Okay, so, I know I said there was only one chapter left, but it was getting very long, so I thought I'd give you some of it now? So yeah, there's more.
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John spits into the sink and drops his toothbrush back in the holder, wiping his mouth on the towel hung over the rack beside him. Sherlock fills the doorway.
"What's the point of this conference anyway? You already know how to be a doctor."
Huffing out a sigh, John leans back against the sink. "You could come with me, you know. Ewan won't mind-"
"Oh, but I would; what would I do on the Scottish moors with your mad cousin while you're gone all day?"
John raises an eyebrow and then looks down. "I shudder to think, actually."
Lifting his chin, Sherlock pouts as haughtily as he can.
"Listen, I know you'll . . . miss me." John looks up to gauge Sherlock's reaction, is glad to see Sherlock's tight lips soften. "So I thought . . ."
He feels the tips of his ears go red despite having practiced what he wanted to say earlier.
"Out with it, John; you've only ten hours until you have to go."
John grunts in annoyance, but then tries again, clearing his throat. "I want to do something for you."
"For me?"
"With you," John amends. "I was, erm, thinking that we could . . ."
The silence stretches between them.
"Crochet? Play hide and seek?"
"Shut up. No." John hums and looks up with determination. "I've noticed that there are certain kinds of contact that you . . . that you seem to enjoy more than others."
Sherlock uncrosses his arms. "Oh?" He asks in his gentle voice, the one only John gets to hear.
"Skin to skin seems to be your favorite. So, I was thinking, we could try that more, ah, deliberately."
"Oh."
"You know. If you want to," John adds, giving Sherlock a small smile that he hopes is reassuring yet suspects merely reflects his own nervousness. Though he and Sherlock have co-slept and cuddled countless times now, this is something new.
Sherlock comes in close, his eyes riveted on John's, and John thinks he sees a hint of surprise there, and more than a hint of interest. Sherlock dips his chin and presses forehead to forehead.
"I want to," he says, voice soft.
"Okay. Um. Good."
John follows Sherlock down the hall to the bedroom. He watches as Sherlock strips without ceremony. He doesn't know what he expected exactly.
Sherlock looks over to him with impatience. "Well, go on."
John blinks. "Right." He takes off his t-shirt and pajama bottoms easily enough, but hesitates at the waistband of his pants. Sherlock, naked, walks over to him.
"Don't worry about that."
"What?"
"What you always worry about."
John glances down. "If he . . . shows up uninvited, just ignore him."
"Does Sarah know you discuss your penis in the third person?"
"Shut up."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "As I've told you before, it doesn't bother me. If it happens, and it bothers you, we can stop."
The consideration stuns John for a moment, and he gapes, knows he's gaping. "You're amazing."
"Mmm. Hurry up and decide; I'm cold." Sherlock turns and goes to the bed, lifting the duvet to crawl beneath it.
Shaking his head at Sherlock's shift from thoughtful to demanding, John decides. He chucks his pants on the floor and climbs into bed.
For the first time, they are naked together, facing each other, and John's nerves threaten to get the best of him, but he sees Sherlock looking at him. John anchors himself in those eyes that look on him with nothing save open love and, yes, impatience, and he realizes. He wants this. For Sherlock. For himself.
"Here," John says, reaching up to Sherlock's shoulder and pulling down gently. "On your belly."
Compliant for once, Sherlock rolls over, prone against the sheets, and turns his head on the pillow to look up at John.
"What are you going to do?"
John smiles at him. "Experiment."
Sherlock's eyes narrow.
"Don't worry. You'll get your turn."
"So I can gather data on you?" Sherlock asks, and John can hear the interest in his voice.
"Of course. Only fair."
Placated, Sherlock closes his eyes. "Fine."
John begins simply, his hands sliding gently over the muscles of Sherlock's shoulders, kneading them a bit until Sherlock relaxes under his fingers. He glides down the hills and valleys of Sherlock's back, brings his palms up along Sherlock's sides firmly. He presses with his fingertips around the teres major, and Sherlock lets out a surprised gasp.
"Like that?"
"Obviously," Sherlock mumbles into the pillow. "Less obvious is why."
"Each person is different. That's why you have to try different things."
"Is that your official medical opinion, Dr. Watson?"
John smirks, though Sherlock isn't looking at him. "Yes." John leans over and mirrors his movements on Sherlock, hands working along the same spot on both sides, and Sherlock hums in response.
Taking his time, John continues his exploration, guiding his hands over the terrain of Sherlock's body, identifying the dips and curves that seem to please him. Sometimes Sherlock tells him, "Yes, that," but often John senses it in the way Sherlock's skin and muscles react beneath his fingers, even before the low rumble of contentment comes. Confident now, John rolls Sherlock over onto his back, runs his hands over the front of him as well, stem to stern. John studies him, learns to play him, pulls easy sighs from him as his fingers strike some of the strongest notes-the soft underside of the upper arm, the throat, the back of the thighs, the scalp behind the ears.
"Good?" John asks softly.
"Mmm," is all Sherlock can manage. John lets his fingers sift through Sherlock's mop of curls, and then leans down to place a kiss on the soft hairs that grow away from his forehead. Sherlock smiles and looks up with lazy silver eyes. "Your turn," he drawls.
"You don't have to," John says, but Sherlock is already wiggling into a sitting position.
"You're not getting out of it now," Sherlock answers, and John smiles as Sherlock pushes him down onto his back.
"I can't believe I'm saying this, but, fine." John settles back into the sheets. "Have your way with me."
But Sherlock has stopped listening to what John is saying, his attention focused elsewhere. Sherlock lifts his hand to hover over John's torso like a conductor about to signal the orchestra to begin. John watches the slim, tapered fingers long enough to wonder where Sherlock will start and why, what will draw his touch first. He feels his skin tighten in anticipation.
"Anywhere?" Sherlock clarifies, his gaze wandering over John.
Though he wonders what he's getting himself into, there is only one answer to the question. "Anywhere."
Sherlock begins with the scars.
The light touches dance over the raised star of tissue on his shoulder. Slender fingers search along his scalp, the back of his ear for the tiny marks left by shrapnel from what feels like eons ago. The last stop is the newest-the short line across his thigh, still pink.
Eyes still on the scar, Sherlock's other hand seeks out John's and John feels the long fingers slide around his and squeeze.
"I'm okay," John says softly.
Sherlock's voice is equally quiet. "I know."
Sherlock hesitates long enough that John wonders if he has changed his mind, but just before he means to ask, Sherlock's hand reaches up to John's neck, just below his ear. "I wonder if we like some of the same things," Sherlock says, stroking his thumb along John's throat.
"Maybe," John says, feeling the muscles of his throat move against Sherlock's fingers as he speaks. Sherlock's hands work their way down, over John's chest, sliding through the sparse hairs there. His index finger draws a lazy circle around one nipple, and John sucks in a breath when Sherlock finally brushes over the tip.
"Is this sexual for you?" Sherlock asks, and only because he knows Sherlock so well can John see the question for what it is: curiosity.
"It could be," is the best answer he can come up with.
"But I'm a man?" Sherlock presses.
No. John can't let Sherlock think that's why, because that's not why. "But I don't want my body to do anything that will make you uncomfortable," he says, voice firm and eyes seeking Sherlock's.
Sherlock's gaze meets his even as his finger migrates over to John's other nipple. "I already told you it doesn't. It couldn't. As long as you don't expect reciprocation."
"I don't," John rushes.
"Then stop worrying."
To make his point, Sherlock moves his hand deliberately down, letting his fingers glide slowly but without hesitation between John's legs. John's body wants to shudder in surprise, but he controls the urge and stays still.
He figured that Sherlock wouldn't be shy, but he is now suspecting there's much more to it than that. Sherlock's touches along John's skin are confident, his movements saying he has the same goal as John, to learn John's body, to accept him as he is. John focuses on Sherlock's eyes as his fingers explore him, watches Sherlock's gaze soften at what must look like comprehension blooming in John's eyes.
"This part of you is no more or less interesting to me than any other part," Sherlock argues. "You don't have to ignore it or pretend it doesn't exist," he says, and his hands move away, sliding up John's sides, curling around his shoulders and tracing the muscles along his arms.
"Okay," John says, voice shaky. Sherlock looks away, giving John space, perhaps sensing, correctly, that John is beset by feelings he did not expect.
John closes his eyes, gratitude and a crushing wave of love suddenly in his throat. "Okay."
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Truly gracious and plentiful thanks to Jude and Armada for insightful betawork. I heart you both to pieces.