25th August 2010
Don't hate Sherlock. Don't be angry with him. If it's any consolation, he's punishing himself enough; he certainly doesn't need to be further punished from others.
Today is just such an example.
The call came just as the man had settled down to watch a documentary on Water Torture, mug of not-John's-exceptional-quality tea resting on his stomach as he sprawled the great extensions of his limbs to cover as much of the sofa as humanly possible, huffing under his breath when he realised he had turned the volume up to 22.
The volume is changed to 20 because two presses of the button is significantly less movement than three presses. Volume is too low however, and although the shrill tenor of the twenty-something, completely ignorant to what she's talking about due to the way she continually struggles to pronounce 'Hippolytus de Marsiliis' woman doing the voiceover is nagging at his Primary Auditory Cortex, the volume is increased to 25. His body can now stop acting as though it is inflicted with Rigor Mortis, for a good 4 minutes and 47 seconds before his phone vibrates in the pocket of his sapphire silk gown.
Due to Sherlock's rather bad habit of never actually checking who the caller is before accepting the call, he finds himself momentarily startled when a timid little voice reaches his ears. The voice, or rather the person to whom the voice belongs, has been barely neither seen nor heard for a good four weeks and three days.
It really is a very short conversation, and even then it's somewhat longer than it ought to have been, due to the lingering silence between her little stutterings.
Something about seven weeks. Healthy development. Heartbeat.
Sherlock makes no contribution except to end the call, actually managing to time it for when after the voice at the end of the line says goodbye on this occurrence, thankfully. He pauses for a moment, eyes darting around the room, followed by a quick, sharp intake of breath – standard procedure for an epiphany, sure enough – but not usually followed by Sherlock lunging off the sofa and tearing off his clothes.
Erythema is already beginning to show on his stomach, the reddening skin prickling from the scalding tea that has managed to form pools on the sofa, the coffee table and even splash up the wall. If it were blood Sherlock would have found it rather fascinating, although he can't help thinking the tea is somewhat better off on the furnishings – it tasted foul.
He trudges across the flat, as naked as a newborn ba-
As naked as one would expect when you about to have a shower, he thinks persistently, shutting the bathroom door behind him and pulling back the shower curtain a little too forcefully – three hooks fall off the curtain rod.
A small plastic beaker sits on the corner of the bath – has done for some time – John thinks it's for an experiment, going by the conical flash containing what could only be some form of sulphur going by the smell (which explains why he hasn't touched it) still under the sink, but it isn't.
At least not anymore.
Sherlock knocks the beaker out of his line of vision with the back of his hand with a sneer, there's no need for it any longer. He turns on the water, pausing to adjust the temperature, a cold shower to stop thoughts of a sexual nature yes, but what of thoughts so achingly unrelenting that you want to simply want to scream until if feels as though there is barbed wire trapped in your lungs?
Hmm, he doubts there is truly an optimum temperature to get rid of thoughts like that.
He attempts the standard procedure for a shower: washes body, spends about 6 minutes trying to get the last bit of shampoo out of the bottom of the bottle – ends up losing his patience and quirts the bottle so enthusiastically that most of it ends up swirling down the plughole – finally gets around to washing his hair...
But its the stinging of his eyes sometime later that allows him to realise how long he's been standing – no, he's kneeling now- in the middle of the tub, utterly stagnant – unlike the water which is still pouring from the shower head – with shampoo trailing down his forehead and catching in his eyelashes.
Seven weeks. Time of conception: 5th-12th July, although there is a slight degree of inaccuracy, certainly not late June. June 28th, to be more precise.
Not June 28th. Not then. A waste. A complete and utter waste.
John's a patient man, which considering his flatmate, is an absolute Godsend.
Therefore, after returning from a weekend in Manchester attending a Cousin's (who is already cheating with a cross-dressing Primary School Teacher John, it would be a wasted investment in going) Wedding, so outstandingly hung-over he swears he can feel his brain peel away from his skull and in desperate need of a shower (because he spent most of the morning not quite making it from other side of the bathroom) but hears the shower running from the instant he enters the flat, he isn't particularly bothered.
He is perhaps so not bothered that he makes a cup of tea -that turns out having to be black because the milk carton has been filled with either watered down ketchup or blood (please be the former...) – and even smiles at the sight of Sherlock's garments lying haphazardly across the room before sitting down on the sofa (avoiding the puddle) and turning on the telly.
During an advert break though, (in particular, a Tampax advert, because lets face it, all men avoid those like the plague) he notices it's been at least 45 minutes since he came home. Furthermore, the pipes aren't beginning to rattle which means –
-The hot water spewing from the kitchen tap confirms his suspicions.
Doing some detective work of his own – he'd like to think living this long with Sherlock has earned him more than just higher blood pressure and a much more Type A personality - John presses his ear against the Bathroom door, attempting to ignore the sound of the shower itself (it's the small things John, always the small things) until he notices the dull, echoing thud, thud, thud coming from inside.
The thudding stops as soon as he opens the door.
The mirror isn't fogged up, there is a lack of mist in the room, and it certainly isn't sticky and humid as one would expect after showering in a room with no ventilation. It's a miracle that Mycroft isn't banging the front door down.
"Shit." John thinks, finally taking in the silhouette of his flatmate huddled in the bathtub, barely under the spray of the shower head. The outline of his body is blurred – Sherlock is shivering.
First he surrounds the edge of the bath in towels, not only to soak up the puddles that have formed but also to be kinder to his knees. His deductions are confirmed: the water is barely lukewarm.
John has no intention of simply throwing back the curtain and demanding Sherlock to get out, but even reaching his arm behind the curtain to alter the temperature to something less hypothermia-inducing causes the silhouette to flinch.
"Hey." John says calmly, fingers lingering on the dial, "I'm just turning it up, ok? Don't want you getting sick in there."
Seeing the sharp nod of Sherlock's head through the curtain, the temperature is increased and John returns to his position on the floorboards, "What happened – failed experiment?"
The voice that responds is hoarse, so Sherlock is either emotionally compromised or sick. John hopes it's the latter – it's the lesser of two evils. "What ever makes you think that, John?" He asks, voice breaking at the last word.
"The beaker?"
The silhouette scoffs, "No, successful in fact." The shape behind the curtain moves to tuck his knees under his chin – at least that's what it looks like. "A positive result." He adds under his breath.
"I'd err, I'd offer you a cup of tea but I reckon it would refill quicker than you could drink it." John asks with a forced laugh. It was bad enough having a one – sided conversation with Sherlock when the man was in front you. It was a whole other realm of awkwardness when the man was hiding behind a shower curtain and under what seemed to John as some sort of self inflicting water torture.
Sherlock huffs, but moves his body so it's more under the spray, so John must be getting somewhere.
Clean sheets and towels are placed in the airing cupboard. The John's-not-responsible toothpaste stains are scrubbed from the basin of the sink. Two Nurofen are popped from their capsule and swallowed with relief, after being found behind a jar of bath salts preserving what looks like a newt in the medicinal cupboard above the sink. In other words, John undertakes any bathroom related activities available so that he can stay with Sherlock, because the man is refusing to budge.
Refusing to talk too, apparently.
Then, the bathtub squeaks with the movement of the body inside, and a single hand appears from behind the curtain, trembling a little. The tips of his fingers are splayed a little – John likes to think he's reaching out to him.
He speaks so softly, his lips barely move to accommodate his words, "Hey you." Almost instinctively reaching out for the hand, and clasping it between both of his. "What's going on in there?"
"I'm having a shower." Silhouette replies matter-of-factly.
"That's funny; I don't think many people have showers sitting in the tub. Away from the actual water." John says, clutching the hand tightly when it attempts to slide back behind the veil, "Not to mention hitting their head against the tile."
The 'yeah-don't-think-I-haven't-figured-that-out-Sherlock' resonates around the room quite effectively, and John doesn't bother to attempt to make his stern 'parenting' face through the vinyl.
"It's an old habit, I didn't even..." Sherlock pauses, hand clenched so hard his brachioradialis is a great ridge of wavering tissueunder his talcum skin, "I didn't even know John."
"I know, I know. Have you hurt yourself?"
"Don't know. Would assume so. Can't feel it yet." He moves to entwine their fingers together, fingers so long over a hand so small that they can brush against the curve of John's ulna artery, delivering oxygenated blood to his hand, so that same hand can be there to hold Sherlock this very moment. It's magnificent.
Well, there wasn't a pinkish tint to the water swirling down the plughole (yes John did check, he's that concerned) so he tolerates Sherlock's vanishing act a little longer.
John moves to lean his side against the bathtub, head leaning on the porcelain, "Look, this isn't exactly my area of expertise, but..."He stops to press a kiss to on Sherlock's knuckle because tactile stimuli always maintains the detective's concentration better than auditory – "it's usually triggered by stress right?"
Sherlock translates the following silence into 'I gave myself to someone I could not care for, and it was all for nothing. The depth of my feelings for her is as shallow as the beaker which eventually allowed me to impregnate her. It never mattered to me, John, the concept of virginity. Of course, now it's gone, it does. It matters so very much. I see now it should have been for you John and i'm angry. And I'm angry that I'm angry on what I previously thought was such a trial matter, but that does not stop the ache.'
John's is a simple 'yes', to confirm Sherlock's self harm to himself, but the radiation of it's significance – a great, pulsing sonar leeching from within him – is no stronger than his companions.
His hand is drawn into the shower, and his pacinian corpuscles eagerly respond to the stimuli of wet, warm skin – though definitely slightly more swollen than he'd like. There is blood rushing to that bruising tissue, making Sherlock's left cheekbone all the more pronounced, no doubt.
He can visualize the pools of yellow and indigo the man will have to carry in the next few days, like drops of ink rippling outwards in blotting paper -the making of a living, breathing Rorschach test. Though John doesn't know how he would perceive it.
"Come on now, Sherlock." John says with a sigh, though with an underlying tone of demand that he is sure he has borrowed from the man behind the curtain. Thankfully the head still cupped in his hand nods.
With the Water Torture finally eradicated, John gingerly pulls back the curtain – though just enough to see the oxymoron of composed chaos inside.
As confirmed, Sherlock has his knees up against his chest, arms wrapped around them and face buried into his shoulder, eyes just peeking out at the man looming over the bath. There is a single drop of water on his face that perhaps holds more significance than it should, as it slides over the ridge of his bruising cheekbone.
There is an unspoken, unanimous agreement to not talk about this very droplet. But both of them are fully aware of its origins.
In fact, it is not until the pair of them move to a completely-not-modest five bedroom cottage in the Sussex Downs in the far future, sat in a pair of wing backed chairs – an extremely significant pair of wingback chairs that have the most extraordinary story behind them – that John will finally admit to his Sherlock that seeing him so vulnerable, with quivering limbs and looking up at him with bloodshot eyes that day in the bath, that he thought him thoroughly ravishing.
Sherlock will laugh at John's sadism, "Perhaps we ought to swap chairs." He'll say.
(Admittedly, you won't get the joke until you hear about the chairs.)
Anyway, back to the here and now, and Doctor John Watson – Doctor because that is the way he is trying to go about this, very professional – wrings the remaining droplets of water out of the matt of curls as Sherlock stands awkwardly in the middle of the room in his pyjama trousers. They are practically jet black in colour now they're wet, curling and wrapping around his fingers like vines.
"Arsenic."
John pauses mid dry-down, "You what?" He gasps.
"This reminds me of the case with the arsenic." Sherlock says softly, reaching to remove the towel from John's hands. "Can you not remember?" He adds with a frown and slight puckered lip, holding John's face as a Priest may hold a chalice.
There has, after all, been many a case involving arsenic, even though it's so last Century, but none holds quite as much significance as the particular case that Sherlock and John are referring to.
There are the loveliest little crinkles all over John's face. Valleys and chasms that have been eroded into his skin by age and what Sherlock imagines is a tough life, but that now show now from mirth. Sherlock made this weathered face beautiful. This makes him very hap – I mean placid – indeed.
"How could I forget?" John breathes, eyes closing innately.
Lips decrease the distance of the diffusion pathway – a transfer of heat and tongue so efficient that the pair of them are writhing in moments. Sherlock's hands press against John's lower back, beckoning him almost on to tip-toe to increase the surface area of skin on skin. Sherlock stumbles backwards - bringing John with him - until the taller man hisses from the cold porcelain of the skin pressing against his own back.
"-Starting to think you just do this to distract me from more important matters-"John mumbles with a stern glare, teasing Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth in magnificent punishment.
"Not true John," Sherlock retorts, squeezing his Doctors hips with a lop sided smile, "Last time you said we were going to 'talk about something', you completely forgot of you own accord."
John slaps his flatmate's arm playfully, firstly because he is such a smart arse and secondly because John feels stupid because, no, he can't remember what the hell they were supposed to have talked about, whenever this occasion what supposed to have happened. Obviously wasn't that important anyway. So there.
"Come on you." He says, pressing a soft kiss to the coloured cheekbone, "Bed."
Bed in the i'm bloody shattered way, not the we've just rutted against each other in the bathroom now lets pick somewhere a tad more appropriate way, because John is such a softie deep down, he has a slight problem with ravishing Sherlock after his ...what? Episode? Brake down? Retraction to childhood coping strategies?
Some hours later, under the protection of midnight hours, soft sheets and even softer skin wrapped around him, Sherlock squeezes a hand resting on his hip and whispers into the darkness, "John, i'm going to be a Father."
26th August 2010
In the twenty – something times (Oh sorry Sherlock, I can't remember the exact number of times, unlike you. How you can remember the number of times I've offered you a piece of my toast since we became flatmates, or the number of times we've shared a bed but not recall the legend of Harold's arrow-to-the-eye at the Battle of Hastings, nobody knows) that John and Sherlock had shared a bed, John woke up to Sherlock a lot of the time. Surprisingly.
As a matter of fact, apart from the instance where John woke up to Sherlock's bum and legs in the air, just the other wide of the bed because the Detective decided to test how long he could withstand the head rush from hanging over the edge of the mattress (for what turned out to be for no reason other than to keep himself occupied until John awoke), Sherlock usually clung to John like an atom to it's 1s sub-level electrons in the morning.
On this occasion, John still wakes up to Sherlock or at least wakes up to the feel of Sherlock. The rise and fall of his chest, a little faster and shallower than one would expect during mid-morning drowsing. So, John opens his eyes, and finds that some very dilated pupils are looking right back at him.
"What the-"
Sherlock breaths sharply through his nose - head shaking slightly from the force of it - lying on his back and legs fidgeting in the sheets.
John shuffles himself closer to the body beside him, doesn't bother asking Sherlock are you alright?/what's the matter?/how's your eye you stupid prat?, because he knows what the look Sherlock is giving him means. It's a long time coming.
Sherlock grabs the hand lying on his chest and begins to slide it down, staring into John's eyes the entire time with deep shuddering breaths. John soon pushes against the movement of the hand so a thumb can swipe over a dusky pink nipple, his lover (is that what he is now?) taking his bottom lip and biting down hard to hold back.
Bit too late for that, John thinks, digging in his nails as Sherlock drags his hand towards his belly button, and pauses. The man is a panting, whimpering mess, who may have years worth of inhibitions slowly oozing out of him, but still has enough control of his body to remove John's hand entirely.
And place it immediately on his crotch. John's eyes fly open, cursing under his breath and Sherlock smirks all-knowingly, hips rolling into John's palm.
"God, what's gotten you into this state?" John begins slowly, hand clenching a little around the base of Sherlock's cock, still hidden by his pyjamas before moving his hand to turn Sherlock's face to him, "What do you want?" He mumbles into the taller man's ear.
The thumb pressing against Sherlock's lips is taken into his mouth, and he laps at the pad teasingly, humming around the skin, before releasing it with a pop, "Touch me John." He whimpers, giving the thumb a long lingering lick from base to tip for good measure.
"Alright, spread your legs for me."
It's a simple enough order, but it's the underlying tone of Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers that has Sherlock slowly inching his thighs apart as John clambers over to lie in between them (somewhat clumsily, he has just woken up, after all), his face immediately going to nuzzle the lovely crease of skin between hip and thigh.
"Feel bad," Comes John's muffled voice from somewhere around his lover's inner thigh, summoning him to lean up on his elbows, "Here we are, our first time being intimate together, and all I can think about is sucking your c-"
"John, yes."
"Yes?"
Sherlock presses his elbows deeper into the mattress - fists in the sheets and head thrown back - as John cradles his balls in his hand, mouth still dampening the material around his inner thighs.
"Alright," John begins, ignoring Sherlock's pout as he moves his hand, "Last chance to back out." As he now moves his hand to the hem of Sherlock's trousers. "Whaddya say?"
"Yes." Sherlock croaks, lifting his hips – almost all of his back too in his enthusiasm – "A thousand times yes."
And so, with a giddy fervour John hadn't felt since 19-bloody-90 (And Sherlock since well...forever), he pulls Sherlock's trousers swiftly down his legs and over his shoulder.
As expected, Sherlock is thoroughly ravaged. His thighs shake and twitch with the waves of heat in his lower belly and so John's first task is to bend his lover's legs at the knee, stroking the trembling muscles to try and prevent the onset of cramp.
Sherlock gasps "Are you meant to feel like this?" as John kisses down his thigh; hands under his knees to control Sherlock's movement, somewhat.
"Like what?"
"I can't get enough air, i'm boiling, and I feel unhygienic, exposed...-" He pauses to take a sharp, juddering breath through his nose – the sight of John's head moving down, ever closer, seemed almost too much, "And yet, I have no intention of letting you stop...how is that?"
John smiles brightly, removing his hold of Sherlock's knees to lean forward and capture Sherlock's mouth for a soft kiss to calm his nerves, before returning to the task at hand," Welcome to sex Sherlock. That's what it is. You can read about the chemistry all you like, but it's about offering all you have, all your concerns, your wants, your fucking everything and the other person showing you in return."
With raised eyebrows, and a quivering underlip, Sherlock groans "Show me then...please?"
"Alright, budge up the bed then, seeing as you want to watch." John adds with a wink. Sherlock complies by propping up the pillows, rather too eager to care about his kink being so obvious, "Better, right?"
Sherlock nods, shuffling a little to get comfortable -his cock swaying a little at the movement - "Now I can do this." He says, one hand reaching forward to bury in John's hair.
Arms now curl under the backs of Sherlock's thighs, fingers bruising the skin of his hips, as John places the first of many kisses at the base of Sherlock's cock.
Kisses continue up the length, soft and innocent (as you can get in this circumstance, anyway), just enough to allow Sherlock to equilibrate, John receiving only the slightest shiver or hitch of breath in response.
Then Sherlock turns his head and buries it deep within the pillow, stuttering "John..." his hand no longer stroking John's hair but claiming it as John places a lingering kiss on his urethra.
"No, look at me Sherlock. Come on; look at what i'm going to do."
He dares to lift an eyelid, taking in the sight of John's hand wrapped around the base of him, before cautiously turning his head to its original position. The pair of them shares one last lingering glance, before John bends down and takes Sherlock fully into his mouth.
Sherlock entire body goes rigid, so much so that every muscle trembles, "Oh Jesus..."
The profanity earns him a quick glance as John moves upwards, his cheeks hollowing at the suction as he goes – which Sherlock must like because his other hand now moves with his other to cradle John's head.
Whether it's all the adrenaline from yesterday, or the intensity and significance of this occasion, Sherlock soon feels the heat change from a smoulder to an aching, pulsing burn, "J-john I think-"
John releases Sherlock's cock, face flushed and lips swollen, "S'alright," He says with a tender smile, entwining their fingers together and taking Sherlock again.
It doesn't take long for the heat to build up again, not with John making little whimpering noises of his own as his mouth moves up and down Sherlock's length.
"Oh John, oh shhhi- ohhhh!"
And with that, Sherlock clamps his eyes shut, and comes hard against the back of John's throat.
When he opens his eyes again, John is lying against him with an arm thrown over his chest and placing soothing kisses across his shoulder, "Sherlock, which receptors on the post-synaptic membrane are affected by cocaine?" He asks with a smirk.
"Haven't the foggiest." He slurs, throwing his hand behind John's head sluggishly and consuming his mouth and his laughter.
I'm taking prompts people! You can either do it on Tumblr, inbox me FF dot net or send an email to katielizabeth92 at hotmail dot co dot uk - be anon if you like!
Thanks for all the responses, and if anyone wants to read about the famous 'Arsenic Case', it can be found as part of my other work called 'Elementary Dear'.
Oh! And feel free to add me for all manner of Sherlockian loveliness on Tumblr : nom-omnis-moriar dot tumblr dot com