A/N: As you can see, chapters' length will probably vary quite a bit... ^^' Hope you enjoy reading, and as always, reviewers are loved! ~¤Zoffoli

Dance is Chemistry

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oOo

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Chapter 2: Showering

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Sherlock was piercing him with his gaze and seemed to be hanging on his every word. John grinned.

"You are a freak. And so are we."

Keeping his eyes downcast, Sherlock remained silent. Not convinced, then, John thought. He held back a sigh.

"Haven't taken a shower yet?"

Sherlock stiffened visibly and stepped away, turning back to the kitchen.

"No, not yet. Would you like me to prepare breakfast while you take yours?"

John frowned at his friend's back and his face darkened. He wavered a second, then went for the fake obliviousness.

"No actually, I'd rather prepare breakfast myself, if you don't mind. No offence, but you never cook or prepare food outside of your experiments. I'd rather have something edible this morning. Why don't you go first?"

"I'm fine. I'll just watch you."

John arched an eyebrow.

"Preparing breakfast I mean!" Sherlock added precipitately, realizing the ambiguity of what he'd just said.

John smirked and slowly walked up to him.

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather watch me in the shower?"

He smiled innocently. Sherlock gulped and turned back to him.

"Excuse me?"

John shrugged, a pout on his face.

"I don't think I can find myself in a more embarrassing situation than last night, you know."

Then in a graver tone:

"Why don't you want to shower?"

Something close to irritation flashed in Sherlock's eyes and he furrowed his brow slightly.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm not scared of taking a shower."

"Who said anything about being scared?" John remarked, coming closer.

Sherlock stepped back, tense. His chest was suddenly fluttering with panic. He tried to keep his face in check, and as he couldn't, looked away and pretended to clean up his experiment table (and their kitchen table) a bit.

"I did. And I am not."

"Really?" John murmured, noticing Sherlock didn't repeat the word. He sneaked his arms around his friend's waist and pressed him closer.

Sherlock started and a shiver ran down his spine. His hands began to shake so he tightened them into fists. It didn't help.

"It's all right to be scared," John whispered against his back.

Sherlock felt tears threatening to fill his eyes and he was so frustrated he snapped.

"I am not scared, John. And spare me your platitudes."

Even he knew his tone was biting, and he felt a twinge of remorse. But before he could amend anything John was turning him round to face him, pinning him against the table. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and fear and he became flustered.

"Rule number three. You can snap at me all you want – you've always done that, and you'll probably never stop – but don't you dare lie to me so blatantly. I know I'm an idiot, but even Anderson would be able to tell you're scared right now."

This probably wasn't the right thing to say, for Sherlock seemed appalled at the thought. Soon horror and disdain were replaced by shame and fear on his face. He looked so distraught John couldn't help but lean in and hug him. He felt the urge to kiss him, and embraced him more tightly so he wouldn't be tempted.

Sherlock was so stiff in his arms the only sign that he wasn't holding a corpse was the loud beating heart hammering in his chest. John breathed in the scent of his friend, stroking the nape of his neck to release tension, playing gingerly with locks of hair.

"Please, won't you tell me? You know I'm stupid. I can't guess."

In fact, he could. He was a doctor after all, and was familiar with the after effects of rape, whatever the form. The person could either spend hours in the shower trying to cleanse themselves, either refuse to touch their own body, categorically.

Still, he wanted to hear Sherlock voice it. He knew it would help.

"I know you know," Sherlock grumbled against his ear, and John could hear the pout in his voice. He smiled.

"What do I know?"

Silence. Slowly, Sherlock pushed John back and took a step away, forcing himself to look him in the eye.

"I don't want to touch my body."

He said it matter-of-factly, but John wasn't fooled for a second.

"Do you want to touch mine?"

Sherlock was thrown off balance by the question and looked at his flatmate with bewilderment.

"What?"

"Do you want to touch mine? Or does that repel you too?"

"No!" he cried. Then, more quietly, suddenly shivering: "No... no, never..."

And suddenly as if the connection was perfectly obvious: "You've got to clean your wound and stitch it back. Or we're going to the hospital."

"God Sherlock, do you want to go to the hospital, or what?"

Sherlock averted his gaze and looked like a kicked puppy. John sighed.

"Let's take a shower, Sherlock."

"Didn't you hear me?" he spat back.

"I meant together. You wash me, I wash you. How does that work for you?"

Sherlock stared, baffled.

"You want me to wash you. You want to wash me."

John didn't understand his puzzlement.

"Right. That's what I said."

"Why should we wash each other? Do normal people wash each other? I thought only animals did."

"What about babies?"

"As I said."

He shrugged disdainfully and John couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked defensively, obviously offended.

Then a thought hit him. It had nothing to do with babies, but Sherlock hadn't grasped that it was what had made John laugh. He thought about the situation instead. In such a context, was it normal behaviour to shower together? Would he be expected to do so, after all John had gone through just for him? Because even in the midst of confusion, fear, pain and self-disgust, Sherlock was well aware how much it had cost John, a straight man, to strip tease in front of his male flatmate, especially when he was attracted to said flatmate for some unfathomable reason. Not only strip tease, but lap dance too. It must have been humiliating, and that had been the whole point. What Sherlock had done for John in the basement to save his life, John had done for him in their flat to save his too.

"Sherlock?"

He jolted back to reality.

"Yes."

"What were you thinking about?"

"Let's take a shower."

"Can't you answer my... what?"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Have you turned deaf? I said let's take a shower. Yours or mine?"

John was at a loss for words. What had he missed?

"Mine, then. It's closer."

"Right. Um... Let me get my stuff."

As John ran off upstairs, Sherlock walked slowly to his bathroom. If John insisted so much on the shower, it must have been important, right? So he should just go along with it. Moreover, last time he'd complied and listened to John and gone along with something as crazy as a lap dance, he'd felt better afterwards. He didn't understand why, but seeing he could give pleasure to John and have him moaning under his touch had amazed him and he still marvelled at this newly found power. Maybe that was it, then. Just a way to regain power over something, anything. But John isn't anything, he thought as he turned the water on to test the temperature.

John came back with clothes and towels, and found Sherlock staring at his reflection in the mirror.

"Shouldn't you be taking care of the wound before we take a shower?" he asked tonelessly.

John shivered at the lifeless voice. Sherlock must have been deep in thoughts – and apparently not good ones. He shrugged at his friend's question.

"You're supposed to wait 48 hours before you can get your stitches wet in the shower, but since I have to do them again I might as well take the shower before."

Sherlock frowned.

"That's definitely the soldier speaking, not the doctor. Your logic doesn't make sense."

John smiled.

"It's fine, you're logical enough for the whole street, remember?"

Sherlock pouted and then remembered why they had come here. He swallowed with difficulty. John was already more than half naked. He on the other hand was fully clothed. The exact same clothes he had been wearing in the basement, except for the shirt, which he had left there. The one he was now wearing was new. He hadn't even paid attention when he had bought it, and the colour (dark green) didn't fit him at all. Not that he cared much now.

As Sherlock brought his hands up to undo his shirt buttons, they started shaking uncontrollably. He bit his lip and tried harder, but he couldn't even get to the first button. Panic swelled in his chest as the memories from the forced strip tease flashed before his eyes. Suddenly warm hands were holding his, leading him to the buttons gently but firmly. Sherlock gasped.

John wasn't undressing him. He was merely directing his hands to the buttons, moving the fingers around until they were all undone, making Sherlock do all the gestures and take the shirt off himself. The shaking wouldn't stop, but he let John lead his hands to his shoulders to make the sleeves slide down his arms, slowly. It was so foreign that he was mesmerized by his own moves, as if he'd never done them before, even though he'd repeated those very same gestures for years – since he always wore shirts.

Sherlock had his back to the mirror, but he still shivered when the shirt finally fell to the floor and his torso was bared. The last time it had been so, he was writhing on a chair in front of John and a stranger, Moriarty in his back, pulling his arms and exposing him even more. He paled abruptly and felt his head swirl, but all of a sudden John's hands were back on him, pressing his arms slightly, bringing him back to now. John. Such a devoted friend. Was he? Sherlock shivered. I owe him this. He's helping. I want him. Whatever he wants in return, I must give him. He sent him a pained, apologetic look.

John led his hands to his belt and helped his fingers unbuckle it. Sherlock felt something stir in his groin at the intimate contact – not to mention their hands were on a belt –and he fumbled a bit. Finally the belt joined the shirt on the floor, and he just had to get out of his trousers. He almost moaned in despair as he remembered how he had got out of them the last time, and bit his lips to stifle it. But John heard the whimper, and thought something had to be done. Very calmly, he let his hands fall off Sherlock's to his hips.

Sherlock shivered and panicked at the loss, but remained still, afraid that he'd do something wrong, afraid that John would realize how ridiculous he was – afraid that John would leave.

Gently, John grabbed the sides of his trousers, and tugged them down very, very slowly, lowering himself until he was kneeling in front of a frozen Sherlock.

"Don't... you don't have to do this..."

He didn't want John kneeling in front of him. All right, so maybe he did, but that was beside the point. He knew John wasn't gay. Such a gesture must have been humiliating for him, and he didn't want John to feel humiliated anymore. So he knelt down too.

John was so surprised he almost fell back.

"What–"

"Don't kneel down when I don't ask you to."

John's eyes widened comically and he stared. Sherlock was frowning like a child unhappy to have his mother do anything else but pay attention to him, and John had no idea where that had come from.

The detective let his head fall on John's shoulder with a soft thud to hide a blush he felt creeping on his cheeks.

"You really shouldn't be the one on your knees," he mumbled, burying his face further into the warmth. How did John manage to be so warm when he had spent the night naked on a couch?

"We can take turns," John replied half-jokingly, smiling through the black curls and running his hand through them. He would love to wash this hair, he thought as he drowned into the scent.

"Never."

John was roused from his reverie.

"Beg your pardon?"

"I look like a rat when my hair is wet, it's ridiculous. You're never seeing it."

John shook his head lovingly, tenderness filling his eyes.

"Idiot. I look like a rat even when they're dry."

"That's not true," protested Sherlock.

"Fine. We'll find out who looks worse."

"I said–"

"Come on, let's get into the shower," John interrupted, standing up. He didn't extend a hand to Sherlock, nor did he help him stand again, but his hand never left his friend's arm. He looked him in the eye.

"You can take off your boxers now."

Letting go of his arm, he set about taking off his own. Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. How idiotic could he be? He hadn't realized until now that that piece of clothes would need to be removed too. Obviously. He bit his lower lip – which was getting redder and redder from the bad treatment every time – and decided not to think about it too much and get it over with. He took it off so fast he was surprised when he saw his boxers lying on the floor with his shirt and trousers.

Get it over with. What was he thinking? He was reacting to John just like he'd reacted to Moriarty. He wanted to touch John and he did want to feel him. But he didn't want his body to be touched. Suddenly he recalled the sensation of the consulting criminal's hands on his face, stomach, buttocks, and he retched. The next second John was on him, covering his cheek and his chin with butterfly kisses, the back of his ear, his throat, then the neck and the shoulder. It was so full of warmth and fondness – Sherlock didn't want to think of adoration – that he couldn't stop the tears suddenly streaking down his face. John kissed them away, over and over again, until Sherlock, so full of contradictions, stepped back and gripped his arm tightly as if he were an anchor. John cupped his face.

"We don't have to do this, Sherlock. I'm sorry if you felt like I was forcing you to do anything."

"No!" he cried with something akin to terror in his voice. "I didn't... you're not... I want this. Please."

Please don't leave me. This was pathetic, and he hated himself for it. But he was pathetic after all. Drying his tears with the back of his hands, he looked back at John with determination.

"I'm fine. Let's get into the shower."

And so they did. Sherlock turned on the water and sent John a questioning look to see if the temperature was good. John nodded and smiled reassuringly. He was worried, but he knew that he must not let Sherlock settle in a mindset where he despised his own body and refused to take showers. That wouldn't do. He was intimately convinced that the best way to help Sherlock right now was to stop him every time he tried to run away from the fear and to show him he still had control over things. Otherwise powerlessness and hopelessness would eventually overwhelm him, and John certainly never wanted to see that.

Sherlock was holding the shower, not really knowing what he should do with it. He was so confused he had no idea whether he should be fixing it above their heads, use it on John, or on himself, so he just stood there and waited awkwardly. John held back a chuckle and kissed him on the nose, because he was just too adorable for his own good. Sherlock's eyes widened with bewilderment.

"What do you usually wash first?" John asked.

"Hair..." Sherlock grumbled, looking away.

Before he knew it John's hand was back on his arm and had oriented the shower so it would run on Sherlock's head. Sherlock jumped and shut his eyes tight, grimacing under the hot water pouring over him. John tiptoed to push the locks back from his brow, caressing it softly. Sherlock shivered but didn't protest. He wanted nothing but to run away at this moment, yet it all felt surprisingly good. It didn't cross his mind that perhaps this was the very reason he wanted to run away in the first place.

Suddenly he realized that John had managed to trick him to get his hair wet, and he frowned, a pout on his face. John didn't notice and was startled when he felt Sherlock shift his arm so the water would be pouring on him instead. He laughed.

"Oh, you want to play?"

Sherlock bit his lip. It was so silly; this wasn't supposed to be arousing. But he did want to play, although it scared him senseless. John sneaked a hand around his waist and brought him closer. Sherlock gasped as his erection was pressed to John's. He hadn't even noticed his friend was hard. Truth be told, he hadn't wanted to look.

John's hand on his back went lower and lower until it was resting on his coccyx, teasing the line of his cheeks. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the wound in front of him, and he shifted the shower above their heads so it wouldn't pour too much on that side of John's body. With now both of his hands free, he let them roam on his friend's torso, tentatively at first, then more passionately by the second. John felt the air rush out of his lungs. Sherlock's hands were ridiculously talented to spot the most erogenous zones on his body and to test them until he knew exactly what points and what kind of touch or pressure elicited the most numerous or loud moans from him.

Fine, he thought, have it your way.

Sneaking his hands to the front, he played with Sherlock's hip joints, which he had noticed were uncommonly sensitive. Sherlock bit his lips so hard he drew blood, and John frowned at him. Slowly, in quite a predatory way, he leant in, brought Sherlock's face to his, and licked his lips. He smirked as he felt his friend grow harder, and decided to tease more, nibbling at the lower lip, running his tongue over the delicate flesh. His hands glided down his neck and to his torso, until they fell on his nipples and pinched them.

Sherlock jolted. He felt ready to burst and he was so hard it was getting painful. The previous night, he'd had a goal, and wanted to finish playing the double concerto before coming. But now, without the notes, without any piece to complete, he knew he wouldn't last long. Trembling, he tried to analyse his contradictory feelings of fear and excitement, desperation and desire. He still thought the whole affair was utterly ridiculous and that he really shouldn't be so scared and yet so yearning. He was a full grown man, for God's sake, and John must have found him stupid.

John was enjoying the hardness against his thigh and the wavering legs of his partner as he teased the two pink nipples unmercifully. He was finding Sherlock terribly endearing and was losing himself in the feel of his lips and of his body pressed against his. He could tell his friend wouldn't last long, and he was intent on making him orgasm on nipple stimulation alone. Sherlock was so new to this and his body was so damned sensitive that there was no need to rush things: in fact, John was very eager to put his virginity to good use. He'd never been with a virgin before, even less with a male virgin.

"You're brilliant," he murmured against his lips, "you're so gifted and amazing and outstanding and..." I love you so much.

The words stayed stuck in his throat and choked him. He didn't dare utter them. Sherlock seemed very frightened about this whole love and relationship business. Friendship was new enough to him, and he was so afraid of losing theirs that he almost gave up on the physical experimenting. The last thing John wanted was to scare him away.

As he rubbed his thumbs over the now very red nipples and gave them a last twist, Sherlock cried out and arched his back, grinding his erection unintentionally against John's, puling as he came. His legs gave way under him and John caught him and pinned him to the wall before he could collapse onto the tiles, dizzy and completely undone. As he rode his orgasm, he felt John's arms holding him tight, and a wave of gratitude washed over him. He was too far gone to formulate any word at all, but he knew what he wanted to do. Leaning in the embrace, still whimpering softly as he came all over John's lower belly, he pressed his swollen lips to his.

The kiss was chaste and spontaneous. To Sherlock, it just felt right, and he couldn't find the words to put on the feeling that was overwhelming him. To John, it was such a reversal he stood stupefied, as if struck by lightning. He couldn't believe Sherlock of all people would be... well, romantic enough to kiss as he orgasmed. Then again, he'd never imagined Sherlock kissing or orgasming at all. As the detective fell in his arms, basking in the dizziness of the afterglow, his head resting on his good shoulder, John was so moved his throat was tight and his eyes burning.

Hugging his partner tenderly, rocking their bodies slightly, he completely forgot his own erection and felt profoundly content. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to remember as he stood back up on his own, legs shaking. John smiled up at him, glowing.

"Shall we wash your hair now?"

"But you–"

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

"But–"

"Shh."

John leant in and kissed him. Wasn't it fine, since Sherlock had done it first? It was, right? Feeling the swollen lips against his, and Sherlock kissing back clumsily, he thought he was going to cry. Suddenly Sherlock was falling to his knees and John couldn't catch him on time. He panicked, believing he was passing out.

"Sherlock!"

His cry was turned into a croak when he felt a pair of lips on his very hard member.

"Oh God."

He had to lean in and put his forearms on the wall for support, regretting he'd just pinned Sherlock against it – it would have been easier the other way around.

"No, stop! You don't have to do this. Please. This is too much for you."

Sherlock snorted and it sent a jolt in the already throbbing manhood. John gasped.

"Too much for me?" he asked, his lips brushing the shaft, a hand sneaking up around his balls, cupping one testicle and massaging experimentally. John thought he'd come then and there, but he had more experience than Sherlock after all, and this wasn't his first blow job either. Moreover, he wasn't sure Sherlock realized what he was doing exactly, and he really didn't want to startle him or, worse, disgust him by coming all over his face.

"Sherlock. Please. Are you even thinking?"

"Nope," came the drowsy reply, and John knew he was telling the truth.

Licking the precum off the tip of his member, tilting his head in puzzlement as he tasted it, Sherlock seemed completely oblivious to John's little moral dilemma. All he knew was that again, John had been taking care of him, and had serviced him when he didn't even manage to make him come. But he had mixed feelings about it. A part of him was absolutely terrified that John would end up being like Moriarty, that Sherlock wouldn't be able to give him pleasure and that he would no longer get off with him. Another part was frustrated that John had succeeded in making him come undone so fast. If they were playing, he'd definitely won the game, and Sherlock did not like to lose.

John squealed as Sherlock poked his tongue and lapped his way up his shaft, curling under at the top and swirling it over his balls. He mouthed one and brought his fingertips to the top of his partner's manhood, drumming and teasing skilfully.

"Sherlock...!" John cried out.

"Mmh?"

The groan this simple hum earned him startled Sherlock, and he repeated it. Another groan, and John's legs were now vibrating with tension, his breathing difficult. Sherlock smirked and kept humming, testing different intensities, then shifted to the other ball, before returning to the shaft and swallowing it whole. John's head swirled and his hands turned to fists as he desperately leant on the wall for support. Sherlock didn't stay there for long, and soon pulled back, exploring the tip instead, sticking his tongue out and applying medium pressure.

"Sherlock... please..."

No longer capable of coherent thought, John only wished his partner would stop teasing. Sherlock seemed very satisfied with this outcome, not to mention the begging, which he found he enjoyed greatly. He had no idea what he was doing, but obviously John was pleased, and this reassured him a lot. He was still having a hard time being touched, because the vulnerability both excited him and frightened him, but being in control, he relished giving pleasure to his partner and having him melt under his touch.

But now that John was begging, he wasn't exactly sure what he was asking for. He felt stupid to ask, but it would have been even more awful if he couldn't give him what he wanted.

"Um, John?"

John was panting, his arms tense and trembling against the wall, but Sherlock's worried tone was enough to bring him back to reality with a start.

"What?" he asked, panic in his voice. What had he been thinking? God, Sherlock was right, he was the one not thinking here. How could he let his virgin friend who had just been raped the previous day perform a fellatio on him? Stupid, stupid, stupid...

"Well... I... You see..." Sherlock stammered, then added in a little voice: "Care to be more specific?"

John blinked and tried to make sense of what he was saying. Then it hit him, and he burst out laughing.

"It's not funny!"

"Oh yes, it is," he retorted, unable to stop his giggles.

He was so busy laughing his heart out, finding the situation so absurd and so silly and yet so enticing, that he didn't notice the dark look and the offended pout on Sherlock's face. Suddenly his mouth was back on John's manhood, nibbling, licking and sucking none too gently, his hands cupping his balls and massaging them vigorously. John cried out in pain and pleasure and was astounded to realize how closely they were linked.

"Sher–"

Bobbing his head up and down, his friend wasn't listening at all. He remembered the way John had stroked his perineum the previous night and, parting his legs firmly, sneaked a hand in and spotted the perineal membrane. He smirked as John almost screamed. The doctor had never been touched there in his whole life. As a doctor, he knew it would feel good, but he always preferred to be in charge with the ladies and this was a spot that made you squirm and wriggle and babble when stimulated. John did all of those, and after a few seconds of Sherlock pumping him, came into his mouth. He didn't even have the time to warn him, so intense and breathtaking were the ministrations of his friend. He refused to let his legs give way under him, but was glad Sherlock was holding his hips firmly in place.

"Sherlock... you don't have to... swallow," he hissed, trying to catch his breath.

As expected of Sherlock, he didn't listen, and only let go of John's manhood when it was flaccid. The moment he sat back John's legs failed him and he ended up falling on Sherlock, whose protestations were muffled as he fell back. John let his head fall on his friend's torso and held on to him mechanically, as if he were a giant teddy bear.

"Sorry," he muttered, "your fault."

Sherlock blinked, then chuckled. Soon John was joining him and they were giggling like idiots on the bathroom's tiles.

"You are such a poor loser," John said between two giggles. "It's not a game, you know."

"If it's not a game, then why I am a poor loser, John?"

John smirked. Oh, this was going to be fun.

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tbc