The first thing John did when they returned to the Red Lion Inn was brush his teeth. It felt as though he would never be able to wash the taste of the green waters from his mouth but he was damn well going to try with all the minty flavored paste he could squirt. He scrubbed at his tongue furiously, gagging two or three times as he applied the bristles to the far back near his throat, half near retching as it was from the taste and smell that still clung to his senses. He imagined licking pond scum off a rock would leave much the same flavor. Or sucking aquarium walls. The mint helped.
The shower following had felt good as well, even if more water was less than appealing. He'd spent a good couple hours in sopping clothes and sloshy shoes and worried he might have forgotten what dry felt like. Not that they hadn't tried to make him more comfortable at the local surgery. It was always said that doctors made the worst patients and despite the appalling idea of living up to the stereotype, John could not find much use in standing apart from the norm. Half an hour on oxygen and a few shots to combat infection had been all he was willing to subject himself to. Sherlock hadn't argued with his stance on the subject and so John stood firm, releasing himself into his own care with a long awaited date with a toothbrush. His body still ached. The little comforts of clean made for a nice shield from discomfort while rolling in lather with something sweet smelling on his skin. John had breathed in the remnants of the steam as it opened up his sinuses and let the muck blow out into tissues. He would never be a great fan of drowning. He wasn't that keen on forest water features either to be honest. All that was over and done with now, though, as he stood in their room with his towel around his waist, dressing gown pulled loosely over it for decency.
Sherlock was sitting on the bed, same as John'd left him upon their return, not so much as a fold in his garments disturbed as he sat poised like a statue on the crisp, white linens.
John forced a small smirk as he closed the door behind him. "I feel like a man again," he announced with a sigh, letting his flat feet stomp lightly on the floor as he paced to the other side of the room where his clothes were folded in a neat stack. Fresh pants, shorts, and a crew neck tee. John gave them a pat, still too damp to change, as he turned to watch for any signs of life in the one and only Sherlock Holmes.
The man still refused to stir. Not even his eyes had followed John or head bobbed to show he'd heard him. Shock, John thought, and he breathed out steadily through his nose. Since the moment he came to on the muddy bank of Boscombe, with Moriarty watching on from the opposite side, Sherlock had been coldly distant. The doctor had hoped that the detective would unwind once they were alone in a private sanctuary but the man seemed to resist the calm in favor of nerves and stress. He was somewhere in that funny head but self-imprisoned, self-contained in his own thoughts and fears.
Moriarty was alive and free, McCarthy's escape confirmed while John had breathed into a mask, staring up at diagrams of the pulmonary system. It seemed the quietly disturbed man had waited around only until the time when he was able to speak to John. The implications were more than John cared to consider. But Sherlock obviously had. He supposed there was little chance in Sherlock not considering them all until every detail was as broad and defined as a pier leading off a cliff.
John leaned against the dresser, his palms pressing heavy into the white-washed wood. "You okay?" he asked. "You've been quiet since... well, since everything today."
As before, Sherlock seemed only to ignore him. John scowled, raking his fingers through his wet hair once more.
"Hey, uh... sorry about Moriarty. I'm sure... well, I guess I'm not really sure of anything. But it'll be alright. Whatever happens."
.
.
.
"You going to give me the silent treatment all night?"
To answer in either way would have negated it. Sherlock inhaled sharply, his body going ridged before sinking slowly in on itself, saved from a slouch only through the stiffness of his posture. Other than that single breath, he did not move though it seemed, once again, that there was something behind the unblinking stare. His chest swelled with continued breath as the seconds lengthened into a silent minute before the peeked lips parted for more than just air. "You were dead," he said, his voice low enough to he felt as it rumbled across the room, nearly too soft to distinguish from a heartbeat. "When Billie pulled you out. You were dead."
John felt his own wave of shock run through him as his nerves fizzled at the surface. "...Moriarty is alive and running free and you're still thinking about that? I'm okay, Sherlock. It lasted a couple minutes tops—-no brain damage, no muscle injury, I'm fit and ready for duty. Did I scare you that badly?"
Yes. John had seen the stiff, unhinged version of the man he loved on at least one other occasion when his senses told him what his head could not reconcile. All the detective needed was a drink in his shaking grasp to complete the picture.
Sherlock looked down at his lap, his hands curling into the pleat of his trousers. "In the past, I always felt that I could save you," he said, his voice louder this time and stronger. "Even when you were in danger, I knew... I don't do helpless. But there was nothing I could do. I saw the two of you struggle and fall in, I watched Billie leap into the water and the constable follow after. I just stood there waiting for you to come up, watching the bubbles on the surface, holding my own breath to see how plausible it was you were still conscious to save yourself. And when I finally saw you, you weren't... You weren't. I have seen so many corpses in my life but I have never felt... sick... at the sight of one. It wasn't you, John, it was flesh and bones and everything that rots. It was revolting." His head fell forward, the coils of curls shifting towards his downcast eyes with an indecent bounce. His set jaw remained square while his lips pursed thin and white. Some emotions would never be easy for him to accept and allow shamelessly, John thought. But there were few things more beautiful than a stoic man unhinged by the contents of his heart.
"I didn't mean to scare you," John said a few breaths above a whisper.
Sherlock shook his head. "You didn't scare me. I'm not scared." He looked up at last, his face turning to John where all the resolve in the world could hardly mount a grand enough defense against the patented Watson frown of understanding. Sherlock wore a scowl instead, masking fear with annoyance. "You're not allowed to die, John. I worked too hard for this."
It was as romantic an expression as it was thought provoking. John was the gunman and the doctor; John did the protecting whereas Sherlock needed to be reminded John was even there sometimes. Or wasn't there. Sherlock was oblivious to everything until it mattered. Sherlock wasn't a protector, he very badly needed to be protected himself.
But the fall had been to save John. Sigerson was simply a Sherlock who could not function in a world without John, perpetuated by the need to keep him safe. The attempted sacrifice for Mary and the risky handling of Moran were all for John's protection. John had guarded Sherlock for eighteen months and Sherlock had lived every day for nearly three years on a mission to reciprocate. There was really no arguing with effort he'd put into it nor the strength of love that fueled it. They had both worked long and hard to reach where they were now and only death would part them.
John licked his lips, not sure how to set his partner's mind at ease when most words of comfort would be lies. "We live dangerous lives, Sherlock. I can't promise I won't get killed any more than you can. And the thought of losing you scares me too. I know what it was like to lose you once already. Next time I probably won't be so lucky as for you to come back. That kind of miracle only happens once."
Sherlock nodded slowly, his scowl sliding with the proper response. He sighed, raking his hands through his curls as though untangling his thoughts. "I'm glad you took that job. The one at the hospital," he said at last, looking off at an old painting of the river hung on the wall opposite but somehow still knowing John was near retort. "I mean it. I miss the idea of you being there with me but we both know how I get. When I'm working, I'm working, and I don't see anything but the case. Whether you're with me or at work or at home, it makes no difference. I don't have time for you when I'm doing my job. And I think I can do my job better knowing you're safe."
"I don't want to be cut off from your work, Sherlock. It's part of you and it's part of us."
"It's the part that is going to be the end of us."
John felt a pang in his chest at the sound of regret and hollow acceptance in Sherlock's husky baritone. He pushed away from the dresser, steps slow and careful, slowing coming to stand in front of Sherlock where his eyes could not focus on anything but him as he brushed the curls from his brow. "Not of us," he promised, letting his fingers linger and slide down the side of his face, falling off his chiseled cheek bones to cup along his jaw. "We might die on one of your adventures but we'll still be together. This doesn't end, Sherlock. This is going to be around long after we're gone."
It was cheesy. It was impossible. It was one big, romanticized lie that would have been much more relevant if his partner wasn't a scientist who believed bodies were elemental compounds and souls did not exist. When they died they'd be burned and buried and nothing but the memory of them would exist.
No, not just the memory, the legend of the greatest detective the world had ever known as chronicled by his lifelong companion.
Maybe it wasn't so impossible. Maybe it wasn't just a romantic lie. Maybe they could be together forever in the stories and attention that sometimes brought them nothing but misery. Maybe they really could love each other forever, even after death.
Sherlock said nothing to mock him nor shaped his face to scorn his sentiment—both spoken and not. Instead he drew his fingers along the back of John's neck, coercing him to bend lower, and kissed him without hesitancy in a lingering, heartfelt union of lips that had said too much already.
John was only too happy to oblige. He braced one hand against the post of their bed, the other curling along Sherlock's shoulder as he remained bent and half looming, the belt of his dressing gown tapping against Sherlock's thigh. Everything still tasted of mint but the parted lips that invited him in were still a texture to be treasured. John helped himself to all that was offered, finding the unschooled reciprocation endearing as Sherlock assessed, adapted and implemented each movement in turn. It was like a game of call and response, teaching Sherlock how to kiss and moaning in turn to his enthusiastic application. Deleted information; practical knowledge retained for cases but technique lost to disinterest, or perhaps entirely unrehearsed and exclusively novel. There was never any knowing with unasked questions. It was hard to really care about any answers with Sherlock Holmes's tongue in one's mouth.
The unselfconscious moans and hungry, moist smacks alluded to a more serious desperation that seldom entered into things, the hands sliding against the wet curves of John's thighs making his knees lock to keep from trembling. His eyes were left tightly shut, teeth tugging at Sherlock's bottom lip, while the thin, dexterous fingers of the violinist slid up under the terry cloth drapings and converged between his legs. Presumption had already stirred John's arousal but the touch, the first inquisitive stroke of fingertips over the bare shaft of his cock had John's grasp white knuckled on the bedpost, breath trapped in his lungs. This was it; something was going to happen tonight. He could feel Sherlock's thoughts through his hands, the subtle uncertainty at the new angle and approach to touching someone else, sliding over the length of him with the whole of his hand to measure before sliding down in a loose fist to gauge his girth. The other hand palmed his scrotum, testicles rolled and massaged and held high where the heat of his own body and the friction of Sherlock's touch filled the pit of his belly with warmth. It had been months since he'd been touched like this and several lifetimes unknowingly waiting for it to be Sherlock touching him.
John moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to his head, holding him still by his curls, dark hair sprouting through his fingers as he deepened the kiss, tongue flicking along the sensitive roof of his mouth, licking at his molars, thrusting against Sherlock's surprisingly pliable tongue that was usually venom tipped and wild. The suppressed whimper was felt in the seize of Sherlock's grip, fingers tensing around the doctor's prepus and corona. John groaned with want, rolling his hips into the caress, driving Sherlock's tentative touches into a slackened grip to thrust into. The post-shower damp was hardly enough to moisten Sherlock's hands, the friction almost as uncomfortable as it was fantastic. The last thing John wanted to do was pull away and adjust for comfort. Parched men did not turn their noses at anything offered to satisfy.
But neither did a gentleman accept a handjob from his over-dressed boyfriend with whom he desperately needed to reciprocate.
John kept one hand anchored on the bed as he groped down against Sherlock's lap, the stiff heat of his bulge happy to greet him while the pressure of his palm sent an arc of surprised pleasure through Sherlock's spine, uttered as a nearly soundless mumble of breath. It sparked through John as though it had been his own delight. Sherlock's voice was generally quick to thrill him and those sounds, those attempts at words that fell apart into breath and wanting, were going to be his undoing. John chased his lips as Sherlock let his head fall back, finally settling on the pale stretch of neck exposed to him. He sucked and nibbled, his tongue following a tendon as his hand worked Sherlock through his pants, drawing out that first touch, not wanting to rush even as he flushed to recall the very short list of what had come before. Sherlock was pushing forward as John had pushed, motivated by fear and desperation and above all love. It wasn't how John wanted it to be for them but the curious finger smearing a bead of precum along the slit of his glans was doing a fine job of convincing him to fuck candlelight and romance and just grant them both a well deserved release. Sherlock probably would have laughed at the idea of mood music. Sentiment. Sex without sentiment was just a good fuck, though, and John didn't want so much as a kiss without the right intention.
He pulled away from Sherlock gently, hands grasping his forearms to still the slow ministrations. "S-Sherlock." He licked his lips to clear the stutter, feeling impossibly warm as he felt the heat radiating from his groin. "We should.. ah…." He searched his head for the thoughts that had taken over long enough to give them space, his gaze startled in the amazing colors and depths of Sherlock's eyes. God, he was beautiful, and the flush on Sherlock's face told that he'd said that last part out loud. He kissed him softly, apologizing to the plump bottom lip that was dark with bruising. The want was great but not greater than John's resolve. "I've got maybe two goes in me, Sherlock," he said, forehead pressed to forehead. "And I'd rather spend them with you, not just because of you."
There was perhaps no finer example of Watson language fail than that particular wording of 'I love you'. But Sherlock spoke Watson in every known dialect and responded in Holmes by slowly unbuttoning his shirt. John groaned with yearning, sliding his hands along his shoulders to press back the suit jacket in assistance.
"Right side pocket," Sherlock commanded, and curious, John let his hand travel down his side to frisk through the article. His fingers curled around stiff rectangles as he pulled one of several out, bringing it between them to see. Lubricant. Trial sized packets of personal lubricant, the sort usually keep in stock in any surgery.
John chuckled, turning it over in his hand. "I can't turn my back on you for five seconds," he said, his smile almost hurting with how far it tried to stretch. He dropped the handful on the mattress, imagining with no lack of detail how amazing it was going to feel to stroke them both in his hands, the pair of them thrusting against each other through his slippery grip, rutting like teenagers to a syncopated tempo while questioning the stability of the bed's legs with the sway of their bodies.
Sherlock had his shirt unbuttoned and untucked, jacket halfway down his arms to serve as the only reason he hadn't made himself yet bare above the waist of his trousers. "It's an effort to be more proactive," he stated, sitting straight as John finished the unveiling of his torso, waiting for the final push of his silk shirt from his skin before grasping the swaying belt of John's dressing gown and pulling it open like drapes parting to reveal a work of art. He needlessly drew the cord out through its loops, eyes locked on John's. "We're both men of action, John. Scared doesn't begin to describe what it felt like seeing you on the shore and neither is love a narrow enough term to describe why I can never lose you. Perhaps this is the best way to make myself understood."
John licked his lips, shoulders shrugging off the unsecured cloth leaving not but the towel around his waist. He nodded, his pulse racing. Explaining something intangible and invisible was like describing sound to the deaf or sight to the blind; there was no way to taste the purple music. In his own grief, no words had been less helpful than 'I know how you feel' and so he didn't bother offering them to the man he once mourned for years. Loss, fear, terror, love; they were individual feelings available to everyone but unique in the experience. John didn't mind saying 'I love you' with his body. His hands had always been his best means of expression whether to protect or embrace. "You happen to pilfer condoms as well?" he asked, more worried about sleeping on sticky sheets than finding his hands salted in semen.
"No." Sherlock unsecured the tuck of John's towel and let it fall to the floor, eyes still unwavering in their stare as his hands framed his bare hips. "I'd prefer you not wear one if it's all the same to you. Despite your level of experience, you've never had undiluted intimate contact in the act of penetration. While I put no value in virginity, I would like you to experience something new as well." He paused, head tilting slightly with the rise of his brow. "Unless it's a hygienic concern for you, in which case Billie always has a sleeve of them in the inside zipper of her purse."
If the floor was still under John's feet, he wasn't aware of it anymore. He felt his knees unbuckle with the sensation of falling. Surely Sherlock wasn't suggesting-but, oh God, he was. John felt flush with nearly equal parts embarrassment and arousal, his nakedness attesting to the latter in all ways irrefutable. He licked his lips, swallowing hard at the intensity of Sherlock's grey stare and the pressure of his thumbs against his pelvis. "We- We don't have to-"
"I want to." Sherlock's voice was stern though his touch was soft as he allowed his gaze to lower, his face leaning in close to kiss below John's naval, chin breezing over his shaft as his lips puckered gently at the soft trail of hair on his belly. "I appreciate your objection but it's what you're used to; it's what you're confident in and I want you at your best. I deserve your best," he said, lips parting once more as his tongue swept down the same path of his lips, bypassing the tuft of light hair below as his hand encircled John at his base to better present his target.
John pressed his hand into Sherlock's hair, heel of his palm against Sherlock's forehead as he curled his fingers into his bangs to still him. "You'd have my best in anything I did for you, Sherlock," he promised, the less eloquent part of his mind flailing madly over the short distance between his penis and Sherlock's lips.
Sherlock smiled softly, his fingers splaying in a familiar bow hold along the shaft of John's cock. "I know. But when people speak of sex, that is what they mean. So let's not idle in semantics. Let's have sex, John." He leaned forward, kissing the rosy glans that were dark with want as his lips pushed down against the already retracting foreskin. John's stifled moan-turned-hum of wordless approval spurned him to taste again, tilting his head to run the tip of his tongue along John's frenulum in an exploratory sweep to test and gather data to better serve them both.
Sherlock wasn't going to win any awards for his improvised technique but John was one sloppy suck away from losing it. "Are you absolutely sure?" he asked, staring up at the ceiling to see if he'd somehow stored his stamina away up there as he was exerting very little evidence of it. Murphy's Law would certainly dictate that the time he truly wanted to impress would be when he had almost zero restraint. "It's never too late to change your mind. Anything you want. Everything you want. Slow as you need. Just tell me."
Sherlock licked at the liquid seeping from the tip, his fingers strong in their stead grasp. "Haven't we done enough talking?"
"Yes," John hissed, hands reconvening on Sherlock's shoulders to gently push him back, not stopping at sitting as he continued to guide him to lay down against the bed. The detective's trousers very much needed to be discarded. The best means to refocus John's want was in making Sherlock unravel in his own.
He tipped the button through its hole, anxious fingers pinching against the metal zip as he pulled it down, not nearly as careful as he would have had he guessed that the man was not wearing pants. The black, ungroomed curls were instantly in view, no spare material to hide them, and running beneath them the swollen length of his trapped member. John peeled his trousers down, gravity keeping the swing of Sherlock's freed cock less comical as it rolled to rest against his belly. John had seen it all before-far more times than he really felt the need to comment on-but there was a difference in the context that made normal male anatomy extraordinary. Sherlock bent his head to watch as John extracted each pale ankle from his socks and trousers. His socks were crispy from dried dew and sweat and his legs patterned in little catches from low branches and smears of dirt-turned-mud in the days exertions.
He wiggled his toes, sitting up on his elbows. "Probably would do for me to have showered as well."
"It's fine" John said, kneeling on the bed in a straddle over his thighs as he bent to kiss him again, fingers loving the flesh that clung to his ribs where months ago there had been so little. He smelled oaky and of dust. The musk of London had left him in the wood. "You're fantastic."
Sherlock hummed into a smirk, fingers completely ignorant of foreplay as they entwined again along John's dick. "Flattery will get you everywhere."
"But that is going to make it a short trip." John chuckled, grabbing his forearms to pull the hands away, pinning them gently to the mattress. He kissed him, letting his teeth catch his bottom lip. "While I admire your enthusiasm, just let me lead for a bit, okay? You want my best, yeah?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't make a habit of drawing these things out," he said, and made his point as he arched up between John's legs, hips searching and finding the heated contact of John's groin.
John gasped with surprise against Sherlock's lips-parted with a groan. "Jesus, Sherlock." He released his hands to grapple with his hips, pinning them down instead as the hydra's many heads seemed to reel up and showed themselves. "I don't care how little time you spend knocking one out in the shower, this is not the same thing."
"Doesn't mean you shouldn't still get on with it," Sherlock quipped.
Impossible was in many ways the only way to describe the detective. John left the encouraging laugh in his belly as he shifted to lay beside his lover, pulling him close as he ignored the order and instead kissed him, the mint flavor finally fading.
He slid his thigh between Sherlock's, entangling their legs while his hands wrapped around to keep them pressed chest to chest. He tried not to rock against him. John tried to keep his hips steady, his mind somewhere else as his hands roamed across plains of muscle and the bumps of Sherlock's spine. He let their bodies drift apart only to follow the curve of the detective's ribcage to caress the supple mounds of his pecs, lips never leaving their post. He rolled his thumb against a nipple, pressing the erect nub down into the areola then rubbing it in circles when it popped back out. John was sure he knew Sherlock far too well when the short, nasal exhale all but told him everything he needed to know about what Sherlock thought about male nipple play. A hearty pinch and the resulting stiff straightening of Sherlock's spine said about all John needed to on the subject as well. He smirked against their kiss as Sherlock nipped at his bottom lip. John had always pictured times like these as being much more classically romantic. He rather hoped their romance never lost its playfulness.
There was no telling how long Sherlock would forgive him the indulgence of foreplay. Their lives were often with few frills, preferring straight thrills, but lord help him if John didn't prefer to luxuriate in the current moment. His Sherlock melting into their kisses, the feel of the flush of his skin under his hand, the improvised tactics the detective slowly executed in response that were no longer simply an echo but an honest, personal reply. John loved how Sherlock ran his long legs up his, how his long fingers put their precision to good use in finding every spot along John's torso that either made him jolt at the tickle or shiver with sensitivity.
John had a handful of Sherlock's hair by the time he pulled away, having to retreat from the lips that followed him as Sherlock sought him out. "I need to grab the-"
"Yes," Sherlock said, one of the lubricant packets suddenly in his hand through the creative use of toes. He brought it to his swollen lips, canines ripping through the plastic and foil to tear it open. There was definitely something sexy about ingenuity.
John put his hand out, letting Sherlock squeeze some of the packet's contents onto his palm before sliding his hand between their bodies and giving Sherlock the intimate touches he'd been after, fingers curling around his neglected erection to the sweet sound of his surprised cry. John licked his lips at the sight of him, head back and eyes wide as John's hand glided over him, a firm squeeze here and there to keep his attention focused and refined. "So fucking beautiful," John whispered, burring his face into his neck to kiss and suck the sweat glossed skin. He adjusted their postures just enough to slide himself into contact as well and felt Sherlock's moan from the root of his cock to the ends of his hair. "Jesus."
"J-John, I-!"
John nodded, grunting deep in his throat as he reached lower to roll the detective's testicles in his palm, knuckles kneading against his perineum as his hips drove him to thrust against Sherlock's length.
"Oh, God!" Sherlock's fingers dug in deep at John's hips, his body vibrating like a tuning fork with John hitting just the right note. "I think I may... Feels like-!"
John stopped, teeth dragging against the tendon of his neck. "You want to go over once before or come back down?"
Sherlock shook his head, breaths an unsteady staccato. "I don't kn-...With you, yes?"
"I'm not going yet."
"Could you, maybe?" He groaned, fingers tensing in their hold on John to the point of bruising, half-moon divots already forming in the tan skin. "Ah, you should probably stop then or I soon won't be able to."
John nodded, kissing his way back to Sherlock's lips as he forced them to part for breath and the regulation of heartbeats. The detective's lack of stamina was endearing though John tried not to smile least it be mistaken for teasing. He wouldn't dare fault the man his inexperience. John was all too fond of the benefits.
Sherlock rolled onto his back, face intent upon the ceiling as his cheeks puffed out with a long, shaky breath. "That was... we have a lot of ground to cover," he said, chest very slowly evening with its rise and fall, his skin brilliantly rose colored from the tips of his ears all the way down to the knuckles of his toes.
John watched him adoringly. "We do," he conceded, sitting up to brush his right hand, the clean hand, through the renegade curls against his lover's forehead. "We can stop with this for now if you want. I don't mean stop stop but just... go back to this for the time being. Save other things for later."
Sherlock took a deep breath and in the pause John wasn't sure in which way he hoped he would decide. It was like having to choose between two favorite foods: lasagna or spaghetti-either way, he was getting Italian. Either way he had Sherlock, he was going to have him, and the small tastes he'd had had greatly whetted his appetite.
Sherlock swallowed, one last deep breath passing through his nose as he looked down at the foot of the bed. "Give me the lubricant packets. Probably be pointlessly complicated expecting you to open them with one well oiled hand."
John smiled, leaning over to gather the rest of the silver rectangles before putting them down close to Sherlock's side. "You want lube duty, that's fine by me," he said, kissing him again in parting while Sherlock's drawn and parted knee prodded him in the side.
Sherlock tore open another packet, holding it out for John's hand.
"Middle finger mostly. Not too much just yet."
The detective nodded, squeezing out what John agreed was an acceptable amount.
John made himself comfortable on his side, flush against Sherlock with his head at his shoulder, propped up on his own wrist. He let his left wrist lean against Sherlock's left thigh as he curled his fingers under his scrotum. "If at any point you don't like this, let me know," he said, medical knowledge stepping forward where intimacy required the discipline and care. "Just... Well, just be your normal self and don't hold back telling me anything."
Sherlock chuckled, adjusting his hips on the mattress as he lay spread for John's intrusion. "This isn't quite how I thought it'd be. Sex, I mean," he noted with no amount of accusation.
John kissed his ear as he let his middle digit circle and spread the pilfered lubricant in warming circles over his opening. "Regrets or concerns?"
"None," Sherlock said, turning his face to nuzzle his nose against John's.
John pressed with firmer pressure at the puckered ring of flesh, feeling it spread against his insistence, the pad of his finger flexing it open without penetrating past. He kissed him gently with several parting repeats as he pushed and circled, knuckle crooking his fingertip just inside to roll in slippery circuits. He could feel Sherlock inhale a shaky breath through his nose, body seizing ever so slightly at what was new and unexpectedly pleasant. He relaxed slowly but fully into it, hip canting in small gyrations as the sensation lost its novelty and his baser instincts sought something more. It was a good sign-a very good sign-but not one John was willing to hedge all bets against. "I'm going to push inside now, okay?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded, swallowing thickly before vocalizing his interest. "Yes, that's.. that would be good."
John sat up on his side, weight held on his right arm to watch Sherlock better, not content to feel his reactions down his body or in his breath against his skin. He pressed his finger in deeper, maintaining its curve as he caught Sherlock's gaze in his own, the flush of his face livening his pallor while his sea shaded eyes remained keen. His brows knitted curiously, expression uncertain until the pad of John's finger pressed in close to its mark making his eyes fly wide with hardly the bat of a lash.
"Too much?"
"'salright," Sherlock muttered around the tension in his jaw.
"You're squeezing around my finger."
"And you're fiddling with sensitive anatomy. Job well done. Honestly, I'm not sure what sort of reaction you were expecting."
John kissed his nose as he applied pressure again, close but still not touching, pressing firmer to find his threshold as he sank in towards his prostate. The first mewings were a surprised absence of language followed quickly by a sudden, intense remembrance of the first letter of the alphabet with none of the rest to follow. Sherlock's thighs all but slammed shut around John's wrist as his back arched and his head fell back in utter wantonness. John gave the bundle of nerves a drawn out caress to ensure the reaction wasn't just born of surprise, stubbornly maintaining Sherlock's presence in the sensation as he watched his open-mouthed gaspings. The man took no shame in his pleasure, even from this, and John envied him his honesty as much as he congratulated himself on earning the love a man such as him.
John sat up, maneuvering gently to prize apart Sherlock's knees once more. They fell open with little resistance as John made room to extract his finger, drawing it out slowly as Sherlock's body unwound from the rigor of revelry. "I think you quite liked that," he said, smiling as he watched the clouds slowly fade from his lover's eyes.
Sherlock let out a long breath, flushed chest expanding with the effort he maintained to refocus. "I-yes. A little mu-... but, ah, I-I don't think you can mirror that sort of precision with your penis so it should be.. good."
It was worth the challenge to prove him wrong. John kissed his knee as he extended his left hand back towards Sherlock, the detective taking a moment to recall his job before grabbing the open packet of lube and squeezing it out onto the fingers.
"It's not going to take much longer to get you ready," John said, lips flavored with the perspiration from the crook of Sherlock's knee. "You given any thought to the position you want to use?"
Sherlock all but rolled his eyes as he tossed the empty packet aside. John smirked, returning to the slow, circling pressure along his perineum and still slackened hole. "You want me to go over a few of them? Pros and Cons?"
"I figured we could just do this in the manner you like and go from there."
"We could," John agreed, letting his middle finger delve back inside to continue the slowly revolving touch where the muscles were most resistant. "Most of the positions I like favor deeper penetration or are stable enough for more forceful movements. Missionary's good for that. Not really my ideal for enjoying every detail of love making but fantastic for a great shag. Laying sort of spooned on our sides wouldn't be too bad 'cept for limiting things to more of a grind than a thrust but from what I've seen in pictures, face-to-face tends to look like the bloke on the bottom's a bit trapped."
Sherlock chuckled, arms reaching overhead towards the headboard. "You're enjoying this," he said with a shaky grin, his eyes heavily lidded. "Knowing more than me. Showing off."
"Only because I get so few opportunities with you to do so." John pressed his left index finger alongside the middle digit, wiggling past resistance as he slowly pressed for added girth in his internal massage. He watched the bolt of tension in Sherlock's thighs that seized with the man's grunt then subsided with the accompanied groan. John remained half still, tiny gyrations added to the stretch until Sherlock's hips urged him on with their own.
John tried not to focus too much on what Sherlock felt like inside or what it was going to feel like getting to experience every inch he could claim with his cock, tip to root, balls deep if Sherlock wanted it and most of his knowledge of the man saying he was damn well going to give it at least a try. They were getting so close now, it was safer to allow himself to enjoy the warmth and softness, the conforming fit, the forgiving pressure that pressed his knuckles together but eased into the stretch as he scissored them apart. He could feel the anticipation in the swelling of his dick, his erection having waned but all the ready to rise again. Just a few more minutes. He wouldn't hurry them though he almost ached with the want to.
Sherlock idly stroked himself, his own restraint visible in the uncertainty of how to touch without hastening towards climax. He stole John's rhythm, the slow thrusts of his spreading fingers, to find a satiating pace. John licked his lips at the sight, watching his fingers delve inside while Sherlock's hand fell and the rise of his wrist as John pulled his fingers nearly out. He kept at it longer than necessary, preparation never really a task proven to be in excess, as he entertained himself with Sherlock's display. He was ready in every way, no hang ups or fears keeping back his mind or heart in the presence of his body's acceptance. John regretted the cessation of his movements only a little less than he enjoyed the frustration in Sherlock's at their absence.
He extended his left hand again for lube and Sherlock was quick to abandon his task to comply.
"How much lon-"
"This is it. This bit's just to help with the next part." John leaned over him with a kiss as he returned his hand to the junction of his long legs, pressing inside with few globs of the lubricant before rubbing the excess along his inner thighs and arse, no small amount spared for John's own raring erection. "I want you on top, Sherlock," he whispered, kissing his lips again and then down the path of his neck. "You can choose if you'd rather me sitting or laying but I'd like you to be in control for this first bit. I want you to take it however slow or fast you want to. I want you to experiment with what works for you. And I want to watch you do it."
Sherlock's chuckle was indulgent and rich as his fingers carded through John's short hair. "Then on your back, soldier," he ordered. "If I'm to be observed, I expect you have the best vantage point."
John groaned with lust at the readiness of his words and tone, so ready, so ready, and not a mild case of meekness between them. Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and rolled him onto his back, kissing him eagerly as he straddled his hips, lifting away only when the position required it. He reached down in front of him to grasp John's cock then, presumably thinking better of it, let go and reached behind himself to take hold of him instead, the detective's arm no longer blocking the view. John licked his lips, chin to chest, trying not to breathe harder at the long fingers sliding over him as Sherlock's hips tentatively descended.
The first brush of intention was hot and moist and incredible. Wrong amount of pressure, perhaps a bit too much lubricant, and John slid past along Sherlock crack instead of inside him. John smiled, hands flexing along Sherlock's thighs, rubbing along them with encouragement. Sherlock's face pinched in slight annoyance but he took hold of John and tried again with a new angle of descent, differing pressure once their bodies became aligned once more. John felt the loosened ring spread around him and dug his finger into Sherlock's legs while his top teeth grounded into his bottom lip. Sherlock hesitated at the stretch but made up for it in an insistent bounce that pushed the head in fully, sphincter clamped beneath the crown of John's cock.
"A-Ah, John, that's... ah..."
"Oh, fuck me," John groaned, remembering to exhale only by the prompting as he let his head roll back, eyes closed in luxuriating repose. "Take your time. Jesus, I'm in. And you feel amazing. Do whatever you need to relax into it. I'm good. I am so, so good." The softness, the heat, the pressure against his skin instead of separated by millimeters of latex, foreskin sliding in contact with flesh rather than trapped in place. Oh, god, he'd never known this. And if he didn't feel too constricted inside him, chances were Sherlock was more than capable of simply breathing through the stretch. John blinked his eyes open, his want to watch not forgotten as he looked up to Sherlock's face, gratified by the sight of his thinking face with no sign of pain above discomfort.
Sherlock was never one for caution or taking things smooth or steady. In less than a minute he was settling down, swallowing inches more in a smooth decline while John nearly arched off the bed to keep his hips grounded. Sherlock pressed his hands to John's belly for stability until his arse came to rest on John's pelvis, scrotum to pubes, his hips shimmying in place to be absolutely sure he had taken all of John there was to take.
"Christ!" John bit out, pinned by Sherlock's weight, the feeling familiar but the sight alone beyond arousing. "Steady on."
"Doesn't hurt," Sherlock said, voice calmer than expected. "Feels… full. But not painful. Very, very strange but… really not too bad. You're obviously having a good time of it."
"Obviously." John let his head fall back once more, rolling his palms over Sherlock's thighs to the point where their bodies met, thumbs against his own pelvis while his fingers splayed against Sherlock's. "Honestly, I am the last person you're going to need to think about here."
Sherlock nodded, palms heavy against John's stomach as he rocked forward, momentum dampened by a sudden twinge they could both feel as muscles made clear their want to slow down. The detective scowled as John's hands soothed and coaxed him. John had rarely the opportunity to be so observant as he scanned Sherlock's flushed face, his whole body a ruby hue with a cock growing scarlet at the glans. This was never something John thought he wanted. It was never something he thought Sherlock wanted. And the fact that they made it here from that strange meeting at Barts, from the tombstone and the living room of their flat that had cast the spell to bring him back, was almost too outstanding to believe. Being in love with Sherlock Holmes was hardly a miracle but having him return that love in every known and unknown outlet was weighing John down with the gravity of it as much as it seemed to raise him up on elation.
With a minute's more breath between then Sherlock shifted again, thighs tense as he raised himself up and lowered back down, nothing fancy, nothing new. His eyes crinkled at the edges. "Actually, you know what this reminds me of?"
"Can we try and be a little more romantic about this?" John asked, trying not to chuckle as he rolled his hips best he could, the weight of his lover making his movements small but strict. Sherlock shuddered and leaned back into him, fingers trialing down his stomach to recline more against his thighs. He echoed the smaller motions on his own, rising and falling in much shorter bursts as he rocked. Sherlock's head rolled back, long neck exposed and so very out of John's reach. John licked his lips. "Better?"
"Mm, I think... It's not as intense as with your fingers but all together it's... The increased stretch is.. good. And I can feel... ah, John, I don't know. Not important. Busy right now."
John nodded, hands weaving over every bit of Sherlock he could touch, shyly stroking him, almost ready to be reprimanded before Sherlock's lips parted in a loud, obvious moan that made the slight creek of the bed even more suspect. There wasn't a desire in his body to ask Sherlock to keep it down. The people of Ross would forget them surely or else tell the tale of the gay couple who had a lovely ole time in their honeymoon suite. Hardly mattered either way. John languidly stroked Sherlock in time with his slower motions, assured enough in Sherlock's pleasure to allow himself to enjoy his own. Tight, warm, wonderful. Sherlock's movements weren't much more than a tease but the sight of them, the smell of them, the presence of 'them' over Sherlock and himself as wholly individual things was an emotional fuck the likes of which he'd never felt before. Sherlock was driving him over the edge with his openness of expression with no gasp swallowed or shiver concealed. John had everything the man could give him-love, body, soul, trust-and there was nothing of it that John would not give him in return. He'd never made love without intermittent kisses, long caresses, chest to chest and in complete control in opposition to succinct surrender. It felt silly now to think the only way to show love and connect absolutely was through simple avenues of touch. There was no need for any such reassurances with Sherlock. They were here now and that said more than any other sensory stimuli ever could.
Sherlock's motions became erratic, his breath pitched in frustration. "I can't... why can't I? It feels-I just want to... ah, John, I need to."
Speaking Sherlock was one of John's many specialties. He nodded, grabbing Sherlock steady by the hips. "Ease up a bit. Let me."
He nodded, leaning forward to rise up further on his knees, John pressing his soles into the mattress as he sought the firm grounding he needed. He arched his hips up off the bed, thrusting up as he guided Sherlock to stay still. The slap of skin was hardly masked by Sherlock's surprised breath. "Oh, god," he moaned, right hand encircling his own erection as he met John's eyes, nodding.
John gave him several more slow thrusts, long and short, then started the aching task of pistoning into him with impending climax dulling the strain. It felt good; better. He guided Sherlock's hips where he could not angle his thrusts until he found just the right meeting of their bodies to make Sherlock practically holler, his need enforcing his own want to hold that pose, free hand clawing at John's chest in an effort to release the tension holding them both so close to the edge.
Sherlock went first, John's concentrated efforts and his own inexperience making it a foreseeable certainly but still somehow coming across as a complete surprise as Sherlock shuddered and gasped and shouted. The wave of tension that seized Sherlock's muscles seized John within in, the silken pressure and the sight of his lover's bliss dragging his orgasm from him and with it the need to pull away, decades of drilled knowledge reminding him to never cum inside. Sherlock would not let him disengage, his body trapping John to the mattress under the heaviness of ecstasy. There was an ingrained fear and responsibility to hold back and not follow Sherlock blindly into the fireworks but it was safe, it was okay, and, fuck, he'd always wanted to. He surged one last time into Sherlock rather than put the effort into getting away and burst through his reservations with Sherlock's name on his lips. Sherlock was haloed in the shocks of light, the white lacy fabric of the four poster bed's canopy making an angel out of a man. His heart was going to rupture from bliss and the fire running through him in echoes of passion. John went limp with the last of his adrenalin spent, his breath ragged, his body slick with sweat, his legs sore and his body warmed by the turtled weight of Sherlock Holmes over him.
John wrapped his arms around him, lips kissing the hair that spilled over onto his face from the detective's head tucked neatly against his shoulder. He smiled at the vibrations of the man's chuckle against his belly.
"Well, I can see where that would be preferable to masturbation," Sherlock said, kissing John's neck. "You make an excellent partner. In all things."
John's chest swelled with pride, his arms holding tighter around the thin man laying against him. "Yeah, well... you're brilliant. In all things."
The happy stillness of the moment stretched on past time's keeping with heartbeats serving as their own metronome. John breathed in deep the smell of them-not sweet or pungent but their own variety of sweat, semen and body. He could get used to the sheets smelling of this, of waking up to wash away the smell of them before work in the morning as a happy chore for the efforts it spoke of. He hummed in his delight; peaceful and content and without a further care in the world.
"You did say you had 'two gos' in you, did you not?"
John let his head roll back as he chuckled.