I am SO sorry this is so late. I got home late last night and didn't have the energy to post. Hopefully this chapter makes up for the delay.
ALSO: Please notice the rating change.
Chapter 12 – Enough
Sherlock Holmes is a very noisy kisser.
Odd little breathy noises escape him. He's loud, even obscene as he responds and moves his mouth against mine. Tiny whimpers fill the air as his hand quickly releases my jacket and comes to cup the nape of my neck, tilting my head further back, while the splinted one rests against my waist.
Wanting, wanting, wanting, I slide my tongue against the seam of his lips, begging entrance.
The moment his mouth opens to me, I realize this is nothing like my dream. Nothing.
Putting my hands on his hips, I tug firmly until they press against mine. I push my leg between both of his and he lets out a strangled noise that twists through my body until I'm already half hard.
"John," he chokes out. His hips are jerking in little aborted thrusts. "John, please."
No more needs to be said.
I begin walking him backwards, guiding him blindly to the wall beside the doorway to his room and pressing him against it. His breath staggers and he throws his head back, exposing that—oh god—gorgeous neck, and I brush my lips up to his ear before pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the perfect expanse of his throat. His hands flutter up my sides, fingers trembling and trying to find something to hold onto. I grab his good hand and push it against the wall beside his head, earning a grunt from the detective.
His movements are frantic.
"John." He heaves in a breath. "John, talk to me. I've never…" He drifts off as I press more tiny kisses below his ear. "I don't know what to do."
This pauses my actions. I had suspected as much, but now that I do know, I don't want to overwhelm him.
His jaw is uncharacteristically prickly when I touch it. "We won't do anything if it's too much, Sherlock. It's fine."
"No, don't stop." Slowly, I press a light kiss on his collarbone through the fabric of his shirt and he lets out a half-moan, half-whimper. "God, John, don't stop."
I pull back and look into his eyes, pupils blown wide with arousal. His hair is scattered in a wild, curly mass and I haven't even touched it. Good god, the man's hair. "Bedroom?"
He nods and lets me lead him through the doorway until his legs hit the edge of the bed. He sits down heavily before slipping a long limb around my calf and pulling me forward. Sherlock suddenly looks very bashful. "This is new for me. I've never—"
"Sherlock, it's fine," I interject, finally pulling my hand through that silky mess covering his head. "Tell me what you want to do."
He's still breathing heavily as he glances around the room. "I want…I need…" A swallow and a determined set to his jaw. "I want…you," he says, voice nearly a soft whisper as he pulls me into his lap and crushes our mouths together again.
This time, he shoves his tongue into my mouth. Inexperienced and desperate, but the best thing I've ever felt. It's hot, abandoned, and his tongue is warm and inquisitive, as it leaves no part of my mouth unexplored.
Beautiful.
My fingers seek out his shirt buttons quickly, making quick work of the first two before straying, as Sherlock's own hand moves to my hip. His grip is fierce and will probably leave bruises and I think to myself: John Hamish Watson, you are about to have sex with Sherlock Holmes.
The thought makes me simultaneously giddy and half scared out of my mind.
The rest of the buttons are undone quickly, and I shove the luxurious cloth off pale, pale shoulders and then there's so much skin that I almost don't know what to do with it.
"John, why do you always wear so many damn layers?" I shift my attention from Sherlock's bare chest to where his fingers are fighting to gain purchase on the hem of my jumper. "This is ridiculous!"
I bat his hand away and yank the offending garment over my head. "Do not hurt your wrist again, Sherlock."
The detective suddenly goes very still.
I pause in the process of unbuttoning my shirt. "What's wrong?"
His eyes are massive. "You just…it just…" He clears his throat. "I haven't heard that tone of voice since Baskerville."
Oh. Soldier voice.
"Sorry," I mumble, looking back down to where my fingers are working on the last button.
"I wasn't complaining."
Oh.
Oh.
This time, it's myself that crushes our mouths together. I can feel this entire thing growing more out of control than it should be. We need to slow down, I know. I need to make sure Sherlock is okay and that we don't overwhelm him with what we're about to do. But this entire thing was born out of fear of losing the man beneath me and I can't seem to stop.
Sherlock pulls off my shirt with his good hand, grunting in frustration when the cuffs catch against my wrists.
"Really, John, it shouldn't be this difficult to get somebody undres—" His voice chokes off on a startled gasp as I palm him through his trousers.
"Stop talking," I grit out, reaching for the fastenings to get him one garment closer to being naked.
"John, I am quite capable of unbuttoning my own trousers," he forces out, panting and barely writhing as my knuckles brush a severely low patch of skin on his stomach.
This time, I grip him firmly through the fabric and he just manages to hold back a cry. "Sherlock."
His eyes meet mine, wide and innocent, and something finally strikes me in my sternum.
Cold, heavy reality slams into me with the realization of all I'm taking from the trembling man beneath me. And he is trembling. He's shaking and shuddering and breathing in gulping breaths and I worry that I've already pushed too far, too quickly. He's new to this. No matter what he says, this has to be a little terrifying. His mind is probably overloading with new data. Crippling fear washes over me as I start to think I've fucked this up before it even had a chance to begin.
And maybe this isn't the time or place for grand revelations, but I realize that every day pushes Sherlock closer and closer to the time that he really won't return, he really will take his last breath and leave me alone in a small flat on Baker Street.
And I can't take it. I can't handle these thoughts; so instead, I gently calm his frantic movements before lowering the taller man against the sheets. His breathing steadies out as I continue to alleviate him of his shoes and socks, then slip his trousers off, my touch whispering against his smooth skin.
"John," he breathes, and I know that this is right. Slow, sweet, unhurried. This is what Sherlock needs.
I hate myself for not realizing it from the beginning.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," I murmur, because it's my turn to apologize. "I am so sorry." Sorry for everything. Everything. I know he understands what I'm saying.
Standing, I pull off my own clothes, aware of Sherlock's heavy gaze on me as I strip until only pants remain. Then, slowly, I kneel down, doing my best to ignore Sherlock's quick inhalation at my new position.
"Lean back so I can get your trousers off, Sherlock," I say quietly, meeting his wide-eyed gaze.
He does it, resting back on his elbows and lifting his hips so I can slide the expensive fabric off those long, long legs. I wrap my hand around a calf and press a small kiss to his knee.
"John." He whispers it so silently it's a miracle I even heard. His large palm is resting against his forehead, covering one eye, and the other is closed.
"Okay?" I ask.
He nods, face still turned to the ceiling. "Yes."
This time, I brush one hand up the outside of his thigh, the purpose not to arouse but to let him know what I'm doing before I slip my fingers into the edge of his pants. He lifts his hips automatically, and I gently pull the fabric away, taking a moment to look at him before standing and slipping off my own.
I look down at him, stretched out and naked, and can't get over how very fragile he looks. The splint on his slender wrist only furthers that belief.
And beautiful. The man is achingly beautiful.
With a deep inhale, I crawl up the bed until I can look down into his face. His hair is wild in a dark halo against the duvet, cheeks flushed through the porcelain of his skin, pupils wide and wanting as he opens his eyes.
His good hand comes up and rests against the slight softness of my stomach a brief moment before both arms wrap around my shoulders and pull down until my face is buried in the crook of his neck. He breathes softly against my skin, whispering barely-spoken words that sound like French.
I feel him move beneath me, pulling us further up the bed, and then his legs are bent and open, making room for my hips, and we are finally pressed together. I gasp into his neck and he lets out a cry into the air as he throws his head back into the pillow.
Languages meld together as words fall endlessly from his lips in quiet tones. French, Italian, and perhaps German, all the while my name—JohnJohnJohn—interposed between.
It's beautiful—stunning—and my hips involuntarily thrust forward the slightest amount, craving friction, craving him.
"John!" he cries, shocked. "I don't know how long…"
I do it again, slow and gentle, and now Sherlock is writhing beneath me, tossing his head to the side and exposing his long neck. My lips latch onto a wayward freckle and suck, perhaps marking him.
I have a rhythm now and Sherlock's hips are bucking up from below mine to meet in a wonderfully overwhelming brush of skin against skin. I wet my palm and reach down to grasp him, but his hips snap back and away.
"Don't touch me," he gasps. "This is—oh god—enough," He throws his head back. "Trust me, this is enough!"
So I thrust again and he slides a shaky hand behind my neck to draw our mouths together. His kisses are even more uncoordinated now, and it's really just a tangle of lips and tongue, but it's perfect. A few more thrusts and then he's coming, a drawn-out wail emitting from his throat as he breaks the kiss. Seeing him, feeling his warmth, is enough to send me catapulting over the edge in unexpectedly quick release.
I hold myself up on shaky arms, both of us panting and breathing in the same air as we try to recover. I hadn't climaxed like that in ages, more from my partner's release than from my own, and it is glorious.
Sherlock's brow is painted with a light sheen of sweat and he shoves his mop of hair away from his forehead as his breathing begins to even out again. "Bloody hell," he mutters, staring at the ceiling.
A startled laugh bursts out of me in a huff of air and he smiles as his eyes fall shut.
So there's that! This fic is now rated M!
PLEASE review and let me know your thoughts on this chapter. -C