NOTE: It's nearly 1am and I've uploaded this because I'd promised that I would upload it this week and if I didn't do it now then I'd never do it. So here it is. And it's pretty great. Sorry this one took so long. Nevertheless, I shall deliver. Be warned, there's sex. Though by now you should probably assume that the chapters will contain NSFW content...anyway. Enjoy.
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CHAPTER NINE
It was tantalizing, the feeling of Sherlock's milky white skin. So supple, tender, soft. It made John's fingertips tingle as he let the tentative digits glide down Sherlock's torso, his shirt unbuttoned and open. Sherlock, despite the fact that his eyelids were fluttering with pleasure, lips parted for a sigh, watched very intently. His eyes were fixed on John, John's hands, John's lips, John's movements. John would have to be gentle, so very gentle, if he was to continue with the situation at hand.
John made tiny trails of kisses up and down Sherlock's chest and collar bone, and he buried his face in Sherlock's neck while he caressed his sides, rough thumbs grazing and stroking his ribs. Sherlock shivered. John kissed only a little roughly at his neck, licking tenderly and sucking at the delicate skin. Sherlock would bruise easily, he knew, and he was careful not to suck too hard - though the thought of giving the World's Only Consulting Detective his first hickey made bad, bad thoughts trickle into John Watson's mind.
Things carried on like this for a bit longer, John's hands and fingers spraying across the barren, sheer landscape of Sherlock's chest and belly, his lips pressing to his skin in all areas, his tongue merely tasting the surface. John would not go on unless he was absolutely certain that Sherlock would permit it. He didn't want to end up like he was that afternoon at the flat, confused and quite frankly disappointed.
John glanced over at the open door to the balcony. Wind swept inside, swirled around, tickled their bodies. John smiled against Sherlock's skin.
"Are you ok?" he whispered hotly.
"Yes," Sherlock breathed. John leaned up then for a moment and looked down at the detective. His eyes were wild again, glowing with some foreign desire that didn't have a name, shining luminously with a starry blue-green, a combination of colour and light that John had never seen before. It was like looking at a tiny galaxy, swirling and shifting and begging for him, beckoning for him. John's heart lurched, and he crushed his mouth into the detective's, wrapping his arms around the thin body and pressing it closer to himself.
Sherlock seemed slightly surprised at the sudden surge of contact, but he quickly reciprocated. John let a small moan slip from between their conjoined lips as he broke the threshold and his tongue entered the other man's mouth.
It took him a moment to realize that Sherlock's hands were dancing around him, trying desperately to remove his coat. John aided him, briefly breaking the kiss, and, straddling him once more, John ripped off his coat and jumper, leaving nothing but a thin white t-shirt as a barrier between his flesh and Sherlock's. Sherlock didn't want to wait; he brought his hands up and pressed them to John's chest, kneading his fingers into the fabric, a look of fascination and desire painted on his porcelain face, along with a rather furious blush. He flicked his eyes up at John's, as if to ask permission, but John was way ahead of him, and removed his shirt in a swift motion.
The two stayed themselves for a moment, John perched on top of Sherlock, shirtless and panting and heavily weighted with anticipation, and Sherlock, pinned beneath the doctor, chest bared, heaving, nearly trembling with sensation.
John raked his hands down Sherlock's torso, then bent to hungrily kiss and nip at his flesh, his tongue tracing circles of longing down his skin. Sherlock's breath hitched just slightly when John reached the spot below his naval, where tender flesh and a dusting of hair gave way to deeper intentions. John shot a look up to Sherlock, and Sherlock licked his lips, as if unsure.
"We don't have to," John breathed, resting his hands on the man's hips. "We don't have to do anything." But Sherlock gripped John's wrists then, and squeezed encouragingly.
"Do it," Sherlock said fiercely. "I need this."
John had never heard him sound so desperate, and with a fiery drive, he began to undo Sherlock's belt with unsteady hands, unbutton, unzip.
He pulled the jeans down lanky legs, then trailed his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs, ever so tender and gentle, knowing that the further he got, the more he wanted, the slower he'd have to be.
It was painfully erotic.
Sherlock shuddered at his touch, toes curling as John caressed the backs of his thighs. His boxer briefs were snug around him still, the place between his legs straining for attention. John stared for a moment. He suddenly felt nervous, giddy, shaky. His face reddened.
His face was only inches away from Sherlock's cock.
John looked up at Sherlock, whose eyes were closed and lips were parted. He was begging without speaking, moaning without vocalizing. He wanted this. John had a moment of only brief, very brief hesitance, before he pulled the undergarments down and beheld the sight.
He'd seen Sherlock naked before, obviously, but this time it was different. This time, he seemed so in touch, so personal, so...
But he was, wasn't he? This situation, these actions they shared, it was everything in the sense of touch and personal. John quivered with desire, and gently, very, very gently, slid his hands up from Sherlock's thighs to his hips, tracing circles and drawing very near to his pubic hair, which John observed - with a secret smile - did in fact have traces of red in it, after all.
Sherlock suddenly froze and he twitched.
John stopped and looked at him.
"Wait..." Sherlock was saying, his eyes open and alight and frantic. He didn't look afraid, just...out of his element. Again. John slowly moved his hands off his skin, but Sherlock looked up at him and shook his head.
"I don't want you to stop," Sherlock said. His voice was rough, low, baritone, laced with a craving that was new and alien and oh so delicious. John thought that he would be absolutely fine with hearing Sherlock speak that way to him every night before they made love until the dawn broke over the horizon.
"Just tell me what you want me to do," John said. The words sounded silly in the air. Sherlock suddenly looked very confused, very unsure. John waited, smiling tenderly, vaguely aware that his zipper was struggling against his own growing erection.
After what seemed like eternity, Sherlock's body relaxed, and he looked up at John with a warmer, cobalt emerald gaze.
"I want you to love me."
John's heart nearly broke. He was vaguely aware that he made a small noise, one that apparently caused Sherlock's eye brows to arch and the corners of his mouth to upturn just slightly.
I want you to love me...
"Then I will love you," John said, his voice small and quiet and breathy and almost shaking with the truth of such a declaration, such a profound set of words that were probably the most true, most full and whole-hearted confessions that he had ever let leave his being.
He was filled with a sense of such completion and purpose. To love Sherlock, to hold him and kiss him and make him his own...that was John Watson.
Something cracked, popped, shattered within the room, the air was split with some unknown sense of breakage, and it was too much to wait.
They had embraced the chasm.
The two stared into each others' gaze eternally before John leaned in and kissed Sherlock ferociously once more, running his hands up and down his sides, down his legs, into his hair, grazing just so over his midsection and his now glaringly apparent erection. Sherlock was nearly writhing beneath him, his hands scraping at John's bare back, combing through his hair, tentatively exploring his flesh in all places on his torso, his nimble fingers dancing gracefully across John's skin.
"Take your clothes off," Sherlock breathed into John's ear. "I want to feel more of you."
John merely grunted in affirmation as he worked off his belt and jeans, shimmying out of them with some difficulty. Finally, he sat upright and began pulling off his boxer shorts while Sherlock watched, fascinated. The look in his eyes was not unlike the one he got when he was really interested in a case. Really interested.
John found that he was blushing, slightly nervous and a little embarrassed, but Sherlock's smile reassured him as he was finally rid of all garments.
"Better?" John asked with a shy smile. Sherlock looked at him, flicking his eyes up and down his frame.
"Absolutely," he said, slightly astonished. John smirked and straddled him once more, and this time, their skin rubbed together in the most electrifying way that it made John shiver and Sherlock gasp.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, pressing their skin together, intensity white hot in his veins, and they kissed haphazardly.
John couldn't wait much longer.
He let a hand wander down between Sherlock's legs, and with a short pause, he took hold of Sherlock's member and gave it a single, long stroke.
Sherlock arched his back and gasped, and John froze.
"Too much?" he asked. Sherlock swallowed.
"No...don't stop," he managed. "Please. Don't stop."
John smiled against Sherlock's jawline and nipped playfully as he began to move his hand in long, measurable strokes along Sherlock's length, thoroughly enjoying the sighs and gasps that these actions elicited from the detective. Sherlock's hips then hesitantly began to move with John's motions, and John once again kissed and licked his way down Sherlock's torso, this time not giving a damn whether or not he left a hickey or two along the way.
Now, John Watson had been straight all his life. There was one time, one time in the army when he had been willing to experiment very briefly with his bunk mate, but it was awkward and short lived, and it essentially was joint masturbation. Either way, he had always been on the receiving end of things, which was all fine, but in this case, he was a little inexperienced, and he wasn't sure what to expect. Ironically, he found himself very much wanting to find out.
In short, John Watson had never given a blow job. And he was about to.
With a quick glance to Sherlock, who was lost somewhere in the sensations of John's hands and lips and tongue, John licked his lips and gripped Sherlock's length, and with a final, mental wave good bye to all things heterosexual about him, he opened his mouth and engulfed Sherlock entirely.
And Sherlock made a sound.
It was singularly the most amazing, sexually appealing, electrically arousing, and otherwise inhumanly beautiful sound John had ever heard. He couldn't even classify it as a moan or a gasp or even a shriek. It was just a sound. A sound that erupted from within Sherlock's depths, spilling out from his mouth and into the room, ringing in John's ears. It was incredible, and John in turn responded with a short moan and a long suck. Sherlock gripped the blanket and made another sound, not unlike the previous one, pushing his hips up to meet John's mouth.
With each suck and swirl of the tongue, John pulled more and more sounds from Sherlock's inner being, raw and guttural and utterly gorgeous, and John found himself enjoying the opposite end of the spectrum, perhaps more so than he enjoyed the previous side.
Sherlock gripped John's shoulders, white knuckled and heaving.
"John...God John..."
He was getting close already, and John knew that he should probably stop. Then again, he didn't want to overwhelm the detective.
On that note, it was a little surprising to John that Sherlock was so eager to be doing all this at all. All experience he had had thus far had been wretched, terribly, terribly wretched, and so the fact that Sherlock was not only reciprocating, but initiating made John rather excited, but admittedly, a little confused.
John chose not to think about that, stowing the ideas away for a while and continued sucking on Sherlock's now throbbing erection. Sherlock was moaning, grunting, crying out rather loudly, and his nails were digging into John's back. John gave two or three more long sucks, swirling his tongue generously around for good measure, and then slid his mouth off of Sherlock's length, the bitter taste of Sherlock's pre-cum tingling on his tongue.
"Good?" John asked, licking his lips. Sherlock looked down at him, his eyes frantic with desire.
"Why did you stop?" he rasped. "It was...so...so good..."
John chuckled and placed his hands on either of Sherlock's inner thighs.
"Did you want more?" he asked. "Did you want to go farther?"
Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to respond, but something stopped him, and he just stared with wild fascination at John, mouth slightly agape. John mindlessly trailed his nails up and down Sherlock's inner thighs, waiting.
"Farther..." Sherlock finally breathed, uncertainty splashing briefly across his face. John planted tender kisses along Sherlock's abdomen.
"We don't have to do anything," he said between pecks. "We can stop here. We can keep going. Just tell me what you want."
Sherlock curled his toes and said in a very, very small voice.
"I want you."
John looked up at him and smiled.
"And you have me," he said seductively - dear God, was he really being seductive? - as he gently dragged his nails down Sherlock's sides. Sherlock sighed and tilted his head back, shivering.
John was a bit uncertain himself - not only had he never done anything like this before, he didn't know if Sherlock was ready, even if he seemed like it. But, he figured, if something wasn't good, Sherlock would let him know, and so he proceeded, with newfound fervor, to further explore Sherlock's intimate areas.
He figured that having sex with another man couldn't be far from having sex with a woman in terms of preparation. However, the minor set back was the lack of proper lubrication, which made John hinge his jaw in and lick his bottom lip in thought. While he mulled over the possibilities of how to further their endeavour, he leaned over and sucked at the skin on Sherlock's ribs, licking and nipping gently, knowing full well that he'd be creating a rather nicely sized hickey on the pale flesh while he fondled Sherlock's desperate erection.
"John..." Sherlock said with slight frustration and an eager lift of his hips. John sighed against Sherlock's moistened skin and decided to go all in. What's the worst that could happen? This was all brand new, exciting, different, and as much as all his moral sirens were sounding and as much as he was confusing himself with this odd new Sherlock that now lay sprawled and - he thought he'd never see the day - horny on the bed underneath him, he knew there was no turning back. Something he was thankful for, admittedly.
He thoroughly sucked on his middle finger, some what mimicking the motions he had applied to Sherlock not moments ago, and just when the detective grunted in anticipation, he trailed his wet finger down and pressed it firmly against Sherlock's entrance, just barely daring to break the threshold.
Immediately, Sherlock flinched and he gripped the duvet, rigid. John looked at Sherlock, eyes fixed on him, waiting.
"Tell me if it's no good," he said. Sherlock swallowed, closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and relaxed.
"I'm ready," he said. And John slowly slid his finger inside.
Sherlock trembled, and John ignored the fact that Sherlock was gripping his arm a little too tightly, but he didn't really give any indication of pain or discomfort, and so John proceeded to prep him further.
John really didn't have any idea as to what extent of preparation he'd have to execute, but after Sherlock's trembling began to subside and his breath became more even, John retracted his fingers - he had added another for good measure - and slid on top of the detective once more, his own erection poised between his legs.
His tip pressed gently against Sherlock, much like his fingers had, and Sherlock opened his eyes. He stared hard at John, and John devoured the sight before him.
Sherlock's face was flushed, his lips were wet and full and his hair was incredibly messy. His eyes were stark and striking and nearly aglow, the look on his face was that of pleasure and blushing nervousness that made John all the more excited and intrigued. Sherlock was livid with sensation, and with each progression of action he was becoming more and more...starstruck.
John pushed himself slowly into Sherlock, just so that his tip was barely inside.
"John!" Sherlock suddenly yelped. John froze.
"It's ok," he said immediately, tender and gentle yet raggedly deep and throaty. "Take it easy."
Sherlock swallowed hard, and gripped the duvet again, clenching the wrinkled fabric in his fists as his body went tense.
"John...I..." he began, eyes suddenly darting every which way. "I don't know..."
"Do you want to stop?"
"No...no I just..."
John sighed and smiled, and he reached over to brush the hair from Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock looked at him.
"I won't hurt you," he said gently. "You're safe with me."
Sherlock nodded once, slowly, and John pressed his lips into Sherlock's as he pressed himself close and entered him, merging their bodies into a being that could only be described in one recurring word that danced across John Watson's mind.
Beautiful...
"And you're absolutely clear on this?" Mycroft said into his phone as he sped along in the black Mercedes. He was speaking to one silver-haired detective inspector.
"Of course," Lestrade replied. "If you found him there, then we'll get right on it."
Mycroft nodded. Greg Lestrade was a good man. He'd taken care of his brother almost as much as Mycroft had himself, and he was one of the few people his brother was involved with that was actually trustworthy. Mycroft sighed.
"Keep in touch with your progress," he said. "I'm meeting the source of the information as we speak, but the...leg work will have to be done by you and your team."
"Absolutely, Mr. Holmes."
There was a beat.
"What's the...condition of my brother?" Mycroft asked. Lestrade cleared his throat.
"He seemed fine the last time I saw him," he said. "But it was a little uncomfortable. I'm sure he'll bounce back though. He's got that way."
"Yes..." Mycroft said, more to himself. He hung up the phone.
Currently, he was on his way to meet up with Anthea, who had arranged for the man who had given the information of the Merchants location to them to meet with Mycroft at an undisclosed governmental facility. Mycroft honestly didn't know - or really care - what to expect. He knew that Lestrade would have half the Yard drop everything to pursue this case, if not for the sake of Sherlock, than for the wrath of his elder brother and the horrid reign of fire he could unleash.
Mycroft had given up on trying to contact his brother. He also didn't care much to speak with him since, all things considered, Sherlock probably expected him to fix everything as it was. Sherlock, no matter how old or how haughty he got, always had the uncanny ability to have complete trust in the fact that his brother would some how make everything turn out fine. And Mycroft really, really tried his best to live up to that expectation.
The elder stepped out of the car and into the building with long strides and a quick pace, perhaps seeming a little too eager, but nevertheless, composed and prim. He opened the door, scanned an ID, gave his name, the works, and finally, he was sitting across from a rather large, angry, and sweaty looking monster.
"Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself as he folded his hands on the table. It was an interrogation room of sorts, though there was a guard at the door with an M-16 and the hulk of a man before him was neither hand cuffed nor in prison garb.
"I know who you are," the man replied with a thick Russian accent. He sounded as if his remark was meant to be contemptuous, but instead he just sounded tired. "May I go home now?"
"Not until you tell me how you came across this information," Mycroft replied, narrowing his eyes at the man.
Mid-life...probably around 200 kg...face is pretty banged up, looks like a fist fight...oh, a stab wound on his arm...shallow, not meant for true intent of harm. Rugged, rough hands, probably factory worker. Obviously Russian.
The man seemed to hesitate.
"I've got time to wait on you," Mycroft said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "It's your time that you're jeopardizing."
"I need to know," the man began carefully. "That if I tell you the truth, the consequences will not be...too harsh." Mycroft cocked his head.
"It all depends on what you tell me, mister..." he glanced at the folder that lay a few inches from him on the table. "Mister...Englehurst, is it?"
"Englehurst, yes," the man replied. "Maxim Englehurst."
There was a silence.
"I...I helped...I raped your brother."
Several minutes later, Mycroft sat in the lobby, fuming, teeming with anger, and holding an ice pack, while Maxim Englehurst was questioned by another gentleman. It was probably not decent to have one of the key figures of the British government going around slamming his fists into the jaws of rapists.
Then again, Mycroft Holmes was not a nice man, and he definitely had a mean right hook.