Shatter the Darkness (Let the Light In)

by Mojoflower

Fairy tales are for those who remember how to dream; not John Watson, broken and hiding from his bleak future in a beige bedsit. But then he discovers a lamp and finds himself in the dangerous riptide of an enigmatic man whose very existence is unbelievable, murder charges against his sister, and the growing pains of feeling alive once more.

16. Things We Need

Well, this chapter is a doozy: I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. Zincesaucier (in a serendipitous coincidence) just drew a stupendous picture yesterday of our boys: it's at the bottom of the chapter (on my AO3 site) for your visual enhancement. Don't forget to stop by and tell her how marvelous it is. (Am I the luckiest author, or what?)

Also, as per always, this chapter is only about a million times better because of the efforts of my betas Snogandagrope and TheScienceofObsession; and also features Guest Beta MildredandBobbin (who just finished her epic medieval fic The Beast of Baskerville: go read it!) who did a lot to sort me out and tighten me up. Thanks to them all, and to you, Dear Reader, for following along.

Warnings: This chapter is packed with smut, y'all. So, if m/m is not your thing, well: actually I can't imagine you've made it this far if it's not, so that's probably ok. Definite shades of dub Con and mild D/s as well.

Chapter 16: Things We Need

John wakes up slowly the next morning, warm and serene. If he could have, he's sure he'd be purring. His eyes slit open reluctantly, in case it's residual bliss from a dream and John doesn't want to chase it away too quickly. The room is filled with slanted yellow light: an early hour, then. There's a clock by the bed that reads 8:39.

Long fingers play under his vest, carding through the hair on his chest, and the heated presence at his back is rumbling: Sherlock is voicing his contentment. John murmurs, just to let Sherlock know he's awake, and rocks back a little, pressing acknowledgment into the body behind him, but doesn't move further. He's engaged in the feeling of crisp, sensitive hairs, pushed and pulled against their follicles: tickling, prickling, teasing. Sherlock's hand flattens, strokes him in a firm sweep from clavicles to belly and back again, and John sighs with pleasure, leans his chest forward into the hard, slim hand.

Curious fingers walk up his sternum and probe his scar before moving down to toy with his nipples, but that's less exciting, and John twists a little to get that dactyl exploration back where he wants it: in the thicket of chest hair. Sherlock huffs at his back, but doesn't argue, only tangles his fingers in and tugs. John shudders, and his cock begins to awaken, growing turgid and heavy, caught in his pants.

Sherlock pulls impatiently at his vest, and John wriggles so that it can be whipped off over his head. He winds up on his back, Sherlock leaning over him on one elbow, the other hand loosely holding both his own against the pillow, over his head. "Good morning, then," John husks, and grimaces at the rust in his voice. Sherlock's eyebrow goes up, and crinkles fan out from his eyes in a smile that doesn't reach his mouth. He silently drops his head under John's chin, breathing humid and hot against his skin. He noses little paths hither and yon, relaxed, without intent, and John's breath comes quicker, makes a little sound.

"You like this," Sherlock observes. He opens his mouth and lips at the sorrel fuzz across John's pectorals, tangling his tongue there, giving little pulls.

John groans, and figures that's answer enough. Sherlock tips his head and licks at a brown nipple, pulling the bud between his teeth in a gentle bite. John continues to pant, but says nothing.

"And this does not arouse you." Sherlock doesn't seem to judge that statement, just releases John's wrists and moves slowly down his body.

"Yeah. No. Sorry," John's always felt obscurely embarrassed that he doesn't leap through the ceiling when someone plays with his nipples. As if that makes him sexually inferior or something.

He can feel the movement of a smile against his navel. Sherlock bites gently at the softened belly beneath his mouth, laves a sloppy, wet trail along the arrow of hair, sweeping it all in the wrong direction, and goosebumps flash across John's body. "Ung," he says, elegantly. God that gets him. How does Sherlock know?

There's a flurry of movement, and then Sherlock is crouched above him, knees to either side of his thighs, duvet a tent over his shoulders. His eyes are turquoise this morning, electric and unique, and his lips are flushed pink from friction. John reaches up, to clasp that angular, alien face in his hands, but Sherlock ducks back down and continues where he broke off, evidently set on combing John's treasure trail with his teeth. John winds his fingers into Sherlock's hair, instead, ignoring the few gems that spill onto his belly. But he doesn't guide Sherlock's head, only leaves his hands in thick curls. Sherlock reaches the band of his pants and bites his way over to one hipbone; disregarding the blatant hint of John jouncing his hips and turning them to follow those amazing lips.

Sherlock sucks a small bruise just inside the iliac crest, and John moans, fingers tightening, body rising. "S-Sh-Sherlock," he stutters.

But Sherlock leisurely finishes making his mark, and then nimbly edges John's pants down until they're trapping him just below the crown of his erection. Hot breath floods over the sensitive head, and John spasms under the hold Sherlock has on his hips. He is fully hard, cock surging in an effort to meet Sherlock's lips, and with a quick adjustment, Sherlock slides his foreskin fully back, still only breathing against taut skin. He turns his head, and soft curls drag across the glans, and John lurches again. "Jesus," he breathes. "Fuck. Sherlock. Unghah."

He brings up his knees, wedging one into the opened vee of Sherlock's legs, and puts his feet on top of Sherlock's, pushing down for leverage, utterly forgetting the bruised and battered state of those long, slender appendages, envisioning only the delicate tracework of henna vining from ankles to toes. Sherlock starts, is momentarily static, and then grinds down against John's knee with enthusiasm. John is delighted to feel an answering erection, dragged across the skin of his leg, and recalls with zeal that Sherlock is completely undressed. John can feel the soft skin of his bollocks, the wiry hairs there tangling against those of his leg, the stiff base of his cock.

Sherlock curls down, contorted, the henna patterns on his belly writhing and folding in as he nearly doubles upon himself and laps at the slit of John's erection, sucking in the fluid there and then adding his own, liberally coating thin skin with saliva, and John trembles. "Sherlock. Oh, god. What are you-. Are you going to-. Please." He releases Sherlock's head, afraid he'll do something rude, like shove it down into his crotch, and grabs hold of ribs instead, high under the arms, reveling in the feeling of whipcord power, of hardness and strength. Sherlock undulates, and that ripple moves through John's hands, and his cock fights against the band of elastic, and John grunts, frustrated. Sherlock licks again, sucking soft kisses on the exposed skin, skipping to the side to nuzzle into John's belly, darting teasing fingers into his pants, slowly lowering them with a sawing motion that is so electrifying that it feels on the edge of too much.

"Sherlock. Sherlock..." John shifts, so he can rub his thigh against Sherlock's full erection. It is awkward, and he's balanced on one hip, body oddly torqued, but Sherlock's gasp and unintentional bite are reward enough. John slides his hands down until he can feel the dip of Sherlock's waist, holds it hard in his hands, squeezing to enjoy the feel of uninterrupted limber muscle writhing under sleek skin, and he helps impose rhythm on Sherlock's maundering grinding. Thus Sherlock ruts against his leg for long moments, sucking erratically on the edge of John's glans, lips brushing insanely across the sensitive frenulum.

Then he breaks away, and pulls John's pants off in a rushed motion, dropping them blindly behind him. The duvet falls away from his shoulders, and catches on his waist, and for a moment they are a tangle of legs and arms and failing balance, and the world spins. When John knows up from down again, Sherlock is nested between his legs, lips hard against his own. He worries about his stale mouth, but Sherlock's tongue is wet enough for two and slides in, bossy and assured, and John just relaxes and sucks on it, intoxicated by the weight of Sherlock holding his body down.

Sherlock mutters something into his mouth, but John can't discern the words, is beyond words anyway, and the kiss devolves into something more like a ravenous attack, sharp bites, almost painful suction, fingers pressed adamantly against his jaw. John squirms under Sherlock, clenches his thighs around Sherlock's waist, and thrusts against the hardness he feels there.

Sherlock pulls back and pushes John's head to the side, bites along the line of his jaw, drags his teeth and lips through the heavy morning stubble that textures his face, rasps himself against the scratchy surface like a cat in catnip. His smooth chest barely brushes the hair of John's, and the twin sensations, one so aggressive, and the other so light, put John on the edge of orgasm, until he's moaning and growling, and curling his fingers hard into whatever part of Sherlock's anatomy he has in his grip.

But Sherlock pushes up, and he's got one hand on each bicep, is holding his whole weight on those two bruising points, and looks at John with ardent, heavy-lidded eyes. His cheeks and jaw are bright red and abraded from John's scruff, and his lips are lush and gorgeous. "Wait," he pants.

And John wants to roll his eyes and scream in frustration, because this is it, isn't it? This is the point at which Sherlock pulls back, goes cold, changes the subject and ducks out. But he just bites his lip hard, and holds himself very still, ignoring the throbbing of heated blood, because he is not going to be an arse about it. Sherlock has every right to draw any boundaries he pleases, and John clearly remembers swearing to himself only hours ago that he would never take advantage of the man.

But it is hard not to be shaking.

So he lies there, shaping fists in the sheets - punishing the sheets - but tries to smooth out his face, tries to blank it. "You," he sinks his fingers into the mattress until his fingernails dig back against their beds. "You need some space. Some time," he suggests, being preemptive, prophylactic (if he can allow himself the bit of gallows humor).

His gaze is fixed on the bony geometries of Sherlock's shoulder, and although he knows this conversation will go better if he looks at Sherlock's face, he cannot bring himself to do so, for fear of seeing rejection, or pity, or disgust. Perhaps, fear. All these things are bad.

"John. I..." Sherlock's voice is not angry. It's wrecked. Broken; and John surges up to a sitting position, urging Sherlock back until he's sitting as well, facing John, seated on his heels.

"Oh, Sherlock. I'm not going to push. It's fine." Right now it is actually not fine. But it will be. As soon as the blood evacuates his cock and begins to feed his brain again.

Sherlock on his heels in front of him is not as effective as say, putrefying wounds, in accomplishing this goal. He is so long, endlessly long, folded like pale origami, and he's naked. Sunlight gleams yellow, adding warmth to silvery skin, and lines and dots of henna crawl like fire across hands and forearms, highlight the scant curve of his hips, trail and tangle across his belly, circle his navel like a guidelines for a exploring mouth. The steeply angled beams catch in the embossed patterns of his armband, emphasizing the delicate artistry worked therein, and John is overcome with the glamor of it.

Sherlock sits upright, hands flat on his thighs, and does not attempt to conceal the joining of his legs, wiry hair there inkier even than that on his head, penis darkened and erect, emerging from the thin collar of his foreskin. John cannot help but stare. Last night he had politely looked away from Sherlock's nudity, as much as it had been hard to resist. He had never seen Sherlock's cock before. It was long, like the man himself, which was unsurprising, but also... elegantly, pleasingly, impossibly slender. John had never seen an erect penis so slim. Well, his experience wasn't vast, but he'd seen plenty of porn, and there were always cocks involved with the women he'd been focused on; and porn industry being what it is, those organs were usually massively thick and veiny.

Sherlock's is smooth, a dusky rose, purple where it peeks gleaming behind the foreskin, and not much more than two-fingers wide. And John wants. He wants that. He wants to weigh it with his tongue, to curl it inside his fingers, inside his mouth, inside his body. To feel it, in every way he can... The henna designs encompass the priapic column as well, John notes. The color of the ink is darker here, a deep brown that is almost black, and tendrils of henna seductively curl around the shaft, pert dots and commas spiral upwards terminating in a ring under the flared head. Oh my god. It is both unnerving and deeply intriguing.

He blinks rapidly and looks away. Jesus fuck, does he have no control? No compassion or honor? He tugs the pillow and jams it firmly over his thighs, shifting to mirror Sherlock's position. His heels dig into his arse, and he presses into them, seeking bruises and the dull hurt that can bring him out of his phallic fixation. He grabs the other pillow and tosses it into Sherlock's lap.

He takes a deep breath and works his jaw, trying to release tension. "We need to talk. Sherlock. We need to - I need to understand what you want." John releases a prolonged, frustrated sigh. "You're sending off some seriously mixed signals, here, and I'm terrified of reading you wrong. I don't mean to take advantage of you, you know." He licks his lips, fidgeting. This is hard. "I'm aware of your history. I mean... you told me. And I want you to know: I'm not going to be like that. I worry that. I worry that you probably aren't attracted to me, which is fine, by the way. It's fine. You don't owe me anything."

Sherlock holds up a hand to cut him off, and then folds both of them carefully on top of the pillow, smooths out the wrinkles and then begins to toy with the bracelets on one wrist. He does not look at John. "John," he begins. But his voice is rusty and he has to stop and clear his throat. "John," he tries again, smoother now, voice as creamy as butter and cinnamon and mellow whiskey; and John has to forcibly drag his attention back to cerebral matters. "You know that since I've been in the lamp, I have been unable, for the most part, to make my own choices. And in certain episodes have had choice... violently... wrenched from me."

He hooks his fingers under the bracelets and twists, marking white lines across the bones of his wrist that quickly transform to red. There is an extended, vibrating pause.

And John's heart aches. His chest is brittle with pity, empathy and foiled rage. He does not feel that it is appropriate to touch. But he lays his hands palm up on his pillow, fingers gently curled, an unspoken invitation for Sherlock to slip his own in there, if he wishes.

He does not.

"Moriarty was the worst, objectively," Sherlock says, monotonous. He faces the window, doesn't look at John as he speaks, and John wants to stroke his thumb along the sharp cheekbone, the heavy eyebrow, the soft line of his jaw. "Not only because of the creativity in his violence and cruelty, but because... Because I fought against it. I still thought there could be a way out. Every binding, every punishment. Every humiliation. I believed I could get out of it. And he would. Sometimes. Other people. Those in his cult. Or if he..." Sherlock's halting exposition dwindles to a bare breath, delivery becoming abrupt and fragmented.

John intuits that Sherlock is saying Moriarty whored him out, had him service on display, and jerks back in denial and revulsion. His ears are buzzing with contained and impotent fury. He is shaking and desperate to lash out, beyond sickened.

Sherlock still doesn't look at him. His skin is paler than usual, the bruises on his face stand out like soot, and he looks heartbreakingly fragile. John wants to enfold the man - an exposed nerve of pain - in his arms, draw him not only into his arms, but into his skin, in his body, to be a both physical barrier and any other kind of mental or emotional armor he can offer.

But Sherlock isn't finished yet.

"When I was called from my lamp the first time, I... was dressed as you've seen me. A caricature. An ignorant Westerner's sexualized image of an Oriental djinn. And that became my ineludible role. Moriarty made his wish as soon as I was out: that I must serve him in every way, every thing he said.

"It was the first wish I'd granted, obviously. It came naturally - literally irrepressible. My body and mind bent to it, and I could feel alien power, seething with a single focus - and I could not stop it. I tried, but it rushed through me, flooded me, and I granted that wish.

"It was like fixing cold shackles around my soul, my will." Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment, a line of pain appears between his brows.

"He... took his pleasure upon me. He could even prevent me from crying out, although he demanded that seldom enough, as screaming fed his sadistic nature. I soon learned to suppress it on my own, however. He was... brilliantly malicious... adept at inflicting pain beyond merely physical. He could. He could demand that I enjoy it." His voice has gone hoarse again, and so quiet, as if distancing himself from the past even in the act of describing it.

John grieves. A few, hot tears escape, for Sherlock; because the man can't or won't cry for himself, because John's heart aches so much he can't bear to house it in his chest. He keeps silent, controls his breathing, but he cannot stop the welling up of sorrow, and sympathy, and anger. Droplets merge at the corner of his mouth and spread salt along his tongue, and he has the fleeting thought that pain should taste more bitter, more biting than this.

Sherlock doesn't look up. John hadn't thought he would. Admissions such as these cannot be made while maintaining eye contact. He lets the tears drop unheeded off his chin, and stretches his hands incrementally closer to Sherlock, still offering support.

"So I don't... John. I don't want to be in a position where I..." Sherlock reaches forward and places just the tip of his index finger at the tip of John's, and stares at the point where they're connected.

John grabs a corner of the sheet and swipes his face, careful not to jostle the weight of Sherlock's finger atop his own. "Oh, Sherlock. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I can't even imagine... I don't know how that feels. And I want to kill them all for you. They were bastards, Sherlock. Every one. It should never have happened to you.

"But I hope that you know-" John stops short and swallows against guilt, because, why should Sherlock know: it's not like John's been a shining example. "I hope you know that I would never do that to you. I... You never need to offer me sex. You don't owe me anything, and I have no right to ask it of you. And I won't. I swear, Sherlock. I won't. I would hope you could trust me." He's resigned, however, to the idea that Sherlock won't. Because of what he's done in the past, and shame chokes him, stabs at his guts, and his free hand clenches into a fist. He presses down harder on his heels, stares at the curly fringe hiding Sherlock's downcast face.

He bites the bullet and speaks honestly: raw, painful truths. Because it's important. Because it may prove to Sherlock that he can be trusted. "Look. It seemed like you were into the sex, in the club. But then: you go hot and cold so fast! I imagine that you probably aren't actually attracted to me. I think you've been put in an untenable situation, and you're just trying to make it as... smooth... as possible. It seems like you're doing this because it's what I want. And... Please. Just. Don't, Sherlock. Don't do that. I'll leave you alone," God that's a difficult thing to say, and he quails at the thought that Sherlock will take him up on it, that he'll leap at this opportunity. But he has to offer. He has to. "I'll leave you alone. Or. I'll give you hugs when you need them. Or. Whatever you require. Whenever. But only if you want it. Ok? I promise." His speech is choppy, verging on incoherent, but his heartfelt sincerity is evident.

Sherlock looks at John through thick, short lashes. He worries the sheet next to his knee, and gives a sneering, weak laugh. He is trying to maintain his dignity. "I'm not a damsel in distress. I could usually retaliate, you know. Starting with Moriarty: painting my body with lead. I am not weak. I cannot be used for so long without being able to find their vulnerability, without being able to exploit it. I am vengeful. But John," his finger taps John's once and then curls back around his own thigh. "John. It's not that I'm not attracted to you. I am.

"I know that you're different. Like Mrs. Hudson, rather. I know that you care. That using me for your gratification is not what you want. You're discrepant from the others, and I... find you fascinating. And. I am beguiled by this time period. The amazing things you have here are so compelling. The... research that is all accessible on the internet, and the prodigious progress of science. The... cars and phones, and. It's incredible, really. I want to stay. Gods, I desperately want to stay. But I don't think the lamp will let it be so easy. I don't think we can just ignore the wish for thirty years, even if you were inclined to. The lamp finds a way."

"We'll find the lamp, Sherlock," John promises fiercely. "We'll get it back. And if we can't just let it sit... we'll figure out how to word a wish. To make you mortal again, or change history, or whatever we can do. I won't let you go back to that. And... you don't have to pay for staying here with sex, you really don't. I know you like this time, and I'm fine with," he gags a little on the lie, "fine with just being your friend. Your flatmate, or whatever. I will not impose."

Sherlock gives a wry, empty twist to his mouth that's meant to emulate a smile. "Yes, well. Obviously. And as for outwitting the lamp: certainly you can dream." It is revealing that he uses the singular pronoun. Sherlock has surely given up on that front.

"As for a sexual relationship. I will admit that it's been a very long time. And I want... that. I want... you." He reaches out, and blazes a burning trail down John's neck and across his shoulder, sweeping his thumb across the hard, crinkled tissue of his scar. "I want you. But I haven't been in control of this kind of thing in so long.

"John, it's made me... understandably leery. I can't. Just yield. I. I won't crawl."

Sherlock's lips are parted, and his eyes are dark, and his hand wraps around John's shoulder, hot as a brand. He rises to his knees, and John mirrors him, so they kneel face to face, with only inches and fallen pillows between them. John puts his hand on Sherlock's waist, as he did that first night, feels it warm and resilient under his fingers. He slips his other hand up to Sherlock's chest, spreads his fingers out across Sherlock's heart, and says, "But I will, Sherlock. If that's what you want. If it's about control-" his voice drops, "I will crawl for you."

Sherlock stares at him silently, calculating. But John can feel his heart speed up under the heel of his hand, kicking against his palm. Sherlock drags his tongue across his lips, and his eyes flare bright, intense. John waits, lets his fears go, and his shame, and his worry. Kneels in front of Sherlock, and waits to see what he will do.

Sherlock puts his hand over John's on his heart, and leans down, until their heads are pressed together. His eyes are open, but he's not trying to look at John; his gaze is cast downwards. He rubs his long fingers against John's own, weaves them into the spaces in between, does the same with the hand on his waist, and then pulls them both away. He wraps them behind John's back, holding each in a gentle, but unbreakable grasp.

Sherlock pins him in his knowing stare. "You've wanted me since you first saw me. You dream of it at night, I can hear you. I can tell by your breathing that you dream of sex with me."

"I don't mean to," John protest, without much vigor. "That's not my wish."

"I didn't say it was your wish," Sherlock says impatiently. "I know it's not your wish."

John sucks in air, twists his wrists against Sherlock's grasp, wildly considers the man before him: completely nude, but for winding ink, the bangles on his wrists, the jewel nestled in his navel, the leather across his biceps. Sherlock is still, nonjudgmental, allowing John's starving stare to pool over him.

John doesn't try to break away. His blood is rushing through his body with the force of a freight train, he can feel his skin quiver with each pulse, and his cock is quickly rising again. "What do you want, Sherlock?" he murmurs.

"You." Sherlock catches both wrists in one hand, and brings the other up to John's jaw, holding it still. His breathing is uneven, and he pulls back so that their eyes meet, both sets hungry and afraid. "I want you."

And then he jerks John forward, squeezing his wrists painfully, and presses their lips together, smears a messy kiss across his cheek and bites at his lower lip.

John has some difficulty focusing on the kiss, his heart is beating so fast, and he's dizzy, breathless, cannot get enough air. Sherlock is a giant magnet, and John leans in, pliant and juddering both, thrumming with excitement and the unknown.

Sherlock fishes John's tongue out with his own and administers a short, bruising suck, reminding him of what's going on. John lets his head fall back, lets his jaw grow lax and allows Sherlock a moment to plunder, to posses and map and own his mouth. He arches his body languidly forward, pressing hips, belly and chest against the looming, superheated man in front of him.

His mouth is wet, his chin is wet, evanescing in the cool air when Sherlock moves on to his jaw, turns his head so that he can more easily access his ear, nibbling the sensitive cartilage, and tonguing the lobe.

John's blood sings in his veins, and he opens his eyes to slits, sees the bright yellow flash of a topaz on Sherlock's bent head, and then closes them again with a hiss and a full body frisson as Sherlock sucks through the stubble of his jaw, scrapes his teeth down the corded muscle of his neck.

He moves down to explore John's scar, the spread and texture of it, with a hard, implacable tongue.

John jerks against the hand holding his wrists tightly against the small of his back and tries to twist his shoulder away. "No-"

"No," Sherlock growls, at the same time. "No. I want to know you. Your history," he breathes, rubbing his nose against that raised knot of flesh, "shows in your skin." He strings sharp bites around the ball of John's shoulder and sucks a bruise onto his bicep, below the RAMC tattoo that's been there for so many years that the black ink has faded to blue.

John pulls again against the restraining hand at his wrists and is surprised at how strong Sherlock is: his lithe, ethereal looks are misleading.

Sherlock hums with approval at the shift and bulge of his bicep as he pulls, and drops his free hand to probe and caress that round muscle, growling softly. "You're so hard here," he says, "and here," his voice laughs without laughter and he twists his hips, rubs his thigh against John's erection, but then cants him backwards, tugging at his wrists, leaving John straining for contact.

Sherlock strokes the shadows delineating the definition of his arm and says, "Here you're hard. Unyielding. Accustomed to carrying the weight of your comrades, the weight of the responsibility you feel..." He touches the tattoo. "Here is the mark of your brotherhood: you used to belong. That was the bedrock of your strength, and you were honed against the crags and sand of the desert, brutally molded by battle."

John twitched in his hold, uncomfortable - nearly flayed. Sherlock drags his fingers back to John's scar. "And here is the dissolution of that chapter: a ragged end to the part of your life which best suited you." He digs in the corner of his thumbnail and draws a red mark in John's skin, from tattoo to scar, which he circles neatly, and then scrapes his map in an arc down to John's belly, loops around his navel, relentlessly engraving his plat through the crisp hairs that surround it. "And here," he splays his hand wide, and it's so long it covers half of John's torso. "Here is some softness."

John stiffens, instinctively sucking in his belly, and his face flames. "Oi-"

Sherlock doesn't allow him to pull away, looks in his eyes, expression focused, searing. "Do not hide John." He flexes his fingers in, hard, presses through the thin layer of fat that has been developing over his belly since being shot. "What is soft here represents your loss, your sorrow and your isolation. This is you feeling broken, useless. Yet, it is layered over solid character." His fingers massage and sweep, and John rolls his abdominals under them. "It is this softness that has created a space for me," Sherlock whispers. "It is this scar that brought you to my lamp."

He pushes until John falls back, clumsily straightening out his legs, and pulling his hands free. Sherlock follows him down, lays his weight, dense and hard across John's body; and John has trouble breathing, because of the pressure on his chest, but he doesn't complain because the feeling of being so constricted, of being so owned, of being tightly held in this bubble of time is too exquisite to challenge. Although he's fought all his life, now he cannot, and he relaxes, goes limp under the man above him with the shining eyes, the intent face, the slowly rolling hips. He feels as if he's sinking through the mattress.

He strokes down Sherlock's back, cupping the jutting wings of his shoulderblades, brushing his thumbs up into hair growing damp with sweat, drawing a smooth caress down the long, narrow back, holding onto ribs and spine and waist with a remotely panicked submission. He understands that Sherlock is trying to tell him that... he is actually liked, even desired, just for himself. That in spite of their situation, their roles, the vast differences between them (looks, status and intelligence: all areas where John feels he falls short) that Sherlock is attracted to and affected by who John is at his core. And there is little that is more arousing than that.

"Sherlock," John begins.

But Sherlock just wiggles downward. John shivers beneath the damp heat of the mouth charting down his chest, lifts his body to increase the contact between him and Sherlock, twists his hips from side to side to feel the bristles of his body hair catch against plush lips and the faintest shadow of stubble on Sherlock's own jaw. He catches Sherlock's shoulders and digs his fingers in, holding hard, distractedly noting the sleek feeling of taut skin smoothed over muscle and bone, the shift and twist of long arm muscles as Sherlock pushes himself up to hover over John's stomach, and then drops down without warning, until his nose is inches from John's bollocks.

Sherlock works his thighs apart with insistent hands, until he's uncomfortably akimbo... exposed more than he wants to be. He tries to close them, and Sherlock growls again, lunges up his body and puts a knee across each thigh, inflicting bruises, brutal in his silent demand that John stay still. He captures John's wrists again and pulls them above his head, tucking his fingers under the edge of the headboard. "Hold on here," he commands. "Don't let go."

John is delirious with arousal now, and curls his fingers hard around the thick wooden plank. He lifts his head and strains for Sherlock's erection, pointed at his lips as Sherlock bends over him, but still not close enough. "Please," he rasps.

Sherlock, genius that he is, knows immediately what John is requesting, and scoots closer, knees spread wide to lower himself to John's mouth. That beautiful, slender cock rests just on his bottom lip, hennaed designs blurring at such close range; and John can smell semen, and musk, and arousal twisting through the appealing, organic odors that he associates with Sherlock and the lamp.

It's a first for John, as so many things with Sherlock are, but he feels no hesitation, only heat and burn, when he opens his mouth, allowing Sherlock to slowly feed in his cock. John looks up, meets Sherlock's ardent eyes, and stretches his tongue along the bottom of Sherlock's erection as it slides slowly across his lips, nudges beyond carefully controlled teeth, and bumps the palate of his mouth. Spicy, and bitter, and sweet: so surprising. John closes his lips and begins to suck, knowing what he likes to see when getting head, keeping eye contact with Sherlock up the long, long pale length of his body, chin making a sharp shadowed line in the angled light of the morning. He hollows his cheeks, and the face above him flushes, pouty lips form an 'oh', and John thrusts against nothing.

Sherlock rolls his hips back, and then forward again, a lazy motion that contrasts with the fierce expression on his face; and John sucks, relaxes, tastes and shivers with his power as they continue. Blowing a man is messy, he ponders abstractly, as saliva slips out the corners of his mouth, accumulates on the slide under his bottom lip. He tries to swallow, but Sherlock won't pull out, just keeps on with the gentle movement, never too deep, never too hard, but relentless and greedy. John toys with the strung skin of the frenulum under the glans, pokes the spongy tissue of the crown with his tongue, explores the slit and it's unique flavor, never breaking gaze with Sherlock, who is bent over, grasping the headboard with one hand, other wrapped around the base of his cock as he rocks it in and out of John's mouth.

John bows his back, feeling nothing more than purely sensuous, tightening the arc of his arms as they arch over his head to terminate under the headboard. Sherlock makes a low noise, on the edge of control, and slides his fingers up his cock until they brush against John's lips, trace the stretched circle of his mouth, dragging through saliva, rubbing himself and John at the same time. Two fingers slip into the corners of his mouth, stretching it more, and press against his teeth, forcing his jaw wider, loosely circling his cock as he continues his slow roll.

John moans underneath him, and hot blood rushes through his erection causing it to dance, the fine hairs on his body stand out, electric, as goosebumps rush over him. He licks Sherlock's fingers, straining to open wider for him, lifting his head to push himself further onto Sherlock, bearing down until he gags and coughs. And Sherlock is murmuring above him, "Good, John, so good, your mouth is unbelievable, I want you like this always, open for me; I want to penetrate every orifice you have, and own them all..."

He shudders hard, and pulls back so that John's mouth is empty of all but his fingers, which makes John whine a little, and he sucks on them harder. Sherlock's eyes are silver-rimmed black above him, and he's panting as much as John is. He says nothing, but slithers back down John's body, sweeps his tongue from root to tip as he bypasses John's cock, and noses against his bollocks, nibbles on the delicate, wrinkled skin there, sucking first one, than the other testicle into his mouth like a connoisseur, testing for firmness, symmetry, elasticity. John grunts loudly, a noise surprising in the quiet room, and pushes reflexively against Sherlock's face. "Sherlock-!" His fingers begin to cramp in their desperate hold of the headboard, and his thighs are protesting at being splayed so widely, Sherlock's shoulders uncompromisingly holding them open.

Sherlock bites at his buttock, just behind his bollocks, remonstrating him to stay quiet and still, and John moans again, softly, out of his mind with pleasure and novelty. Spidery fingers glide, damp, from his lips and lift his bollocks, move them aside to reveal his arsehole, and John feels warm breath there for the first time in his life. "Oh. God. Sherlock. What-"

But Sherlock has an agenda, and he ignores John's breathless, garbled words. He works his hands under John's arse, lifting, tilting, spreading him open until he's agonizingly laid bare, and then licks without hesitation.

John recoils in shock, body lifted off the bed from heels to shoulderblades, and sucks in a ragged breath. "Oh fuck. Oh, fuck, You can't- Sherlock. What are you doing?"

Sherlock only rumbles, and continues lapping at John's anus, shameless and driven. John groans and writhes against the feeling of heat, and wet, of the slithering invasion of agile muscle, deliriously exploring the most forbidden of locations. "No. Fuck. Yes. Sherlock, Christ-" And while he pants and mutters, Sherlock patiently teases the budded sphincter until it relaxes, smooths out, invites ingress. He probes it with his tongue, and John shouts in surprise as he is first penetrated, intends to pull away, but instead pushes closer, bearing down so that his body welcomes Sherlock, pulls him in deeper.

There will be bruises on his thighs, on the cheeks of his arse as Sherlock holds him open, holds him canted for easier access, and John is floating on the filthy sucking noises, on obscene guttural growling, on the pull of a mouth (the tongue is a very strong muscle, he thinks hysterically), the wriggling invasion that has him cross-eyed in confused, shamed pleasure. "Oh, god, oh god. Fucking. Christ-" John unwinds numb fingers from over his head and reaches down to thread them through Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock stops abruptly, lifts his head, chin and cheeks gleaming with his own saliva, lips licentiously red and swollen with his efforts and glares at John. "Do not move your hands, John. Put them back."

John stares in surprise, and quickly returns his hands to their death-grip on the headboard. Through a haze of lust, he remembers that Sherlock wants to be in control, has explicitly said so, and needs to define the parameters of their encounter. That is fine with him. He sinks back, passive and willing. Sherlock relaxes, his tension only obvious in retrospect, and quickly wipes his face with his hand.

"Is there oil? Do you have oil, John?"

John draws a blank for a moment, brain swimming in eroticism. The sting of Sherlock's finger sinking into his arse recalls him to his meaning. "Ah! Yes. Er, lubricant?" It's hard to speak when he's so wrecked. "My med kit, Sherlock, in the living room."

Sherlock straightens up on one elbow, slowly slides the one finger back out of John, who clenches after it, wants the feeling of penetration and taboo again. Sherlock smirks, although sarcasm is difficult to attain when he is flushed with arousal. He looks like the ideal lover for either sex... red cheeked, moist, with shining eyes and mussed hair, heart-shaped mouth open to accommodate rapid breathing. "Stay here," he commands, and his voice is so deep, resonant and rich that John is trembles again, wracked with a longing to be pinned down by that body once more.

He nods, wordlessly. Lays spread out with the tingle of cooling air against his most private parts while Sherlock eels off the bed, saunters to the living room, mouthwatering and graceful erection leading the way. Henna hugs the globes of his arse, and swirls in circles and dots around the dimples were the swell of his buttocks begin; and more than just the sway of hips alone when he walks, there's a full-body sway in effect, snake-like and hypnotizing. John licks his lips and swallows against the flood of saliva in his mouth.

Sherlock is back in a moment, holding the med kit to John. "Get what we need," he says.

John pulls out a foil packet, unsurprised that Sherlock hadn't recognized its utility, and tears off a corner. He retrieves a condom as well. "Here's the lube," he says. "And a condom. Um. Here, let me?" (He's not sure how much condoms would have figured into the gay lifestyle of the 16th century, but neither of them thought to use one for oral, so he's thinking not much.) He waits cautiously until Sherlock nods, and then pulls his other arm, aching from strain, from over his head and leans up, opening the condom and reaching out to Sherlock's cock. Sherlock hums as he does it, deep and salacious. Rolling a condom on someone that isn't himself requires concentration, like trying to do a common task with his non-dominant hand. He has to focus, leaving a small space at the tip, and smoothing it down as he goes, obscuring delicious and tantalizing designs, until his fingers are stroking through coal black pubic hairs. He can't stop himself from exploring, slipping his hands down to cradle heavy bollocks, rolling and squeezing.

But Sherlock soon tips him back down, spreads his legs wide again, works his knees under John's thighs and tucks Johns hands palm up, one under each knee, so that he's bound to be still again. John tugs on his hands, to test if he can retrieve them, but Sherlock kneels down hard, pressing them into the bed, and says, "Be still, John."

So John is still, and those bewitching fingers are quickly coated in lube, which is drizzled down his crack as well, and massaged impatiently in. "I want to fill you up," Sherlock rumbles, almost as if he's unaware that he's speaking. "I want to know you from the inside. I want to fuck you now." And John is breached unceremoniously with a finger, which doesn't hurt, because he's already been tongue-fucked and... fingered. And even though he's an anal virgin, he doesn't feel full enough, he wants that elegant cock pushing inside him now, marking him as territory, and that's an awful thought for a soldier, but he knows it's true, and he pushes against Sherlock's finger, making a dissatisfied noise.

Sherlock recognizes his discontent, and his eyes smirk, although his face is wiped of expression, showing only focus. A second finger works in, and they slide and twist, and John's lips begin to dry out because his mouth is open, and he can't stop gasping, little mewling noises intertwined with each breath. There is no sensation he's experienced prior to this that is comparable to being stretched open, feeling the press and slide; pushing in, when nature has only designed a function for out. And he had no idea he'd be so sensitive, that the nerves there would register the slide, the slick friction, and delight in it. He curls his fingers around Sherlock's grinding knees and huffs, pushing his body as close to Sherlock as he can. "More. Sherlock. More"

Sherlock pulls back and then pushes in again with another, hooks and twists them right away, screwing into John until he strokes against his prostate, and John arcs off the bed again, mouth wide in shock, jerking against the restraint of Sherlock's pinning knees. He tosses his head and groans, and Sherlock looks dangerous and on the edge of control. "Sherlock," he hisses. "Yesss. Yes-"

Sherlock twists and pushes and strokes again, and John stares at him with pupils nearly eclipsing the iris, writhing as he's permitted, choking on sensation, overwhelmed. And this addictive torment continues until John is whining, high pitched and embarrassing, if he weren't too wrecked to notice it.

Sherlock pulls out his fingers, wipes them carelessly on the sheet, and grabs John's thighs, pulling him closer, up the incline of Sherlock's lap, leaning forward so that the head of his cock is aligned with John's opened hole, and John mutters through gritted teeth, "Yes. yes. Sherlock. Do it. Do it. Fuck me now, dammit. Sherlock-" And he wraps his legs around the tensile strength of Sherlock's waist, clumsy but sure.

The pressure of Sherlock's cock is peculiar and devastating and feels so good that John is ready to weep, but cries out instead, and he feels Sherlock pushing into him, stretching him out, opening him up, exposing everything he is, and everything he wants, and he's shattered, jerking against Sherlock's hold, uncoordinated in his ecstasy, and blinks desperately against the blur and dampness in his eyes, mingling with the salty sting of sweat. His skin is so hot it will split open, his body will split open, but Sherlock leans forward, balancing himself on his elbows, placed to either side of John's head, and kisses him...

Kisses him, open mouthed and nearly cruel; John's eyes are rolling back in his head as Sherlock undulates his hips: in to the root, and languorously dragging back out, against the pull of John's body, sinking and retreating agonizingly slowly, and his tongue fucks John's mouth at the same time, never careless, every movement deliberate and...

John is in anguish of ecstasy, doesn't even try to kiss back, just opens himself to Sherlock, to take what he wants and what he needs, and John's never been so glad to give in his life; knows that he will always give to this man, anything he needs, whatever he wants, and the cost is immaterial, because John's life was worth nothing when they met, and he can't imagine a world without him, he would be lost, he'd be so lost... .

Sherlock sucks on his tongue, and shifts his hips, and hits the sweet spot, and his belly is pressed to John's, and the friction on his cock is just right, and John wails, louder than he's ever done, he's in pieces, and he spasms against orgasm, ripping his face to the side to gasp and heave, skin so sensitive to touch that it might as well be missing... He's flayed with feeling, spurting out sex and emotion and commitment and need between their bodies, and drops slide into his hair that may or may not be sweat, and he can't move his arms at all, and that adds to the feeling: he's soaring, he's in free fall, his stomach flutters with it, and this much sensation can kill a man... .

Sherlock continues to pound, face reddened and concentration distorting his exotic features. John's legs fall entirely to the sides, limply laying against the mattress, like someone cut the wires between his brain and his muscles, and he's obscurely surprised that he can be this flexible. Sherlock seems to gain what he needs in John's sudden pliancy and goes rigid over John, fingers curled under his shoulder, and buries his head in John's sweaty neck, hoarse noises torn from him as he finds his own completion.