Chapter 15: Feedback Loop
John has to bandage Sherlock's side back up... it's begun bleeding again with all the dancing, the running, the falling... The pounding crash landing in the grass. "But this is my favorite shirt," he complains.
John is unimpressed. "Christ, Sherlock. You could have died tonight. I think one shirt is pretty insignificant compared to that. Besides, you can probably get it cleaned."
"It's my second shirt this week. Blood is hard to get out," he replies darkly.
John just lifts his eyebrows at him and tosses the shirt on the table. "They got it out of your coat, didn't they? And sewed up the slash in it, too. Now sit."
"Fine. But I want to see your wings," Sherlock pouts.
"When I'm done," he says firmly. There's not much to fix with the wound, just wipe away the blood and apply more butterfly bandages. He uses an extra long plaster over the lot, for protection and to keep seepage to a minimum. "Probably dancing didn't really help this much," he says.
Dark lashes fan over bright eyes, then lift as Sherlock gives John a glimpse of silver and a coy look. "Worked out well for us, though, don't you think?"
John can feel a blush warming his face. "Ah," is the best he can manage. He removes the somewhat ragged and dirty bandage from Sherlock's hand to check the stitches there. They are holding strong, and the wound is clean, so he covers it up with fresh gauze. "You're all set."
"Mmmm." Sherlock rises so suddenly he almost knocks John over. He takes one step forward, and crowds John back against the worktop. "I want to test something."
"What?" John is breathless. Sherlock takes his chin gently between thumb and forefinger and turns his head to the side. He curls lazily down.
"This," he breathes into John's ear.
John jerks, shocked by the sensation, and wheezes inelegantly. Sherlock draws back and smirks at him before closing in again and exhaling, long and silently, into his ear. John clutches his shoulders and shivers. "Oh. Fuck. Sherlock-" His voice has gone rough and broken, and he locks his knees against sudden weakness.
Sherlock slides his hand up until it covers John's mouth. "Shhh." He tugs at John's earlobe with sharp teeth, sips it into his mouth and laves it with his tongue. John's eyes have rolled shut, and he's rippling his hips in Sherlock's general direction, although he's pressed too tightly against the worktop to have any room to maneuver.
Sherlock shifts his focus to the tender spot just behind John's ear, nuzzling first with his nose and then lightly swiping it with his tongue. He holds John's head still with his free hand, and mouths along the rim of his ear.
John groans, deep and low, behind Sherlock's palm. His lips part, and Sherlock feels the moist heat inside. He slips two fingers into John's mouth. "Shhh," he whispers again, tasting the whorls of John's ear. John arches beneath him. Sherlock's fingers press down on his tongue: John is hot and addled. His tongue curls around the weight of fingers; and Sherlock nibbles the crinkled tip of his ear; and John is shuddering and sucking in air through his nose, thrusting ineffectually against Sherlock.
Sherlock pulls away, reclaims his fingers, and guides John's face back to his. John's eyes are black, nothing but blown pupils rimmed with the deepest indigo. His cheeks are flushed, lips red and wet and parted, breath coming fast. His limbs have gone pliant and heavy.
"God. Look at you," Sherlock rumbles. "You're gorgeous. I could get you off on this alone, do you think?" John whimpers a little, not yet able to speak coherently, but Sherlock isn't actually expecting an answer. He snakes his head forward and licks at John's wet lips. "How did I ever get you?"
It crosses John's mind to say something clever and witty, like "Well, you hauled me up from the basement," but the moment passes while he's still trying to catch his breath.
Sherlock tugs him towards the living room. "Come here. I want to see your wings."
John kind of falls forward first, then gets a slight grip on himself. He straightens, even though he feels like jelly. Sherlock tugs him in front of the fireplace, then surprisingly shoves their two chairs against the wall and pushes the coffee table up to the sofa, creating a large open space. He grabs a blanket off the sofa and flips it onto the floor. He positions John in the center and kneels to flick the fire on.
"Take off your shirt," he says, still crouched by the fire. John doesn't hesitate, but pulls off the suit coat and tosses it back onto the sofa. Then he begins to unbutton his shirt. His tongue is caught between his lips, and his enraptured gaze is fixed on Sherlock.
Firelight renders his skin golden, and Sherlock rises, stepping closer to scratch his fingers lightly across John's chest, ruffling crisp hair in their wake. Dusky nipples harden, cast tiny flickering shadows from the fire.
"Fuck, John," Sherlock falters. He just wants to eat him whole. He'll bypass the fucking in favor of devouring this amazing man, somehow folding him into Sherlock's very skin and bones.
And then John snaps his wings into being. He immediately spreads them out, taking the full space that Sherlock cleared. Sherlock murmurs in satisfaction, "Amazing. So beautiful." Lust momentarily sidelined, he ducks around John, who obligingly pulls in one wing to make room for him to pass.
Sherlock stands behind him, taking in the full effect of his silhouette against firelight. "This is so impossible," he muses. John stands still, and lets Sherlock circle him. He hasn't touched him yet, but John is being made very aware of his admiration and approval. At last, Sherlock steps closer and gently places both hands on the propatagium (the cartilaginous tissue stretching between the shoulder and elbow that makes up the leading edge of his wings).
John sucks in a breath. Right. Wings. Right up there with ears. He can feel the light touch ricochet and amplify from the scapulars to the very furthest primary and back again. His wings are subtly burning and when Sherlock cards his fingers through the secondary coverts, digging through barbs and shafts to the skin and bones underneath; the waves of heat ripple in an escalating feedback loop between his wings and his cock. Both jerk and strain. John's head falls back with a sobbing gasp.
"You like this too?" Sherlock posits. Everything is an experiment. Always gathering data. "You like it hard?" He works his hands through barred gray primary coverts this time, boldly shifting, sifting, ruffling feathers to pull against the grain and then straighten them again.
"Fuck," John groans eloquently. "You're killing me."
"Not yet," Sherlock says. Then he presses against John's displayed wings and actually mouths along the propatagium. His fingers tighten on the carpel joint and stretch it out, and John can feel hot breath filter through his feathers to the sensitive skin underneath. He hisses and flinches and rattles his wings, shaking Sherlock off.
"Too much?" Sherlock asks, suddenly sounding uncertain. Sherlock, of course, has never before had an opportunity to think about wings in a sexual way, and has no experience with it. Actually, before John, he's never even handled a bird wing outside dissecting one in a laboratory.
"God, no," John pants. "Just. I want to touch you, too." He pulls his wings close and turns around, placing his hands on Sherlock's chest. He stands still for a moment, hands warm over Sherlock's heart. He indulgently stretches his left wing out. Slowly, so slowly. And lifts it high, feathers fluffed and standing out, before he pulls it back in. He does the same with his right, and then smiles at Sherlock's entranced face. "It feels good," he explains and then rolls his neck. He's warmed up now, muscles loose and ready. The hunger for sexual resolution pulses through him.
Sherlock reaches around his arms and drags his hands through the downy primary coverts that line the inner wing where it attaches to his body. John shivers and a wave-like motion of individually flared feathers travels through both wings, rustling audibly. Sherlock explores the muscle of John's trunk, tracing over the latissimi dorsi beneath his wings; trailing up through soft down and then over the hard curve of the trapezius muscles of his shoulders; then on to the deeply developed pectoralis of his chest. Goosebumps flare in the wake of his hands.
John sighs, then pulls Sherlock's head down. "Kiss me," he breathes, eyes closing already, and Sherlock does, mouth soft and gentle, letting John explore and control the kiss.
Now, John is not particularly comfortable with the realization that all his previous life's sexual orientation was only meant to be a guideline, and not a rigid rule. He still hasn't really touched Sherlock, and isn't quite sure how he's supposed to. But there's this: He's been given a second chance at life, and he'd be a fool not to enjoy it. And this? This is the most enjoyable part yet, he can easily admit to himself. Sherlock crowded close against him, focused only on him, long cool fingers wrapped firmly around his body, and he'd be an idiot to step back. He's not naïve... he knows the mechanics of sexual fulfillment in gay relationships. He's just never done it. It's a little nerve-wracking to contemplate.
John is a brave man. He will meet danger head on and with an intrinsic cocky recklessness that stems from joy rather than fear. So he chucks his uncertainty about gay aside, and sticks his tongue in Sherlock's mouth. He wants to bring Sherlock to his knees, as was quite literally nearly done to him both in the club and in the kitchen.
He holds Sherlock's head down to his with a hand twisted in his curls, and with the other, pulls his hips closer, until he can feel Sherlock's erection hard against his belly. He rolls his hips and inhales Sherlock's sharply drawn breath. They kiss for long minutes, dancing and sliding in each other's mouths, breaking apart for quick gulps of air before coming back together. Breath and teeth, lips and tongue, skin and noses and stubble. When John pulls back, Sherlock's face is flushed, his lips are swollen, his eyes half open and blown wide.
Mmmm. Sherlock's voice breaks.
John holds his head with both hands, tilts it to the ceiling, and begins to work his way down the swan-like neck. Feathers rustle behind his ears; wings flap for balance as he rises to his toes for more control. He chews his way down the thick rope of the sternocleidomastoid muscle that goes from ear to collarbone, sucking stinging bite marks along the way. Sherlock shudders against him and grinds forward. John smiles. This, at least, is no different from snogging a woman. Well. Ten times better, of course, because it's Sherlock, and John is connected to him in a way he likes to think is beyond simple imprinting. But practice still applies. He opens his jaw over the base of that spot and bites. He leaves his teeth there, deeply denting the flesh, and just breathes, tonguing the skin in his mouth.
Sherlock bucks and rolls under him, "Fuck. John. Oh. John. Jesus. Fuck." John closes his eyes and begins to suck a bruise. Sherlock is tugging at his shoulders, shaking in his hands. John thrusts his thigh between Sherlock's legs, and turns his hip for him to rut against. The weight of Sherlock's head has fallen entirely back, is completely supported by John's hand. Sherlock keens.
"Right there, then?" John asks, amused and sultry and throbbing with need. "That's the spot? Of course it's your neck, you great bloody swan." John briefly tightens his hold in Sherlock's curls smugly assessing the undone expression on his face. "Come down on the floor, you towering bastard, so I can reach you, yeah?" He enjoys his power, sure for the moment that this is no remnant of imprinting; that so entirely overwhelming the man under him disproves simple biological compulsion.
They slide to their knees, graceless, and John's wings flare to balance them as they fall, and then angle back to accommodate how close he is now to the ground. The last remaining functional part of his brain makes sure he doesn't accidentally stick his primary feathers in the fire. Sherlock reaches for them again, but John pushes him back, arranges him until he is supine to John's satisfaction. He throws a leg over, and crawls up until they are face to face, carefully avoiding the bandage on his side. He leans back, seated with arched back over Sherlock's hips, and just does what feels good. He has faith that he can get the hang of this gay thing. Certainly his motivation is strong enough. He gyrates his hips, grinding their groins together, throws his head to the ceiling, and his wings describe great, gusting arcs through the air. Papers swish and fall off the desk, and the fire behind him dances and struggles. John feels ownership. He's going to claim this man. Yes.
"God, I want you. I want to touch all of you." He slowly lays his body down on top of Sherlock, full length, pressing with all his weight, and stretched his wings back, far enough to cover Sherlock's distant toes with feathers, mantled around the two of them. He stretches and rocks, luxuriating on the lean, squirming body beneath him; and then growls, aiming again for the neck, working it until Sherlock is sweaty and mewling, white skin blotched and bruised from John's possession.
John mutters a stream of nonsense whenever his mouth is free. "Yes. Look at you, you gorgeous thing. Listen to you. If they could bottle up that noise there wouldn't be a need for Spanish Fly, would there? Make it again." And he holds Sherlock pinned to the floor by his hair, licking the love bites on his neck, meanders across both collarbones, utterly relishes the arching and twisting of the body under him.
John has Sherlock trapped between his thighs, and Sherlock is bowing upwards so hard that John is entirely lifted for a moment. John slides his hands down Sherlock's arms, pulling them out of his feathers, and pins them by the wrists to the floor, letting his full weight rest on those deceptively delicate bones. He explores a nipple, and Sherlock jolts. "Ungh! Oh! JohnJohnJohnJohn!" He sighs and gasps and groans, thoroughly wrecked. John keeps his mouth busy on the tiny nub of flesh and makes a mental note. Yes. Nipples, too.
John cups them with his wings, blocking the firelight. It is almost dark, but he stares at the gleam of Sherlock's eyes. "Now," he commands, and begins to move with fierce intent, dragging his cock against Sherlock's, rolling his hips, countering each lift from Sherlock with a downward thrust of his own. They are shirtless, but both still wear trousers, and it adds, somehow. Sherlock's buckle gouges John's belly. Dress shoes scuff and scrape the hearth. John grunts with ferocious enjoyment, exhaling in time with stuttering hips. Sherlock's mouth is open, head tilted back, emitting long low moans, interspersed with JohnJohnFuckJohnYes. John lines their cocks up perfectly, slides heavily up and down the length of Sherlock, and then... at the peak... He bites Sherlock's neck again, and everything explodes, they are spinning, the room is spinning,
the room has disappeared and they burn; together,
burning and gasping and shuddering.
And shaking.
And finally sighing; aftershock tremors trembling through sweaty bodies, endorphins rushing through overheated veins, muscles going lax and rubbery.
They drift back down. John still supports himself on a shaking arm, careful of the wound, but his head is dropped onto Sherlock's chest, cheek to sticky skin, listening to the gradual slowing of his heart. Sherlock pulls his wrists from John's loosened grasp, and smiles a bit at the down clinging to his palm and stuck in the bandage.
Sherlock wiggles a little, and then grabs hold of John's face. "My John," he says, in that deep, dark, velvety voice. John undulates right back at him, and smiles. "My Sherlock," he responds.