Hey ho, here we go. I'm taking some artistic liberties in terms of medical stuff here.
And also, if you're not a fan of ...graphic things... between two men, I would suggest looking elsewhere.
Started a new fic as well called Nothing Happens to Me, if you like my writing perhaps have a look at that and tell me if you would like me to continue it?
Thank you for all feedback, it really does mean a lot to me.
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It was already evening when John returned to Baker Street. The sun was setting and the shadows were long; the elongated shapes of the lampposts striped the street as he made his way towards the flat.
It had taken John much longer in the police station than he would have been happy with, but he had also learnt some interesting information. According to a few eyewitnesses and some surveillance camera footage a woman and a man resembling quite unmistakably the notorious Ms. Adler and Mr. Moriarty had been spotted in the Victoria station some time after the fire; so it had been the two of them John had seen escaping from the flames.
Which meant that Molly was most likely dead; and it also meant that Moriarty was still around. Something that John couldn't say he was too ecstatic about, but on the other hand; maybe it could be a reason enough for Sherlock to keep fighting.
Lost in his thoughts John had arrived to the flat. To his surprise - and slight worry as well - he noticed that there were no lights in the living room windows.
He's probably just asleep.. Surely
But the unpleasant feeling had already gripped his insides with a grasp so strong it was impossible to ignore it. With haste he opened the door and stepped inside. As soon as the door closed behind his back, the complete silence of the flat became very obvious to John. There was not a single sound to be heard but only watchful, expectant quietness that swallowed him whole; the similarity of the silence to that of a tomb did not escape John.
Shaking the thought he ascended to the second floor, leaping two rises with one step. When he opened the door leading to the flat it took him a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the room; but for some reason he didn't want to turn the lights on. Perhaps on some level of his mind he was afraid that something had happened, that Sherlock had somehow managed to pull his threat off; were that the case, his unconscious self probably wanted to push the moment of learning that knowledge just a few seconds further.
After a short moment, as his eyesight had adjusted to the lack of light, John spotted Sherlock. He was sitting in an armchair, facing the window - odd that John wouldn't have noticed him - and he appeared to be very still.
Too still
There was a brief moment, perhaps only a second, during which the possibility that Sherlock might be dead seemed very real to John. During that fleeting fraction of time he was convinced of it, more than convinced; the certainty of it clenched itself around his heart with its ice-cold grip, causing it almost to stop beating. His breath got stuck in his throat and he felt nauseous; and then the moment passed and he knew nothing was for certain, as far as John knew Sherlock was only sleeping, and he gained back his ability to move.
With a feeling that could have perhaps been categorized as dread but slightly milder he walked to him, quietly. The carpet absorbed the most of the sound of his footsteps, resulting only in dull thuds. The distance to the window seemed longer than normally, and he noticed himself slowing his pace down as he was approaching the armchair Sherlock was sitting in.
John stopped next to the chair. Sherlock still hadn't moved one bit and it was too dark to see whether his chest was moving or not. His eyes were closed and his head was resting on the tall backrest.
Slowly, ever so slowly John reached with his right hand and and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder. His fingers lightly touched the curve where shoulder turns into neck, meeting the bare skin over the neckline of the t-shirt he was wearing.
The skin of his neck was cool; but it was not cold. As John felt the beating of Sherlock's heart in the tip of his fingers, a wave of relief washed over him; and only then John noticed that he he had been holding his breath. As he released it with a long, deep sigh, Sherlock opened his eyes.
"Checking my pulse, John?" There was a slight hint of amusement in his otherwise raspy voice.
John smiled a bit and cupped his hand on the side of his bare neck, stealing a feel of his skin under his hand. Then, without saying a word, John moved his hand upwards and slid it behind Sherlock's head, now firmly resting on the spot where the skull meets the neck, and leant down to kiss him.
Their lips met and locked together in a kiss; at first gentle, almost careful. Then gaining more strength, more passion, the insatiable hunger adding to the passion that was quickly building up between them. They devoured each other, it had been so long since the last time they had kissed like this, and it didn't take long for John to start to feel the effects of Sherlock's hungry lips on his in terms of the focus of his circulation.
Reluctantly John broke the kiss. His breathing was a bit heavier than it had been and only now he noticed that Sherlock's right hand was behind his neck, his determined hold not allowing John to pull himself away.
"Something the matter?" Sherlock's voice was not much more than a whisper and John could feel his lips brushing on his cheek when he spoke.
He had to swallow. "No, it's just..." John's voice was thick. Sherlock's smell was intoxicating, it made his insides burn; he hadn't realized how much he had missed this, this man - and now that he was here again, so close, the taste of him on his lips and the feel of his skin under his hand - it was dizzying, and it most definitely was a turn-on.
Sherlock's hand on the back of his neck guided John's head back to another kiss. He couldn't have resisted even if he had wanted to, and truth be told he most certainly didn't. The desire built up like a fire fed with gasoline, consuming and impossible to hold back. John's erection was not a mere hint anymore and between the kisses he managed to breathe out some sparse words. "Sherlock.. We can't..."
Sherlock's lips parted from his and he murmured, "I can't, John." More lips, more tongue, Sherlock's hands now travelling on John's body and pulling him closer. "There seems to be nothing wrong with your abilities."
Sherlock's hands were now on his hips, pulling them closer and thus forcing John to straighten himself. With an astonishing speed Sherlock had opened his pants; a second later they were dropped together with his underwear, freeing his indeed very able erection.
John sighed as he felt Sherlock's breath on his exposed member and shivered as his long fingers wrapped around it. The touch of his hand was cool on the hot skin, and as Sherlock started to stroke the length of him John had to place his right hand on the backrest for support. When Sherlock took him in his mouth a moan of pleasure escaped John's lips; he bent his head backwards, pushing his hips closer to Sherlock and allowed himself to get lost in the pure pleasure his lover was giving him with his skillful touch.
The way Sherlock gave head was nothing like John had experienced with anybody else. Truth be told most things were, but John very vividly recalled the first time Sherlock had done so - John had came faster than he had even thought possible. Sherlock seemed to know exactly what to do and when so as to trigger John in a way that no one ever had; and he was also able to read him so that John was completely on his mercy. If Sherlock so chose he could slow down just enough just as John was about to come, pulling him slightly back and keeping him on the verge of orgasm; and then, when Sherlock saw fit, he would do something with the joint effort of his mouth and hands that would make John explode in a second.
Now, as he was enjoying the sensations Sherlock was sending through his body after such a long time, John felt it was almost too much for him to take. It felt amazing, Sherlock's mouth and lips and hands, and John didn't even try to control the muffled cries of pleasure which were evoked in him by what Sherlock was doing. John's right hand was gripping the backrest of the chair and the other one was behind Sherlock's head, his dark hair between John's fingers, moving with the rhythm of his head.
John could feel himself approaching the climax, it burnt inside him and made him tighten his hold on Sherlock's head. Sensing this Sherlock fastened his rhythm, sucking and stroking his aching erection which such skill and precision it started to make John's knees weak.
"Oh God, don't stop, don't..." John´s words were lost in his heavy breathing.
And then he felt Sherlock doing something with his tongue and that was all he needed, the release inside him broke out and the power of his orgasm shot through his body from head to toes, making him groan loudly. His back arched as his every muscle tensed and then relaxed; had John not been holding on to the chair he would have fell to the floor.
For a minute John stood there regaining his strength, breathing heavily, his head hanging and right hand supporting his shaky legs. Sherlock was looking at him, smiling wryly, his right hand still resting on his hip.
After a while, as John had returned to a level of somewhat normal brain function, he lowered himself enough to rest his forehead against Sherlock's.
"You nearly killed me." John's voice was very raspy but the smile that was on his face coloured it.
Sherlock chuckled. "Glad to oblige."
John straightened himself and pulled his pants up. He felt light in the head as he often did after an orgasm, and this particular one had been exceptionally intense. He pulled a chair for himself and sat down with a sigh. "That. Was. Amazing."
Sherlock grinned. "Well, to be honest, it was partly an experiment on my part."
John looked puzzled. "Experiment?"
"Yes. I read an article about unexplained paralysis - such as mine appears to be - and it said that in some cases extreme stimulation has triggered the nervous system back into function. So I figured sexual arousal might do the trick." Sherlock's voice sounded relaxed.
John was immediately alerted; he leant forward towards him with an expectant look on his face. "Did it?"
Sherlock looked down on his legs. "No, unfortunately it didn't."
John slumped back down to his chair. "Oh."
Sherlock didn't look or sound disappointed at all. "That's quite alright, I have another option in mind. I just rather tried the more pleasant one first."
John raised his eyebrows in an unworded question.
Sherlock turned a bit to his left and reached for an object on the table next to him. In a second John realized it was a gun; in the next second he was standing up, ready to grasp the weapon from Sherlock's hands.
"Where did that come from?" John's voice was sharp; there was also a hint or fear in it.
Sherlock looked at him with a very steady and calm look on his face. "Don't worry, I'm not going to shoot myself in the head. I could have done that already."
John had to agree, so he sat back down; but his alert didn't go fully down. He just looked at Sherlock, then at the gun, then back to Sherlock. "Where did you get that?" He repeated his question with a tone bit calmer.
Sherlock weighed the gun in his right hand. "Irene Adler." He pronounced her name very slowly and very articulate.
John's surprise was apparent on his face. "She was here? Wait, I was suppose to tell you - those two people I saw escaping the fire - it was-"
"Irene and Moriarty." Sherlock completed the sentence for him, switching the gun into his left hand.
"How did you know the other one was Moriarty?" John wasn't really surprised that he did; but he still wanted to know.
Sherlock continued toying with the gun in a manner which quite frankly made John slightly unease. "No other option, really. It couldn't have been Molly because Molly tried to kill Irene for what she thought was breaking the deal they had, and there were none of Irene's gorillas at present - had there been she wouldn't have come alone upstairs when she heard the noise Molly made when she came to free me. So there were only the five of us at present when the fire started, and my guess is that Molly was taken down by the explosion that started it in the first place. Which leaves Irene and Moriarty the ones who managed to escape."
John nodded. "They were seen in Victoria." Then, with a slightly more cautious tone, he added, "So she came here? And gave you that?"
Sherlock took the gun again in his right hand and removed the safety. "Yes. Which allows me to experiment on extreme stimulation."
Before John had time to reply or do anything, Sherlock pointed the gun towards his right foot and fired.
The bang of the gun made John's ears ring. He sprung up from his chair, jumped to Sherlock and grabbed the gun from his hand. "You idiot! Did you just shoot yourself?" He was yelling, partly because of the shock caused by his action and partly because he couldn't hear anything.
Sherlock had a wide smile on his face. He grabbed John's left wrist as he had turned around to put the gun away.
"I did. And John, it hurts like a motherfucker."