Seven
On Your Sleeve
When: 37 (Indelible)
Warnings: Smut

The first time I let my emotions get the better of me, I didn't think about what Sherlock Holmes would make of it.

It wasn't like us. We weren't one of those couples. Hell, I wasn't even sure if we were indeed a couple at all. It still seemed too soon to call us that, or too mushy, or too plain normal. Anything soppy or clingy or remotely normal in a relationship had been abandoned by us since the first fateful time I let my curiosity get the best of me. It had been my idea to approach Sherlock, and even then it was purely from an investigative point of view. He had deduced my inaptitude for emotional attachment. I had realised his sociopathic nature.

We weren't capable of love.

Even now, I wasn't in love with the man, and he certainly wasn't in love with me. But the fondness – and a fondness was irrefutably there between us – was unnervingly unexpected. The only time I had so far expressed this fondness was when I had shouted out that I did like him, no matter what a twisted mess he was. Actually showing our emotions, let alone in such an intimate way, had been silently banned from the beginning of our liaison.

Talk was just that – talk. Meals were just meals. Walks were just walks. Sex was just sex. Anything else would have been unsightly.

And yet right now, is this desperate moment, it was plain to see that something had changed.

Sure, Sherlock's face was no more expressive than usual. I had no clue as to what he would be thinking as he shoved me backwards, gripping me closely as we lowered onto the bed. By the very nature of the grip, however, I knew something was different.

Sherlock didn't like touching people. He wore gloves whenever he left the sanctuary of his apartment, except, of course, when experiments or investigations required otherwise. He would act like he was protecting himself from the cold, but it was obvious that it wasn't that. A touch, however small, was too intimate. Even in our moments of passion he had kept contact to a minimum. I would grab at him. He would graze his hands over my body in analysis. That was all there was. Now his palms were doing more than explore inquisitively; they were reaching, taking, holding.

My hands in turn were deviating from their usual actions. I was no longer simply grasping automatically, spurred on by my body's primordial responses, but instead caressed and clutched. The warm skin of his chest and shoulders was more than just flesh – it was Sherlock. His three-tiered scent confirmed it. The familiar chemicals, the flowery perfumed soap, and heavy underlying petrichor filled my nostrils as I deepened my breaths. It, just like his skin, was more now than a smell. It too was Sherlock.

And that was what I needed. After so much pain and terror, it was the only thing I felt I really needed at all – Sherlock.

My body reacted to his touch as it never had before, sending more than little shivers of pleasure up and down my form. When his fingers slid across my bare breasts, the hair on my arms stood on end. When his lips traced a line down my torso, small quivers reached their way to my toes. When his nails dug ever so slightly into my hips, the darts of pain seemed utterly insignificant.

From either of our perspectives, it was exquisite, but for any unwelcome onlookers it would only have appeared hurried and messy. Neither of us was concentrating on our actions; even Sherlock with his faultless mind lost his pace once or twice; but physical perfection was not the purpose of our movements. We weren't concentrating because we didn't care about how we were doing this – the only thing worth caring about was that we were.

We needed to touch each other, to feel the other's heart racing beneath our hands, to ensure that they were truly there.

As Sherlock pressed inside of me, our bodies aching, I pushed myself upwards, wanting as much bare skin to meet his as was possible. I desired nothing less than the melting of our flesh so that we would be fused together. After my horrific day, the thing I truly wanted was to be as near to him as our physicality would allow, and this was the way to go about it.

As we moved I grasped at his back and head, tangling my fingers into his already dishevelled hair, attempting to pull him closer to me, although we were already packed tighter than most people would ever enjoy. His jaw dug itself into the base of my neck, my shoulder surely becoming bruised with the pressure. His face was so buried into the pillow beside my head that it crossed my mind for a second that he might suffocate himself without realising it, but that thought was soon swept away with all the other unimportant details.

I moaned and groaned, my gasps becoming more frequent with every passing second. Now and then Sherlock would make a bass-filled grunt that reverberated through the base of my spine. My toes curled, tugging at the sheet below with every subtle movement. I could taste the salt of my sweat and former tears drip into my open mouth and onto my awaiting tongue. My eyes clamped shut, blocking out any unwanted sights that would only distract from the feelings of the moment.

When the final release came to me, it didn't even matter.

The immense physical pleasure was undeniably there. The streams of gratification rolling off of our forms as we lay still, panting for enough air, was proof enough of that. And yet, despite just how different this time had been, the outcome was ultimately the same.

An orgasm was just that – an orgasm.

It was something else that had been present this time which hadn't been there before – not just the satisfaction of mere corporal needs, but what that something was escaped my powers of description. A bond, albeit small, had been consummated.

Sherlock rolled away as soon as he caught his breath. He stood, just as he always did after we had sex, and swiftly began dressing. His actions, his lack of facial expression, were no different from his usual demeanour.

Something had changed, however.

In his own incredibly elusive way, Sherlock had shown me what I had so urgently wished to see.

He had been worried about me.

Last instalment of The Game That We Play, I'm afraid. The finale to The Game That You Learnt will be up soon, as well.

Review, yes?