[Author's Note: Okay, I'm putting this right up front here. PLEASE DON'T GET MAD AT ME. I've interrupted mid-smut again. I'm know, I know, I'm sorry...it was getting way too long, and the smut part was going to be even longer, and I figured it was better to post what I have than make you wait, especially since there was a good kind of point for the chapter break. I promise, I'm writing as fast as I can and will get the next chapter up as soon as possible, keeping in mind that smut always takes a little longer for me to write than other chapters, and this is my first foray into full-on slash smut, so that adds an extra level of difficulty. As for the mild kink to this...I don't know. I didn't expect it, but here it is. I would apologize, but...I regret nothing!]
"You can't go," Sherlock barked. John leaned his head against the door, hissing in an angry breath. One hand still hovered over the deadbolt.
"You can't leave," Sherlock said icily. "It's almost midnight. It's a change in your routine."
"I know," John snapped. "I just...I just need to feel I can. So would you just...shut it for a moment?"
He pressed his forehead into the rough wood of the door, trying to rein in his temper. He could feel the anger bubbling and hissing below the surface, looking for a way out. He wanted to lash out and hurt Sherlock the way that Sherlock had hurt him, and instead he clenched his fists and concentrated on his breathing. In through the nose, hold it, and then out through the mouth, slow and steady, like he did after the nightmares. Like he did in the moment before firing a bullet.
"You can't go. You said you loved me. That means you don't leave," Sherlock asserted, and Christ, in addition to the emotional development of a nine-year-old, did the man not even have the self-preservation of a mayfly?
"I do love you," John ground out between his clenched teeth, still doing his breathing. "It doesn't mean I like you very much right this moment."
He had thought he had seen Sherlock in black moods before — epic silent sulks on the sofa, grating violin compositions at all hours, even bullet holes in the walls. In retrospect, those seemed like minor snits in comparison to the dark and near-violent episodes Sherlock had displayed over the last few days as the remaining footage dwindled away with no results.
It was both infuriating and quite frankly alarming, how his moods vacillated so wildly. At times he would be open and tender, sharing stories of his life with John, murmuring endearments against his skin, falling apart gorgeously under his hands and mouth. And then only hours later his mind would turn in on itself, gnashing and gnawing, and that's when he turned on John. As if driven by demons, that brilliant mind and that beautiful mouth would say the things most calculated to hurt, to destroy this fragile relationship they had crafted, and trapped in this tiny flat John had no choice but to simply grit his teeth and suffer through it.
Finally feeling more in control of himself, John leaned back against the door, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I get it, Sherlock, I really do. You're trapped here. You're frustrated with not finding anything in the footage. But that is no excuse. The things that you say — you can't just cut me to ribbons because you're bored."
"You understand nothing!" Sherlock was practically shouting now, curled up into himself, sitting on the floor, head pressed against his knees, pulling fretfully at handfuls of his hair. "Your vapid little brain...how could you possibly understand what I'm trying to do? The unimaginable scope and complexity of Moriarty's web, down to one single thread on which both our lives hang, and I can't find it!"
He looked up at John — red-faced, pale marks on his brow where his knees had been pressed to his forehead, grey eyes stormy, hair sticking up in all directions. John felt something twist in his chest, his anger melting away. He could see in Sherlock's face that he knew he had crossed a line, and yet he was still out of control, unable to pull back.
With a sigh John walked over, leaning against the wall and then sinking down until he was sitting next to Sherlock. He didn't know if touching him would make it worse or not, but at least now he felt like he could be close without wanting to throttle the infuriating man to death.
Sherlock's head was against his knees again, and he was rocking slightly, his breathing jagged and uneven. John hovered a hand over his shoulder, and then drew it back.
"The footage is just one solution, Sherlock. If nothing is there, then we'll find another way. We always do."
Sherlock made a high whine of distress, shaking his head against his knees, still rocking. "This is the only way, John! This man has slipped my grasp time and again. A man without a face, who kills at a distance. I cannot protect you from that and time is running out, we can't keep up this act forever and soon he'll know that I live and then you'll die, I have to find it, I must, I must, but I can't think, I can't find it, it's there but I can't find it..."
"Christ, Sherlock." John gave in and put his arm around Sherlock but it was as if he didn't even notice, the babbling and rocking continuing unceasingly.
"Sherlock," John said more sternly. "Look at me."
He tightened the arm around Sherlock's shoulders, winding his other hand in the chaos of Sherlock's curls and forcing his head up. Sherlock was still lost in his head, mouth moving soundlessly now, eyes darting back and forth unseeingly. An icy shard of fear sliced through John just seeing him like this.
"Sherlock!" John said sharply, shaking him a bit. He saw Sherlock snap back into awareness. Then suddenly Sherlock was on him, practically crawling into his lap. John's hands tensed, poised to defend himself before he realized that Sherlock was kissing him desperately, his hands clutching and grasping wherever he could grab hold.
John's startled noise — of protest or encouragement, he didn't even know — was muffled by Sherlock's tongue. John held on, trying to kiss back, but Sherlock's agitation seemed only to increase. Licking turned to biting, Sherlock's hands scrabbling under John's shirt and jumper to scratch stingingly at his skin.
"Bloody hell, Sherlock," John muttered. He tried to break away but Sherlock was was like a dervish, teeth and claws everywhere. "Just — stop it," he barked, turning his head away, feeling Sherlock bite at the tendon between his neck and shoulder.
A brief tussle ensued, but at such close quarters Sherlock's martial arts techniques were no match for John's hand-to-hand combat training, low center of gravity, and sheer bloody-mindedness. It ended with Sherlock on his back, his fine-boned wrists grasped firmly above his head in John's left hand. John held Sherlock's shoulder pinned to the ground with his right forearm, straddling his hips to keep him firmly in place.
Sherlock bucked and heaved a few times, testing the strength of John's grip, as John grunted with the effort of holding him, panting into his neck. Then, suddenly, with a full-body shudder and a long exhale of "Joooohnnnn..." Sherlock went limp beneath him.
Sensing a trick, John pulled back cautiously, his eyes narrowed, but Sherlock truly seemed to have subsided. The tension had drained from his body, his head thrown back, neck bared in submission. John's concern warred with heated lust as he took in the view of Sherlock underneath him. He looked well-fucked already, his body stretched and pliant, lips kiss-swollen and thick curls in chaotic disarray, the hem of his t-shirt rucked up to show an expanse of pale belly above his pajama bottoms.
Sherlock's eyes blinked open slowly, as if he were waking from a dream. His eyes were dilated, the translucent gray almost entirely eclipsed by the dark pupils. "Yes," he breathed. The dazed eyes met John's as Sherlock's hips twisted beneath him in a slow, sinuous movement. "This is what I need, John. How did you know?"
John's mouth went dry immediately, arousal roaring through his system. "Not a good idea, Sherlock," he gritted out.
Sherlock shook his head. His movements were slow and languid, as if he were moving through thick syrup. "The best idea," he murmured, his voice low and breathy, another slow full-body writhe sending his hips against John again demandingly.
"Goddammit." John rocked back, moving his forearm from where it pinned Sherlock's shoulder to brace his hand on the floor. John's mind might be suffering from emotional whiplash from Sherlock's sudden mood shifts, but his cock was entirely too enthusiastic about the current situation.
Sherlock began to move and John thought that he was freeing himself. His grip reflexively loosened but Sherlock merely twisted, turning over on his belly. He stretched sinuously again, wrists still compliantly in John's loosened grip, arching his back and pushing his arse back against the ridge of John's cock. "Please," he urged, his voice a full register lower than usual.
"Nnnghh, fucking Christ," John stuttered out as lust jolted through him. Grasping onto his slipping control John moved, shifting his knee to the small of Sherlock's back, trying to hold him still. "Not like this," he managed to say hoarsely. Despite all the things they had done over the last few weeks with hands and mouths, they had yet to do this, and John knew that Sherlock had never done anything like this with Seb either. "Not with you barely rational, and me — bloody hell, Sherlock, a part of me still wants to hurt you. Is that what you want from me?"
Sherlock shook his head frantically, his cheek pressed to the carpet, his mouth gasping open. "Not pain, John, just — just this. Make me stop thinking. Make me feel you instead." He was almost imperceptibly rocking, grinding himself against the floor as much as John's knee on his back allowed.
John let his head hang, still breathing hard, struggling with himself. His thoughts were a jumbled mess and his bad shoulder ached from where he still held Sherlock's wrists pinned above his head.
"Turn around," he finally said, his voice carefully sharp. He lifted his knee from Sherlock's lower back to straddle him again and watched as he turned over. The gray eyes seemed a little sharper now, although the expression on Sherlock's face was still dreamy, his cheeks flushed.
John cast his memory back to one of his least favorite courses at Bart's. "What do you get when you divide the molar mass of a monatomic element by Avogadro's number?"
Sherlock blinked, and then the corner of his mouth twitched in the barest smile. "The average mass of one atom of the element in grams," he replied steadily. "I am not compromised, John, emotionally or cognitively. Now come on." He bucked his hips up into John again, the careful rationality of his words a striking contrast to the wanton movements of his lower body.
John watched Sherlock's face carefully, trying to ignore the incessant aching in his groin so he could think clearly. He brushed the knuckles of his right hand down Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock nuzzled up into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut. He did seem calm now, as if focusing on John's touch had halted his frantic circling thoughts.
"This is really what you want, love?" John asked gently.
Sherlock's eyes fluttered open again, his translucent gaze open and sincere. "Yes," he growled. "Please," he added, moving restlessly again, trying to push up against John.
John squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then opened them again. "Right," he said decisively. "Get on the bed, then."
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