alone? I need to ask him…
His hand got faster as he recalled the sheer fullness of Sherlock's impressive cock wedged deep inside him, the jolts of pleasure when it had rammed into his swollen prostate repeatedly and left him quivering and delirious under the gaze of the most observant man on earth. What did I look like to him? Spread out…..begging for his cock…..
His hand was merely a blur now as his orgasm built…his mind now zoned in on Sherlock's eyes, fiery and dominant, the sound of his voice as it had growled John's name in that final unguarded moment, the slight bow of his head as he was trapped by his orgasm, just raw animal reaction and finally spilt his seed inside John…..and suddenly John was coming, one hand clawing at the bathroom tiles in desperate search for support as his legs shook underneath him.
Later, he had rustled up some lack-lustre food from the pantry and eaten absently. And now lay semi-comatose as he listened to the hypnotic voice of Sir Attenborough and dozed off.
The sound of Sherlock's shoes thundering up the steps woke him up with a jerk.
Striding into the room, Sherlock spoke as he shrugged off his coat and hung it behind the door.
"John, we need to leave in an hour. I've got Molly conducting some tests, they should be ready by then. We'll go to Bart's first, I asked her to wait till we arrive to do the autopsy. And Lestrade is waiting at the Yard…"
John shot up from where he was nestled in the bosom of his favourite chair, as soon as he had heard Sherlock, even before he knew what he was doing. His face coloured as Sherlock turned towards him and observed the posture, the straight back as if standing in attention, hands hanging by his sides.
Why the fuck did I just do that? Was I supposed to stand?
John looked at Sherlock's face, his eyes wide in disbelief as a stunned realisation passed through him…..Sherlock Holmes fucked me last night! This exquisite man held me in his arms last night…. He swallowed.
Sherlock's expression softened as he neared and looked at John, his head tilted, eyes crinkled with approval. Gentle fingers lifted John's chin as he bent his head to touch his lips to John's. He drew back smiling, "You don't have to do this, John. Although I do appreciate the gesture. But you live here; it will get very old, very quickly if I have you standing or kneeling for me all the time."
"I….. I didn't even realise I was going to stand up. It just sort of…..happened," John explained haltingly, wonder in his voice.
Sherlock's smile broadened, "I know. And that's just the way I like it."
John frowned, "What do you mean?"
"Come here," Sherlock said softly, pulling John into his arms, holding him close.
"I meant that these little spontaneous gestures that you will make as my Sub. Those are the gestures I want. There will be times when I'll order you down on your knees. And you will obey. But these are the ones nearest to my heart, when they come from your state of being. The way you knelt for me yesterday."
John nuzzled closer, delighting in feeling those arms around him, raising his head to burying his nose into Sherlock's neck and just breathe, breathe in deeply that heady aroma that stirred all manner of emotions in him….safety, love, submission, belonging…home….
Sherlock's chuckle was a rumble, his voice full of fond indulgence, "You really like scenting my neck, John."
John nodded, his hair brushing against the arm Sherlock had around him.
"I can't explain it," he mumbled against Sherlock's skin. "It makes me feel like I'm… at home."
"I'm glad," Sherlock murmured as he stood there, head obligingly bent over, lips lightly grazing John's temple. His arms tightened around John.
Finally, he pulled John away and cupped his face with his hands. John looked up at eyes that shone with intent, meaning.
"John, listen to me very carefully. This will always be available to you. No matter what happens from hereon in, no matter where this relationship goes, whether it succeeds or you chose to walk away, I need you to know that this source of succour, of comfort, of belonging is always yours, whenever you need it. There will be no questions asked, no matter how much time has gone by or indeed what terms you left in."
John's cry was instinctive, distressed, "Why? Why would you say that? As if we are going to part…"
Sherlock shrugged an elegant shoulder, "Well, you could get tired of being a Submissive. You could get bored with it all. Things can change….they sometimes do."
"But why only me? It could also be you who walks away!"
"No, I can't." In that instant Sherlock's face transformed into something ageless, as though wisdom that transcended time had taken a physical form. His voice was soft as he continued.
"I am your Dom, John. I have accepted the responsibility for you, your fulfilment. You can walk away. I have to always be there for you. If we part, it will always be because you moved."
John frowned as he mulled over this. Sherlock stood there patiently, one hand covering John's neck, his thumb gently moving over his jaw.
"I…..I don't understand, Sherlock. I had thought that being a Dom meant dominating someone, you know? Everything I've seen, read….it is always about fucking, hurting, controlling…what you are saying….." John shook his head. "It's not about sex to you at all, is it? You had said…..I did not understand...I still don't think I do….."
Sherlock's smile was an enigma as he bent down to rub his nose gently to John's, "It is not about sex. Sex is just a tool we will use to explore greater and greater depths of Submission, a physical expression of a very spiritual surrender."
John's eyes were wide, "I…..I don't understand."
Sherlock chuckled as he pulled John into his arms again, "You will. Have patience." His hand moved down from John's back to cup his ass possessively, "I was rough with you last night. How is your anus? Much pain?"
John grinned impishly, "It's manageable. I took some paracetamol. And I've had a fair share of cereal. Need to keep the fibre up from now on, I think. Have to buy more fruits, veggies."
Sherlock grinned back and slapped his arse playfully, "You're a doctor, John. You'll figure it out. Now get ready, we have to go."
John fidgeted as he rubbed his cheek on the soft cotton of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, enjoying the feel of the taut thigh muscles under him, yearning for something, anything….
It had been four whole days since Sherlock had touched him with sexual intent!
He had been more than generous with other touches; tender kisses to John's temple at random times, fingers gently stroking his nape, embraces that came out of nowhere. But mostly life carried on as though that night had never happened. He was out and about a lot, going to the Yard and St Barts, discussing cases at home with John. They still ate takeaway and John listened with amusement as Sherlock fired choice invectives at television programs.
But no sex…..not a whiff of it…..
As though John's entire world had not just been turned upside down.
Now John lay on the sofa, with his head on Sherlock's lap as Sherlock worked away on his computer perched on the sofa side rest, his fingers a blur, his blue-grey eyes focused on the screen, ignoring John.
John was nearly panting with need. So fucking close…his cock is right there, can feel its outline against my cheek….why am I not allowed to pull his pyjama bottoms down and lean in for a deep breath…. want to taste him, suck him….. Why the fuck is he not aroused….how can he stand it, knowing I'm here, waiting and willing to be taken…..if it were me in his place, I would have fucked a willing partner a dozen times by now….two dozen times….shit it's been four whole days…
Eyes on the laptop screen and still working with one hand, Sherlock lowered his other hand towards John. A broad palm came down and wrapped itself around John's throat. A warning squeeze over his windpipe, before just resting on John's neck, the touch firm.
"Settle."
The grip was not really threatening but coupled with that stern, you-will-obey-me voice it made John's eyes widen with excitement, a faint curling spiral of fear moving through his chest even as he subsided feeling like a dog who'd been called to heel.
I don't want to fucking settle down, Sherlock. John thought sullenly. I want you to fuck me. So many things we could do…..I want to feel you spanking me, use your fucking riding crop, hurt me….I need to know what that feels like….I want you to Dom me, order me around…..never realised I had such a kink for taking fucking orders…..or maybe it is just you….do something, Sherlock before I explode…..Who does this? Give someone the best fuck of their life and then make them wait…
"Hush, John. You think too much and much too loudly," Sherlock murmured absently.
"Sherlock…..can't we just…."
Sherlock flicked his eyes to look at John briefly, before resuming his work.
"In a minute. Just let me send this email."
John waited impatiently.
It was a few minutes before Sherlock closed his laptop and leaned forward to put it over the coffee table, the movement causing his belly to press against John's face, who lay there wanting to be cocooned in that warmth for fucking forever…..
Sherlock pulled him up in his arms.
"You were saying…." He prompted.
John was suddenly tongue-tied as he looked into mesmerizing blue-grey eyes that looked indulgently at him….let me suck you, fuck me…I need to feel what I felt again, you inside me…
Sherlock smirked and leaned forwards slowly to kiss John. Delicious hot breaths fanned John as Sherlock exhaled into his mouth, a playful pink tongue jostled his soon pushing him back as it took a leisurely tour of John's mouth. John sighed in his arms…..finally. He drank in the smell of Sherlock, feeling the soft brush of his curls on his face. Sherlock's growl was approving as he deepened the kiss.
John's fists were gripping his shirt, twisting and turning as his body arched into Sherlock's, his breathing getting laboured, his dick standing in attention…..please, please…..Sherlock's hand strayed to his neck and throat, gripping possessively, controlling John's neck movements while his lips still moved in an erotic dance in slow motion with John's lips, tongues tasting, lips sliding, teeth gently nipping. John was swaying and bucking in his arms, thighs straining as his hips bucked up searching for friction.
Sherlock slowly moved back, his eyes dark as they looked at the hunger in John's eyes.
Slowly he shook his head as though trying to clear it, his voice a dry rasp, "John, listen to me. What you experienced that first night was intense. It takes some time for the mind to assimilate it. Besides you've just started work after such a long absence and recovery from a major injury. Give it time."
John twisted his hands some more as he pulled at Sherlock's shirt, wrinkling the expensive fabric as he breathed, "Please….I need it….need you."
"So eager, John," Sherlock said as he gently pulled John's fingers from his shirt.
Sherlock pushed him down on the sofa and then loomed above him, his knees bracketed on both sides of his thighs, eyes pinning John down. His finger's strayed down to undo the zip and grip John's cock.
"This is what you want, what you crave?"
"Sherlock….." John moaned loudly, as his body quivered under that expert touch, like a man who had a raging fever.
Sherlock answered with a quiet murmur of pleasure, "So eager for my touch."
His fingers stroked the sensitive underside of John's cock, then gripped and pumped with a firm sure rhythm.
John's fingers were cramped as they held on to Sherlock's shirt again, wrinkling it beyond recognition as his hips swayed and bucked up, finally falling apart in mute invitation…fuck me…please fuck me….. Sherlock's strokes now making hot flames lick his balls and all he wanted to do was chase his release.
"Fuck, Sherlock…..please have me…..please, not like this…..with you inside me…..I'll come, Sherlock," he pleaded.
Strong fingers moved to John's hair, gripping it and yanking his head back, reining him like a stallion.
"You will wait. Till you have permission."
John's cock jumped and throbbed at the command, hard and fat, pulsing up with pleasure. Sherlock grip tightened and the strokes became faster as his tongue fucked John's mouth relentlessly, even as John made noises of wordless pleas and shook under him.
John teetered at the edge, so afraid of falling over and yet everything in him wanted to fall. His eyes widened as he whispered against Sherlock's mouth, "Please."
Sherlock stared back at him, one hand controlling his head with his hair, the other wrapped around his cock as he stroked and finally just as John's control began to fray, he ordered.
"Come."
And John's climax exploded from him, so violently that his head reared back, his scalp pulled by the grip Sherlock had on his hair. Sherlock let go of his head and bent down to hold the shuddering body, his hand still stroking gently till the last of the spasms died down.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John laughed, panting.
"Happy now?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow raised.
John gasped out, "What about you?"
With his free hand Sherlock pushed himself off the sofa and stood up, all grace and agility.
"That can wait." His fingers brushed John's hair softly, "Go to sleep, you have an early start tomorrow."
He walked to the kitchen to wash his cum-soaked hands.
"Will you come to bed too?" John called out, as he slowly got up, unsurprised to find his legs a bit shaky. He followed Sherlock into the kitchen.
"Later. If I need to sleep. Good night, John."
His eyes followed John into the bedroom. Shaking his hands to get the water dried, he slumped on his chair, frowning. Stupid…..stupid…You can either be his Dom or his lover, not both…..don't forget the end game in your desires….. you are setting all sorts of bad precedents here…..the Dom chided the Man….. but I don't quite know how to say no to him. And that is not a good thing for us in the long term…
He sat there in deep thought until the urge to go and claim what was his became too intense.
"Aahhhh….." he growled with frustration as he rubbed his hair with his hands, before getting up and going into the bedroom.
It was only a quarter of an hour later that Sherlock walked into the bedroom. John was lying on the bed, awake and staring up at the ceiling, replaying every moment of what Sherlock had just done to him. His cock was sated, he felt deliciously drugged and at peace. His head turned at hearing the door open, staring at Sherlock's silhouette in the moonlight streaming through the window. Yes, please….come to bed….hold me….
"Stay still. Be quiet." The order was given in a quiet murmur.
John's heart stuttered and then raced.
Sherlock undressed fully and then switched on the muted light on the side table.
He got into bed, pulling the duvet over both of them, spooning John from behind.
John took a sharp breath as he felt the naked body curled up to his back, the hard jutting erection poking into his behind.
Sherlock held John and murmured, "I dislike having sex in the dark. Sex is a sensual activity, John. All the senses must be allowed a chance to input the sensations to one's brain."
He rutted against John lazily, for a while.
"Turn," he instructed as he pushed John to his back. "Scoot down a bit."
John turned, his eyes drinking in the sight of Sherlock's naked body, that long, thick cock jutting forwards. Ohmygod…..he's going to fuck me …yes, dear God…..fuck…..
Sherlock sat up on his knees and positioned himself till his knees were digging into John's shoulders, his arse resting lightly over John's chest. An indolent finger moved over John's lips…..swirl, round….swirl, round.
"For instance, you need to be able to smell me, inhale deeply," the words drawled out in that husky whisper and John's cock leaped with excitement. Sherlock leaned over till his groin was positioned over John's face and then slowly lowered his thighs.
John suddenly found his face, his nose engulfed by the throbbing steel length of that huge cock and the tight dark curls that surrounded it. He breathed in deeply like a man starved of oxygen. Sniffing, inhaling, trying to memorise the smell…..Sherlock, citrus soap, arousal, sweat…..Sherlock. His nostrils flared, his neurons and synapses working at a frantic pace to embed the smell forever into his brain. Which is better, the neck or his cock…I could die happily here…
Sherlock chuckled, "You like that, John? Like scenting me? Would you like a taste?"
He lifted himself, playful eyes looking at the awed look on John's face. A pink tongue ran lazily over his lips, as with one hand he slowly stroked himself.
John looked up from his vantage point, beauty in everything he saw.
From the testicles hanging down, to the heavy length in Sherlock's hand, to the taut abdomen, the trail of sparse dark hair from the navel down to the thick curly thatch of pubic hair, from the pink pebbled nipples to the flexing arms. And then there was the face. Christ…just fucking look at him. The thick curly hair, like a lion's mane, the straight aristocratic nose, the sensuous set of his mouth. And finally the eyes. John wished he was a poet, how does one describe his eyes…..never the same…..they say eyes are the window to the universe. His eyes ARE the fucking Universe…all the beauty, all the flashing intelligence, all the knowledge of this entire fucking Universe…..
Sherlock's hands moved down to grab John's and pin them above his head.
"Hold them there. I give, you take. That's how this works."
He nuzzled John's throat briefly, before raising himself again.
"Open," he said, as he fed his thick, long cock between John's eagerly waiting lips.
John's mouth stretched as the velvet steel of Sherlock's cock entered him, trying frantically to recall how he'd received blow jobs in the past, what he needed to do. Suck, yes…He hollowed his cheeks as he sucked. Lick, yes…his tongue eagerly lapped the salty, bitter pre-cum. Breathe, breathe….don't forget to breathe…..Oh sweet Jesus, I've Sherlock's cock in my mouth…..
Sherlock watched his efforts indulgently. He was aware that his cock was sizeable enough to gag most Subs. And that John would take time to learn how to deep-throat him, how to relax. Part of him wanted to thrust in anyways, push his cock into his throat, savour the strong spasms of the throat muscles against his cock ….but he was aware that this was an act of deep and true Submission…..John was just not ready yet.
He pulled back till just the cock head was just inside.
"Suck. Hollow out your cheeks. Good boy," he murmured. "Lick the slit…..that's it."
He pushed in a bit deeper.
"Swirl your tongue…..doing well, John." He watched John as he instructed enjoying the amateurish efforts, the enthusiasm. "Press your tongue to the underside…..so good….yes, just like that."
One hand came down to support John's head, the other still holding his cock as he started rocking in and out, bobbing John's head in tandem. John's eyes had closed as he concentrated on his efforts, disbelief at what he was doing, to whom he was doing it to still coursing through him. His mouth revelled in the feel of the soft fragile skin moving over a very turgid organ, his nostrils were busy inhaling the smell of Sherlock's arousal. Sherlock's little gasps and moans were like music to his ears, the knowledge that he was the one bringing him pleasure heady, intoxicating.
"Look at me when you suck me, John," Sherlock instructed, his voice husky. He was thrusting shallowly, enjoying himself.
John's eyes flew open to stare at Sherlock's fully blown pupils, looking down with satisfaction. They widened in alarm as Sherlock pushed in a bit more, his mouth stretched to its limits, a gag frighteningly imminent. And perversely a part of him wanted Sherlock to thrust him, show him that he could take it, wanting to bring him pleasure.
"Shhh….." Sherlock withdrew himself completely and let go of his grip on John's head. "Not today."
He slid off and lied down behind John again, spooning him, rearranging them, till John's head rested on his outstretched arm. The other hand gently flexed the upper thigh, till it was parallel to John's body. Gentle fingers wet with lube started to open John up for him.
"Just my name…..today I want just my name on your lips. No words, no moans, no whimpering. Just….Sherlock," Sherlock ordered in a low voice as he positioned his cock and started to breach him.
"Sherlock….." John cried out as the hard length stretched him, instinctively clutching at Sherlock's hand, needing an anchor.
Sherlock thrusts were shallow, rocking as he leaned over and nuzzled John's neck, "So good…..so good for me, John"
"Sherlock…." John moaned as he felt that fullness inside him again, withdrawing then plunging in, not deep enough to hurt.
Sherlock set up a lazy rhythm, slow, gentle rocking….dipping just the first few inches, letting John get used to it, while enjoying the hard clench of the sphincter muscles against the sensitive nerve endings of his cockhead.
John breathed in and out deeply, starting to enjoy the rocking movements. His dick was too sated to be up for another round. But it felt good to have Sherlock's arms around him. But it wasn't enough.
He turned his head and whispered pleadingly, "Sherlock….."
Sherlock's hand came up to brush his hair back, he smiled, "You need to see me….I know…Okay."
Keeping John on his side, he mounted him, scissoring the straight leg between his, pushing the bent upper leg higher with his thigh and resumed thrusting. He bent down and kissed John's face, skin now moist with sweat. Light caresses to his forehead, temple, lips. He nuzzled John's neck, licking that spot beneath his earlobes that was such a trigger area.
"Sherlock….." John sighed.
All the while Sherlock's hips moved, now plunging deeper, but still slow, unhurried, as he took his pleasure.
John looked at him, suddenly, fiercely glad that he had come just minutes before. Because now he could really enjoy without the distraction of the clamouring urgency for his own release; the warmth of Sherlock's embrace, the drunk aroused look in his eyes, the soft puffs of breath blowing against his skin, the smell of Sherlock's breath, the gentle clasp of his fingers as they lay entwined with John's, the tender strokes of Sherlock's hands over his head, the squelching sounds of the lube as Sherlock speeded up, the small gasps and moans of pleasure that escaped him as his hips moved, his cock fucked John.
"Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock….." a litany of his name fell from his lips in quiet little gasps as he watched his Dom take his pleasure from his body.
Sherlock straightened and knelt up as his hands parted John's cheeks and he watched his glistening cock move in and out. A hard, raw moan escaped his throat as he speeded up, watching the in and out pistoning motion, the way John opened up for him.
Bending over again, he gasped, "John…..John, I'm….." as he slammed in a few times and then stopped, face buried in John's neck as he let go and came. Liquid heat flooded John on the inside as he felt the hot panting breaths against his ear, Sherlock moaning his name again and again as he pulsed, the delicate tremble in the thighs that caged his body…
Christ, so beautiful….What are you doing to me, Sherlock? Victor was right….there is much more joy in giving you pleasure than chasing it for myself…..
"Sherlock…."
Sherlock slid out and rolled back till he was holding John again.
Gentle hands cradled his head, passed his fingers through John's hair, "You were so good for me, John. So good….."
Mycroft glanced at his watch again and rolled his eyes. For the love of God! The boy really does love his showers!
It had been twenty minutes since Sherlock had excused himself to take a quick bath. Having set aside most of his appointments for the day before he had arrived at 221B, Mycroft had acquiesced. It was the first time since John was brought back home from the hospital that he had had some time and Sherlock was alone at home, John having left for work. Mycroft seized the opportunity to spend some time alone with his brother.
A sneaking suspicion that matters between Sherlock and John had come to a head had been growing in his mind. The CCTV footage of John running chores had shown the face of a preoccupied man who'd had a life-changing revelation. One glance at Sherlock upon his arrival clinched his conclusions.
Sherlock did not seem keen to share though, and so they'd talked about the Geneva case and it's aftermath. Mycroft had brought out two new cases he wished for Sherlock to look into. He tended to always keep himself equipped with interesting little cases to use as excuses to touch base with his brother, an excuse to enjoy Sherlock's company. "I hate legwork" had long become a synonym for "I've missed you, I need to know you are okay, can we just be together for some time…just BE….the madness of the world is getting to me…..I need to talk to an equal…."
Wonder how Dr Watson is coping with the changed circumstances. Subconsciously his hands came up to steeple under his chin, emulating his brother's favourite pose. Sherlock is being awfully cagey about it. I wish I could have John visit me again and put the fear of God in him. His jaw tightened. If he hurts Sherlock again, I'll personally break both his legs…..I'll …I'll destroy him. He shook his head wryly. No, you won't. Sherlock would never allow it. And isn't that what we all do? What Sherlock wants!
He put his hands on the arm rest and slouched back a bit. I wonder what he sees in them? How does he pick them…David….Adrian…..John…..Victor….so many over the years…..
At the thought of Victor, his mind travelled to the past.
He still remembered all those years ago when he'd set his eyes on Victor for the first time. Attractive, boyish looking, haunted eyes that reflected the poignant vulnerability of a tragic combination of youth, a homosexual orientation uniformly rejected at home and derided at his college and a sexually submissive nature. One that had led him to be preyed on by the predatory mindless hyenas in the form of his colleagues, who used him for their enjoyment at night while vociferously proclaiming their own heterosexuality and vocally abusing him during the day, tearing into his innocence day in, day out, till only pieces of him remained.
The first he had known about him was when this young man had suddenly moved in with Sherlock. Mycroft continued to watch from afar in bafflement as he lived with Sherlock in their tiny one bedroom flat for six months. Victor regained a healthy weight and started attending college regularly, looked less haunted as he flourished under Sherlock's tutelage. But he still harboured that lost look and Mycroft knew from his visits to the flat, that he was not intimate with his brother.
And then suddenly, at the six month mark, something had happened. Something that led Victor to quit college and take up his art seriously. It was like he had miraculously managed to break the shackles of all that had bound him for years and soar, both as a young man and a staggering new talent that had burst into the art world.
Mycroft remembered Sherlock dragging him to their humble flat to show off Victor's work. He had been awe-struck at the immaculate beauty, the soul, the dazzling spiritual beauty in those paintings. And had gladly agreed to help Sherlock garner interest amongst the art galleries and critics. He himself had purchased two paintings which now adorned the walls of his house.
Victor had since then made an international name for himself, his art sold itself, the art critics waxed lyrical about the soul- rendering qualities of his paintings as they seemed to move them to tears of joy. He was young, independent, a millionaire several times over and most of all still belonged to Sherlock.
The sound of the bathroom door opening pulled Mycroft back into the present. He straightened up and contrived to look bored.
Vigorously towelling his hair dry, Sherlock walked in wearing his pyjama bottoms and a ratty t-shirt. He smirked as he caught Mycroft's expression, sitting down on his chair as he spoke.
"The hot water finally ran out."
Mycroft snorted, "Well, thank God for that." He raised his eyebrows and tried to sound flippant.
"I do believe congratulations are in order?"
Sherlock had been sitting there digging a piece of the towel into his ears with his finger, trying to shake the water out. He paused and looked up at Mycroft, green feline eyes flashing from behind his still damp curls.
"Are they?" his husky baritone asked softly.
Mycroft paused and frowned, his eyebrows rose further.
"You tell me."
Sherlock lips quirked up briefly, "Perhaps they are. A long coveted desire fulfilled. But it is too early to rejoice."
Sherlock rose and went to the window and stood looking out silently for several seconds, gaze totally inwards. His finger twisted and worried a corner of his towel absently. His face was thoughtful, reflective.
Finally he took a deep breath, his voice had the intonation of one musing aloud as he spoke.
"The fact is that Submission is not an activity, it is not even an action. It is a state of Being. John needs to slowly learn that. Right now he is like a crack addict who's just had a lick of an ice-cream cone laced with cocaine, an adrenaline junkie who's just jumped out of a mile high plane. He has yet to learn that the both the joy and the pleasure need to flow not from the actions, which are finite, but the inner state of Submission which is infinite."
Mycroft frowned as he mulled over Sherlock's words, even as a part of him smiled….my brother…the philosopher….He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees.
"Then why? Why did you accept him? His submission? If he was not ready?"
Sherlock's smile was one of spontaneous joy as he came and sat back on his beloved chair. He extended one hand, palm up. The index finger of the other hand pressed down on the centre of the palm.
"Because the Submission came from the core, pure and unwavering. Because, both the seeker and what he seeks are true, sincere." His smile faded slowly as he said, "It is my job to nurture that seed, protect it as it grows."
He shook his head slowly, his eyes staring ahead, "And I don't know if I can, Mycroft. I am afraid. Because there is a problem. And it lies with me. I feel ill-equipped, plagued as I am by sentiment, the shared experiences of so many years past, the ups and downs I've been through with him…affection tends to degenerate into a wish, an urge to comply with his desires…to give him what he craves instead of what he needs. And I don't know if I can see my way through the blurred boundaries between the roles I'm meant to play and be the teacher I need to be for him. I wonder if I'll only be supplying an endless source of sexual thrills and thereby get lost in trying to fulfil his expectations, trying to keep him happy and sated, refilling that ice-cream cone constantly…..never quite reaching that state of completeness. And what happens when I fail?"
Mycroft leaned forwards, his eyebrows raised.
"Are you saying he will leave you? John?!"
Sherlock shrugged, "Better that than the alternative. I detest self-righteous sufferance in the name of misguided loyalty. The human mind is fickle, it gets bored, complacent."
Mycroft frowned as he thought this over.
Sherlock flicked his eyes at Mycroft, "The current trajectory can only end in an outcome I dislike; it seems both inevitable and so counterproductive. Whispers of romantic love, a so-called normal relationship, growing attachment and dependency, jealousy, acrimony, tediousness."
He slouched down and laid his head down on the back of his chair and sighed, "Perhaps I'm overthinking it. Dragging a potential outcome in the future into the present, instead of just enjoying what is."
Mycroft found himself rendered speechless for a while. He tried to recall if he'd ever heard doubt in Sherlock's voice before and came up with nothing. It is the one emotion that should never, ever colour Sherlock's voice….EVER ….he thought. Doubt and Sherlock do not belong in the same sentence.
Suddenly restless he stood up and walked to the window, marvelling at how very unsettled he felt. He took a deep breath as he thought furiously for something, anything to remove this lost tone in the voice of his brother. He was acutely aware that he was the only person on Earth that Sherlock would ever voice his doubts to, the onus was now on him to remove that doubt.
Sherlock sat quietly on his chair, head still tilted up, lost in his own thoughts.
It was a while before Mycroft returned to sit in front of Sherlock and asked, "Do you know the most important quality of a great teacher, Sherlock? The one that defines him?"
Sherlock straightened up to look at him with narrowed eyes, gaze sharp, focussed. He stayed silent.
"A great teacher is not one who teaches effectively nor is he the one who uses examples and aids to drive his point home. He is not the one who cares about his pupil nor is he one who works hard for his pupil's success. These are the qualities of a good teacher. But a great teacher, Sherlock, is one who has the ability to come down to his pupil's level and start teaching from that level as he steadily pulls him higher and higher to reach his highest potential."
Sherlock's eyes widened as he listened and then he sat back, hands arranged in a steeple, as he withdrew, went totally inwards, his eyes staring unseeingly at the carpet. Mycroft sat silently watching him, those rapidly moving eyes, knowing the sheer power of the internal intellectual gymnastics Sherlock's mind was performing.
It was a few minutes later, that Sherlock stirred and abruptly stood up. He whirled towards the window and picked up his violin, gentle fingers meticulously tuning it.
His gaze flicked up, his stunning green-blue eyes shining brilliantly.
His voice was pitched low as he murmured, "Any requests?"
Mycroft smiled with relief, with gratification, aware of having been offered the highest form of 'thank-you' that Sherlock bestowed on anyone, a chance to enjoy a performance by one of the most accomplished and passionate violinists in existence.
His pleasure spilled in his voice as he replied, "Anything you fancy, Sherlock."
Sherlock tucked the violin under his chin, closed his eyes and raised his bow.
Mycroft was aware that music was that fountainhead for Sherlock that brought about desired focus, that smoothed troubled thoughts, that warded off mind-numbing boredom and ennui And. for the one fortunate enough to be allowed to witness it, it brought out in a startling way all the beauty, the glory that was Sherlock.
He settled back in John's chair, grateful to be among the chosen ones, as Sherlock started to play, his fingers and body and music moving as one.
And Mycroft breathed in…..the stunning triumvirate of sublime beauty- the man, his intellect and his soul-held together by silken gossamer threads of music so transcendent as it engulfed the beauty, that it blazed forth with blinding brilliance…it seemed to Mycroft that all the wave functions of the Universe had for some time chosen to collapse at this one point and give birth to every single probability that it held in its boundless depths in the form of…... Sherlock……..
He sighed with sheer bliss as he listened and watched his brother.