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Chapter 12: Massaging 1

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John had felt the tension in the brow he'd kissed. Sherlock seemed on edge. We've got to do something about that. He stepped back and looked his partner in the eye, a smile on his lips.

"Sherlock. Feel like experimenting?"

Sherlock blinked in bewilderment. He never thought he would hear John say that. Then again, the nature of his 'experiments' had changed quite drastically of late.

He opened his mouth to reply but the words caught in his throat again. Anger flashed in his eyes as he clenched his fists in frustration. I'm pathetic. John caught his hands, sneaked his fingers inside the tight fists, and laced them with Sherlock's.

"Just nod."

Sherlock frowned, but something in his eyes lit up. Nod? You're awfully sure of yourself.

He nodded.

John smiled warmly and patted him on the shoulder.

"All right. Get in your pyjamas, I'll be right back."

Sherlock wondered if this was the kind of situation in which he was supposed to shower. But John hadn't asked that, had he? He hesitated for a moment before shrugging it off and changing. Sitting on his bed, he couldn't help but scan his room, wondering where Mycroft could've put cameras. The style of the room was so bare it was probably hard to bug it. He turned towards the door as John came in, wearing his striped pyjamas, and Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle silently.

"What? You think I look ridiculous?"

Sherlock nodded gleefully, a sparkle in his eyes, and it made John so happy he forgot to be offended.

"Oh I see. Well, I know how to cheer you up now."

Only then did Sherlock notice that the doctor had brought a large white bath towel and a bottle of massage oil. He stared. John sat on the bed and gave him a peck.

"Actually, it'd probably be easier if you wore that dreadful dressing gown of yours and nothing under it."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, clearly indignant. What's wrong with my dressing gown? John chuckled, pinching his cheek.

"Nothing, you idiot. Come on, just put it on."

Sherlock pouted but complied. This was new enough to distract him from the image of Lestrade watching the video Moriarty had sent him – moreover, he wanted to show some goodwill for John's sake.

Naked and lanky under the blue robe with his black curls falling over his brow and his pale skin, he looked so much like a child who'd grown too fast that John felt the urge to hug him and smother him with kisses until he spoke again – probably to protest that it was quite enough already. He smiled. That wouldn't work, though. Sherlock would surely find it patronizing, and not tender and loving as it would truly be intended.

Sherlock sat on the bed again and waited, looking at John inquiringly.

"Turn and face the other way. I'm going to massage your back."

Sherlock blinked. A massage? He hadn't expected something so... chaste. As he felt John's hands on the nape of his neck, pulling his gown delicately to lay his shoulders and the top of his back bare, he gulped. Maybe even something this chaste would elicit unexpected reactions from his body. Experimenting indeed.

He tensed as he felt the two palms spread oil generously on his neck and shoulder blades, gliding down his arms, stroking and palpating gently. Lavender, he thought. A whimper died in his throat.

Meanwhile, John was revelling in the softness of the porcelain white skin, how delicate it was over the blue veins of the arms and the prominent bones. Clearly a man's body, yet he found it beautiful in a strange, mesmerizing way.

John had always been good at massages. Many women he'd slept with had told him his touch felt like that of a masseur sometimes, and it always made him laugh. He'd never seen someone so tense as Sherlock was now, though, and making him loosen up a bit was quite a challenge in itself.

"Don't stiffen up just because I'm touching you. Won't you try and relax instead?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to do as John asked. He actually liked the sensation of the rough hands on his skin. It felt good, he mused, warm, and soothing. He had to remind himself those were John's hands once in a while when the touch seemed too intimate and his skin crawled. He couldn't see the one who was touching him after all – just like when Moriarty had been standing behind him, playing with him like a puppet. He shivered.

"Hey. It's me," John whispered as he leant in to embrace him, sliding his hands to the front and running them over his torso. "Just relax."

Sherlock arched his back as his partner's fingers brushed against his nipples. His lips parted in rapture and his head fell back, but he made no sound. John kissed his exposed throat, sending a jolt of electricity down his spine. He stiffened.

"Don't tense, Sherlock. Just let go."

Slowly, the hands went back to his shoulders and started kneading energetically. At first Sherlock almost cowered, but suddenly John applied pressure just so and he must have found a nerve, for he made the detective gasp and wriggle. He didn't stop though, and kept kneading more and more deeply, before letting go abruptly and stroking his neck and throat lightly. Sherlock fell back in his arms, exhausted and panting. Their eyes met as they faced each other upside down – Sherlock glared and John smirked, playing with a lock of hair.

"You weren't listening to me," he said facetiously.

Sherlock pouted and closed his eyes with a scoff. John's grin widened and he sneaked a hand back to the front, massaging the sensitive muscles of his friend's chest and abdomen, stimulating the nerves, trying to loosen up the tightness in the plexus, relaxing the superficial tissues and removing the stress. He imagined his hands had the power to soothe away all the pain and tension from Sherlock's body, and truly wished they did hold such magic.

Sherlock squirmed but as he met John's gaze again, he blushed and looked away, trying to let go. John bent and pressed his lips to his. It was a funny embrace, and Sherlock could feel John's nose on his chin. He chuckled softly into the kiss, and his partner took the opportunity to deepen it, sneaking his tongue in, caressing the inside of his mouth. Sherlock sighed and allowed himself to melt. John's hands were now massaging his hips, waist and ribs, and the impaling tongue kept him in place. He realized the less he fidgeted and stiffened, the more intense the sensations were – which was probably why he stiffened in the first place, unwittingly. He wasn't used to deriving such pleasure from his body, and it was literally breath-taking.

John sat up, smiling. He moved back a little, replacing his knee under Sherlock's head with the rolled up towel, which he put below the base of his neck in order to stretch out his cramped muscles.

All flustered, Sherlock blinked, still breathless from the kiss. John knelt above his head and cradled it carefully, turning it slightly to the right. He kneaded the tight muscles along his collarbone, then gently rubbed the neck muscles down to the trapezius muscle. Sherlock's eyelids were half shut, his lips parted, and it made John want to eat him up. He licked his lips and swallowed with some difficulty. This wasn't supposed to turn him on. Switching hands, he turned the head in the other direction and relished the docility of his friend. Unable to resist the urge, he leant in swiftly and kissed his temple. Sherlock blinked in surprise. John smiled and used firm strokes to glide along his muscles, taking his time to work them out from the centre of the neck, shoulders and upper back.

Sherlock was positively unwinding, his chest heaving with little pants. He had no idea his flatmate had such unexpected skills. Well, not that unexpected for a doctor and a 'Casanova', he guessed, but … A tinge of jealousy hit him, but was soon drowned by the mollifying touch. John kissed him, and whispered against his ear :

"Lie on the other side."

Sherlock rolled onto his chest, feeling the freshness of the sheet against his cheek. He looked so juvenile and beautifully candid that John just couldn't get enough. He wanted to see more. Pulling gently on his gown, he denuded the lanky body further, revealing his long, white back all the way down to the parting line of his buttocks. Sherlock shivered and felt a deep blush creep up his cheeks. Don't think about the cameras, he told himself. Forget everyone else. Just think of John.

Starting at the shoulder area, John spread his fingers and used his fingertips down his back in a raking motion, moving them alongside the spine where the nerves were most sensitive. Sherlock jolted but slackened just as soon, making obvious efforts to relax because it was what John had asked him to do. Smiling tenderly, his look somewhat pain-filled because he loved this man squirming under his touch so much it hurt, John altered the motion of his hands so that one went up one side of Sherlock's back while the other went down, kneading, palpating and raking rhythmically.

The more the tension accumulated in Sherlock's body dissolved, the more he felt submerged in hopelessness. Relaxing wasn't distracting him from anything, it was putting him face to face with his problems. All his repressed feelings went out in the open and he could no longer ignore them. He knew that this was the reason he cried every time he ejaculated, too. The release ripped him out of his soul and body, shredded him completely with the host of foreign sensations and overwhelming feelings. It was exhilarating and terrifying: it unlocked all the gates, letting out whatever was kept hidden deep inside him.

John's hands changed position on his back as he put his knees on either side of him. He could feel his oil-coated fingers facing away from the spine. His warm, rough palms were in the middle of his back, putting pressure on his trapezius and latissiumus dorsi. Thinking of the exact names of where John was touching somehow helped Sherlock relax. It put a part of his mind to use, and that meant it wouldn't wander off to some less enjoyable considerations. A hand sneaked up his spine all the way to the nape of his neck, fingers running through his hair, massaging the scalp.

"Stay with me, Sherlock. Would you like me to keep talking?"

Sherlock nodded, once. John kissed the cheek that was exposed, then pressed his lips to the temple, under the ear, down the throat, and suddenly back up on the corner of Sherlock's mouth, which had parted in delectation.

"Will you allow me to go in deeper ? Deeper in the muscles, I mean," he added precipitately, blushing.

Sherlock smirked, and nodded. Then after a pause, he nodded again. He knew John probably wouldn't get the meaning, but... Go in deeper wherever you want. The deeper the better.

John let his hands fall to Sherlock's lower back, pressing his palms slowly but firmly into the cold flesh. Let's warm you up. Using a gentle counter-clockwise motion, he circled his hand up his partner's back, looking for muscle fibres that felt shortened. When he found a knot, he would increase the pressure, using his fingertips to dig in and work the spot.

Sherlock gasped and panted, sometimes arching his back, but still his voice did not make it past his lips. He felt like dough being mixed, John's petrissage technique being thorough and efficient. Sherlock could actually feel his knots tighten at first under the attack, then little by little be smoothed through the persistent kneading that was imposed on them. Expertly, John's hands grabbed his muscles and squeezed, tugging and pinching. When he hit a nerve or massaged a knot relentlessly until it surrendered to his ministrations, it was both painful and pleasurable, tearing Sherlock all over the place. It sent sparks and jolts of electricity throughout his whole body, animating him, giving him back his energy but also flooding him with feelings that threatened to drown him. He jolted as John found a knot in the middle of his back, where it curved.

"This zone is used in erotic massages because it is said to be especially sensitive... But yours is so tight this will probably hurt more than anything. If you don't shake your head, I'll do it, though. It's important that you relax this part of your body too. You should allow yourself to feel, Sherlock. Don't cut yourself off from sensations."

Sherlock swallowed nervously, but was careful not to move his head. So John went on, digging in and making Sherlock jump. A strangled cry escaped his lips. They both froze, surprised by the unexpected sound.

"Sherlock, you..."

Sherlock buried his face in the sheets and did not reply. Silently, with extreme care, John started to massage the knot again, putting gradually more pressure until Sherlock was arching his back, gasping, grabbing the sheets with clenched fists. He really needs to let go. If I add more pressure, it'll hurt, but... John considered the thought for a second before replacing his fingertips with his elbow, barely brushing the reddened skin at first. Sherlock trembled.

"Shh... Relax. Here, take my hand."

He slipped his left hand under Sherlock's fist, which slackened at the contact and held the hand tentatively – not from fear, but from shyness, John noted gleefully. He held the pale hand back, and pushed his elbow into the flesh at a slow but firm pace, working the knot. Sherlock hissed and thrashed, grabbing John's hand with desperation and squeezing it so tightly it was painful. But John barely noticed, for it didn't matter: all that mattered was that Sherlock relaxed enough to gain energy.

"Good, Sherlock, it's good... breathe more deeply," he murmured while stroking soothing circles with his thumb on the back of the long, white hand that was clutching his.

Sherlock kept writhing helplessly but didn't push John back and showed no sign of protest. He was struggling – not against John, but against himself. He wanted nothing other than to push his friend away, make the sensations and feelings that were flooding him stop because it was too much. It felt like such a breach in his privacy that he had to remind himself every second that he wanted this, wanted John to stay... Because he stayed even though you were broken, even though you weren't even brilliant, even though you were sullied and mutilated... Because he said that you weren't and exposed himself, broke himself down in order to be at your level again. He stayed, he stayed, and what can you give him?

The first knot had melted considerably and John had passed on to the next one, and the next one, all those knots that were binding Sherlock's body from the inside, in a place he didn't have access to and couldn't control. The middle of the back was a tricky area for muscles, indeed, if Sherlock's squeaks, pants and writhing were anything to go by.

"Deep massage can be painful, but it allows the affected area to be realigned and knots worked out," John recited, "it improves blood flow, which helps replenish nutrients in the muscle as well as remove toxins."

Sherlock tried to focus his attention on the offered data, but his brain was terribly confused with the onslaught of electric sparks and painful jolts, waves of pleasure and shivers, and the fear, the fear that was beating frantically in his chest, right under the plexus, playing a drum rhapsody along with self-disgust.

"Just let go, Sherlock. You're the only one binding yourself. I promise you'll feel better."

Sherlock was almost convulsing now, crying into the sheets because he hated the feeling, hated being so ridiculously vulnerable, and it was such a paradoxical sensation. He was infinitely ashamed that John was seeing him in such a state, but he knew John was the only one he'd ever allow to see it, because he wanted him by his side even in the most desperate times... The only one? What about Mycroft's cameras?

Sherlock's eyes widened. As John impaled him with his elbow once more he gasped and his moan was drowned in his throat again, coming out as a hiss. His hand searched for John's arm desperately, catching the wrist. John saw the move and in a final gesture, racked the zone with his elbow.

Sherlock arched his back and screamed, coming.

Coming... Coming? He hadn't even realized he'd had an erection. Everything was just too much, the pain and the pleasure, the sensations in their novelty and sheer intensity, and he barely realized that John was picking him up, wrapping him in the towel like an infant, smothering him with gentle, soothing kisses. Sherlock could've stopped if he wanted to: he could've just pushed his partner back, could've walked away, but he didn't. He refused to let hidden cameras win, whether Moriarty's or his brother's. He didn't want to be buried in silence, where even John would never reach him. So he accepted the shame, the pain and the love. The love? I'm not thinking straight, using concepts I can't fathom...

Wrapped in John's arms, he cried from rage and let him rock their two bodies soothingly, as if cradling a child to sleep, kissing away the tears, smothering his whole face, neck, back and torso, never letting go of his left hand, his right arm around his waist.

"It's fine, Sherlock... It's all fine... Suppressing your feelings won't help. That's what makes people weak in the end. You're brilliant enough to be lucid about things, and lucidity can be a gift, even if it scares common people... You're nothing common, and this is your strength."

Trembling, Sherlock was trying to keep his distance because his waist and thighs and legs felt disgusting and sticky, and he didn't want John to be dirtied because of him. Noticing him drawing back, John frowned and cupped Sherlock's face, locking their eyes.

"Hey."

Sherlock blinked, twice, and his cheeks turned pink, glowing. He was so lovely John felt the urge to kiss him, but he didn't want Sherlock to feel like he was a mere object and had to put up with John's every whim.

But of course, this being Sherlock, he noticed the dilated pupils and the quickened pulse. A shy smile graced his lips imperceptibly, and he leant in, pressing his lips to John's, whose eyes widened in surprise. He melted. Oh, Sherlock.

The kiss was sweet and loving, delicate like a caress but not chaste. It wasn't hungry and violent, which was what startled John the most, as Sherlock's kisses were usually desperate and passionate, almost bruising. It gave him the distinct feeling that his friend was kissing him not for himself, but truly for him. His lips pressed to his, his tongue dancing with his, his nose rubbing his, everything was so soft and tentative, yet fervent... His kiss felt like a gift.

It lasted forever, because it was gentle enough to allow regular breathing, and they didn't gasp for air. Sleep was taking its toll on them. They hadn't slept in about forty-eight hours, and thanks to Mycroft's meddling, they were exhausted. John had never snogged and cuddled until both participants fell asleep, and he found it was an amazing experience. It didn't even matter if it was just an experiment to Sherlock. In this instant, John couldn't doubt his affection for a second: Sherlock's kisses, Sherlock's strokes, Sherlock's entire body were expressing gratefulness, tenderness... John didn't dare think love. He made a mental note that Sherlock was most affectionate when sleepy and relaxed.

They fell asleep gradually, and neither would remember exactly at what point they did, nor which of them did first.

John dreamt of pale hands and damp curls, of well-defined lips and glowing cheeks, of long fingers playing the violin, of music and a melody... A melody...

His eyes snapped open. It was morning already, he could tell from the light. The bed was cold, and Sherlock had disappeared from his side. But John hadn't dreamt the music. It was coming from the living-room, filling the flat.

Won't you play for me? John had asked the previous night. And Sherlock was playing, playing like he'd never heard him play.

Bach's sonata n°1, Presto.

It made John feel like crying.

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xXx

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tbc