The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 18

Dear All, Welcome back to the Cuddle'verse, as Mirith Griffin has now kindly dubbed it - and it will forever be that for me now. I feel like I've been a million miles away instead of only 200, but thank you for all the good wishes.

So anyway, you've waited long enough...

John hesitated when he reached the door of the bedroom.

'I'm not holding out on you, but I think we should both take a shower,' he said, glancing up at Sherlock. Who frowned.

'You said-'

'Olfactory memory, Sherlock,' John told him. 'Smells can cue memories faster than pretty much any other stimuli. You know that. It's been a long, hot day, and I must stink like a pig. I don't want to trigger off a bad trip for you just because I haven't washed.'

Sherlock had to admit he had a point.

'You don't stink at all,' he said, leaning in to nuzzle John's ear and eliciting a particularly erotic sigh. 'You smell incredibly sexy, in actual fact. Very male. But I entirely take your point.'

'Good.' John led him back down the stairs and into the bathroom. They opened the window to let in the evening breeze and Sherlock closed the door. And then they stood there, opposite one another.

'Er,' said John.

'Let's get in together.'

'Okay.' He didn't look very sure. So Sherlock kissed him. That helped.

Sherlock started undoing John's shirt buttons, but he suddenly pulled away.

'This is about your shoulder, isn't it?' Sherlock sighed. 'Okay, I'll show you mine if you show me yours.'

It was an odd thing that although John had seen Sherlock naked a number of times, he himself had been very careful never to appear without clothes or a bathrobe. Even in a relationship in which they shared a bed, he had never shown his lover his torso. To begin with, Sherlock thought it was out of consideration for his situation, but after a while it became obvious that it was more than that. It was clearly an issue that John was unable to confront, so Sherlock did it for him. He stripped off his shirt and presented John with his elbow. There was a jagged white mark around it.

'There. See that? Barbed wire, when I was seven. I was riding my bike through the woods at Sandon, went over a bump, and fell off into a fence.'

John made a non-commital face.

'Okay, not impressed? Try this one.' Sherlock dropped his trousers and pants and turned to show John his ample posterior. 'See that purple mark? Fell out of a tree watching Mycroft snog his boyfriend one Easter when I was ten. The bruise has never gone away.' Actually, it was something of a bugbear for Sherlock, that bruise. Vain creature that he was, he felt the oval shadow on the side of his buttock marred his beauty.

John nodded, seeming marginally more impressed with that one. But that may have been to do with the bum.

Sherlock turned back, pinched his thigh to accentuate the raised ridge that ran diagonally across it. 'Chigwell Cheesewire murderer, the year before I met you. Evil bastard. Twenty-seven stitches. I was on crutches for a whole week. You want to see my appendectomy scar?'

'I think you've made your point.'

'Not quite.' Sherlock stood very close to John, breathing down onto his cheek, and pressed his index finger to his own chest. 'See this one? Maybe not. This is where John Hamish Watson broke my heart.'

'I didn't-'

'You did. That night, after the swimming pool. You tore it in two. I told you at the time it was the worst thing I ever saw, and I meant it.'

John looked up at him through bronze lashes. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged it off.

The skin underneath was puckered and red. There was a deep depression, and what looked to Sherlock like evidence of a skin graft.

'Oh, my love,' he whispered, sliding his hands about the doctor's waist. For a moment they stood together, silent. Sherlock pressed his cheek to John's forehead and closed his eyes, trying to control the trembling inside him. Eventually, when he thought that his voice might not shake, he spoke.

'Does it hurt?'

'Bit tender. It's okay so long as you don't jam your fingers in.'

Sherlock traced the ragged edges with his fingertip, then bent down and kissed it. John sighed. Sherlock kissed his lips softly, then gave him a wry look.

'You going to take off those jeans, or am I?'

John fumbled with his belt and buttons, then shoved the denim down and stepped out. Pulled off his socks. Stood there before his love, naked and shy.

Sherlock took in John's erection for the first time.

'Christ, it's huge,' he gasped.

'Flatterer.'

'No, seriously, John, fuck! I mean, look at it!' He couldn't keep the note of alarm out of his voice.

'It's okay, love. It's just normal size, I promise.'

'Really?'

'Yep.' But he was grinning insanely.

'But it looks huge to me!'

'Just average.'

'Are you sure?'

'I'm a doctor, I've seen plenty.'

Sherlock laughed. 'You really like it that I think you're huge, don't you?'

'It's what every man wants to hear.' His round face was bright with happiness for the first time since they had come home. The way his eyes twinkled with humour made Sherlock glow.

He looked down at his own penis. A roll of soft, harmless-looking skin between his legs, all but lost in auburn curls.

'Mine would never get that big,' he said.

John reached out and stroked the backs of his fingers along its flaccid length. 'You're so beautiful,' he whispered, awe in his voice. Sherlock searched his features as he gazed down, but saw nothing but tenderness.

'Is it okay?' he asked.

And John, realising the need for reassurance, said, 'perfect. So beautiful. I don't know what else to say. I don't have the words. It's lovely. Vulnerable. Delicate. It's what you are inside, the part of you that only I see.'

'You don't have to wax lyrical.'

'I can't help it. You have that effect on me.'

He looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

'Shower?'

Sherlock reached behind the nylon curtain and turned the dial. Water hissed into the tub. Steam belched. He turned the heat down. They got in and faced one another, let the stream drum on their skulls, stood close enough for their bellies to touch. John's cock brushed against Sherlock's thigh, and he flinched.

'We can stop any time you want,' John told him.

Sherlock picked up the shower gel, water dripping from his fringe. 'Soap?'

They poured gel into each other's palms and began to rub it over one another's chests. It was incredible. Sherlock had never touched anyone like this, so intimately. He worked up a lather in John's chest hair, thrilled at the way the nipples hardened against his palms, then worked his way down with circular strokes.

'Can I touch you there?'

'Yes. Careful with the soap, though.

'Of course. I've got one of my own, remember?'

He ran his slippery hand up John's length. The flesh felt incredibly hot. Its firmness resisted his fingers. John closed his eyes.

'Mmmm,' he smiled. 'Nice.'

Sherlock curled his fingers round, tested the diameter. John was uncircumcised, which was strange to Sherlock, being cut himself. He experimentally eased the foreskin back, and was rewarded with an indrawn breath. He cupped John's balls lightly in his palm, weighing them.

'Come here,' John said, opening his eyes and pulling the detective against him. Their bellies slithered and rasped together. 'I want to soap that epic arse of yours.'

Sherlock giggled, and then gasped as John cupped his backside and began to massage, his palms lubricated by the sweetly scented gel. He let his hands range up and down, into the small of Sherlock's back, tickling the dimples there, and down beneath the swell, stroking the creases and further, to his thighs and the sensitive, hairless backs of his knees, and up again.

Sherlock moaned. Every nerve ending was tingling.

'Nice?' John butted his head in under Sherlock's jaw and licked along his collar bone.

'Oh God,' Sherlock whimpered. 'How is that so good?' He felt giddy.

John sucked one of Sherlock's nipples. He jumped as if he had been electrocuted.

'What the-'

'Nice?'

'Stop using that word, it is woefully inadequate.'

'Sorry, I get monosyllabic when I'm this turned on.'

'Are you? Turned on, I mean?'

John caught his hand and wrapped it around his cock. 'Feel that? That's you, that is.'

Sherlock stared down into his love's eyes, his mouth open. He could barely believe it.

'We need to go to bed,' he croaked. 'Right now.'

They sluiced away the remains of the froth, turned the shower off, and dried themselves. Sherlock scrubbed at his hair with his towel viciously, loving the sensation against his scalp. Then he snuffled his nose into John's hair, which was standing up alarmingly.

'Cute little hedgehog,' he giggled.

'Fuck you, beanpole.' He gave Sherlock a resounding slap on the bum. 'You wanted upstairs? Upstairs, now.'

Tomorrow, they may actually get down to business...