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Chapter 16: Massaging 2

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"You know I want it."

Sherlock gulped. His throat suddenly felt very tight – and his trousers too, he noticed. This was crazy. He marvelled for a second, amazed that John could elicit such reactions from him while staying at a distance, by just saying the right words.

Or was it his voice? Sherlock frowned slightly. Either way, it was perfectly unfair.

"You're like a remote control," he blurted.

John blinked.

"Wh–"

"Oh no, don't say 'What?' again, please."

And to stress his point, he kissed John's pouting mouth. It was so weird, that such silly and brutish contact with another person could feel so good. From an outer perspective, Sherlock could make no sense of it – it was like kicking a ball. He'd never understood the point, and had always refused to indulge in such boorish behaviour. Seriously, what was rational about kicking a ball for fun? Sherlock always thought kids playing football and whatnot looked ridiculous.

Well, kissing was somewhat the same. People looked ridiculous when they kissed. What a peculiar idea it was, to press your own mouth to someone else's body! In fact, Sherlock found it more grotesque than repulsive. Sure, he never liked anyone crowding his personal space too much, but most of all it didn't make sense.

Except with John. With John, it did make sense. And yet it didn't. Sherlock couldn't formulate it, couldn't explain it. It was as if it made sense, it felt like it. Like nothing else could ever make more sense, really. And yet when Sherlock looked back on it, he couldn't account for it rationally.

John gasped for air and broke the kiss, bringing Sherlock back from his musing. The detective smiled – but to John it looked like a smirk, and he scowled to hide a blush. Sherlock's smirks were ridiculously effective on him.

Of course, Sherlock, being the infuriating genius that he was, noticed the blush and his face broke into a grin.

"Oh."

"Shut up," John grumbled.

"Umm... nope, sorry, that's not going to happen, John. But don't worry about my smile, you won't get to see it much."

John stopped himself in time, repressing an umpteenth: "What?" Sherlock's grin widened smugly. Spontaneously, he leant in and kissed John's brow.

"Good boy," he whispered.

John jolted.

"What? I'm not your–"

"Well, you didn't keep it up for long," Sherlock commented as he sneaked a hand under the pillow and took out his scarf. John gaped.

"How long have you been planning this?" he asked, trying to ignore his growing erection.

Sherlock kissed his chin and nibbled his earlobe playfully. John bit back a moan.

"I placed the scarf there during lunch, if that's your question."

John groaned as Sherlock parted his legs slightly with his knee, barely brushing against his hardness.

"You are such a tease," he growled.

"And you love it," Sherlock replied complacently. John scowled, but knew when he was beaten.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment. The base of John's adorableness was his range of facial expressions, he thought, and mostly, his looks. Because he did have looks, even if he only ever pointed out Sherlock's insufferable ones – the You're-all-idiots look, the We-both-know-what's-going-on one... But John's looks were different. They amused Sherlock, and made him want to cuddle.

Sherlock shook his head suddenly, chasing the images away. Adorableness? Cuddle? That was too many stupid words for one train of thought. John had always scowled, and yet Sherlock had never wanted to hug him for it. … or had he?

"Hey, genius. I'm here," John complained.

Sherlock frowned.

"Why, thank you John, I think I hadn't noti–"

"Don't play smart. Are you just going to stare at me all night?"

The challenging tone didn't please Sherlock at all – or perhaps it pleased him too much.

"I was just thinking that I'd miss your eyes tonight," he snorted, unaware of how romantic his remark could have sounded, if not for the sulky tone.

John barely had time to arch an eyebrow before everything went black as Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his head and tightened it, using it as a blindfold. The doctor gasped and wriggled under the unexpected touch. Sherlock scoffed.

"What are you acting all surprised about? Did you think I was going to use it to strangle you? Please. I'm trying to be creative here."

He let his hands fall to John's shoulders and roam down to the chest, playing with both nipples through the fabric until they were so hard Sherlock could actually see them. John groaned, chewing his bottom lip. Sherlock caressed the swollen mouth lightly with one finger, while his other hand came to rest around John's neck.

"Plus, I like your throat," he went on in a deep, low voice. "I don't want it too damaged just yet."

This time John was unable to stop himself and he moaned loudly. Sherlock stroked his cheek.

"Good, that's good, John. Don't hold anything back."

"We're not at home!" John protested, pulling his arms to test the solidity of the handcuffs.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to hide the fluttery feeling he got when John said "home".

"You're being especially obvious tonight, you know?"

"Right. And you love it because it boosts your ego," John muttered sullenly.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he chuckled, giving John a peck on the cheek. The smaller man frowned.

"Will you stop treating me like a baby girl?"

"Oh, is that it? That's how you treat me, you know."

John froze. Sherlock was right. He did give him spontaneous hugs and kisses, but that didn't mean...

"Exactly," Sherlock concluded for him as he started to unbutton the impeding pyjama shirt that was preventing him having access to John's chest. To his skin.

"The manacles are real ones, by the way. Got them from Lestrade. There's no way you can take them off by yourself."

"Got them from Lestrade? More like stole them..."

"Don't be captious."

John giggled, incredulous.

"Captious? Oh seriously Sherl... ah!" He jumped as he felt Sherlock's mouth on his right nipple – more precisely Sherlock's teeth biting into the sensitive flesh. He tried to get away but could hardly move, being handcuffed to the bed and trapped under the detective's body.

"John, John... You're in no position to be so picky," Sherlock mimicked in a mocking voice.

"I'm not.. ah! Ungh... Will you stop doing that?" John growled, referring to Sherlock's damned talented mouth. He was horrified to hear his voice come out as a whine.

Sherlock smirked.

"But John, you don't want me to stop."

"Nnh..."

Having now unbuttoned the striped shirt completely, Sherlock fondled John's torso and lifted it so he could pull his shirt up his arms gently until it was all crumpled around the wrists, by the manacles. John arched his back, more out of excitation than obedience, and it was quite unwitting – he probably had no wit left at all. It was crazy how Sherlock's hands could throw him off balance so badly, making him feel like he'd fallen into another world, somewhere in Wonderland where Sherlock was surrounding him completely with his strokes his scent his voice...

Maybe Sherlock could do magic. Or perhaps it was enough for John to know it was Sherlock touching him to become considerably aroused.

The spell was broken the moment Sherlock's hands left his torso. John groaned discontentedly at the loss. Suddenly Sherlock's tongue was running over John's mouth and his lips parted unabashedly, craving the touch – and a deeper contact. But the tongue retreated deviously, leaving John thirsting. The ex-soldier let his head fall back onto the pillow with a moan, defeated.

"Um, Sherlock?" he said, panting.

"Yes, John?"

"You'll drive me insane, y'know. I mean, positively ins... hmpff!"

He was cut off by Sherlock's tongue drilling into him and the detective wrecking havoc in his mouth. John felt the urge to grab the beloved head and pull the curls, burying his hand in dark locks of hair, and so he struggled against the handcuffs in frustration.

Having John writhing under him, John squirming around vainly to free himself from the handcuffs, John's legs still wrapped around his waist wantonly (and certainly unwittingly, for John seemed to have forgotten they were there) was more of a turn-on than Sherlock ever thought it would be. He hadn't planned this scene for himself in the first place, but for his partner: he knew John would enjoy being subdued.

John loved to be in charge; but Sherlock had noticed it excited him when he wasn't. And considering his girlfriends, who were nothing like the Woman, he was no doubt more used to dominating than being dominated; which was all the better, Sherlock thought. John wanted him for the sex, even if he didn't realize it. People were always so quaint about romance, even in the twenty-first century when it's been proved that it is all a matter of chemistry. Physiological and psychological factors – such changeable things, too... Sherlock wasn't only terrified that John would stop wanting him, which he knew would happen some day – and then their relationship could never be the same. He was also terrified that he would himself put John off unconsciously, by being too clumsy or by not proving to be as good as the doctor had thought. It was very reassuring to know that John had never been with a man, and could perhaps blame some things on the gender and not on Sherlock because he was Sherlock. It also meant he could give John things no girlfriend ever could – things Sherlock wished no one else ever could give to him. So deducing his kinks, those he never acted upon, was a great way to ensure he'd stay a bit longer. To get him hooked... As long as he enjoyed it, he would come back for more.

But Sherlock hadn't planned on liking it too. Not only did it arouse him a lot; it also made him wish that he could keep John handcuffed to a bedpost forever – handcuffed to him.

John was now thrashing and all of a sudden broke the desperate kiss, alarmed by the wetness he'd felt on his face and that certainly hadn't come from his eyes.

"Sh... Sherlock..." he let out, breathless.

Sherlock's face broke into a pain-stricken smile, and he was glad John was blindfolded. He didn't realize his expression could have simply been called "loving" and that it was one John would've been very happy to see.

Leaning forward, he kissed his breathless partner's temple in a surge of affection, slipping his hand under the pillow again to take out a small bottle of lavender oil – the same John had used on him the previous night, and whose fragrance still impregnated his coat. A fragrance John recognized the moment Sherlock opened the bottle.

"You..."

"Shh. This time you're the one who has to relax," Sherlock cut in, his tone firm. Then in a small voice, he added tentatively: "I know I've upset you a lot today. Please don't be angry."

John was dumbfounded. The detective must've been seriously messing with his head, first acting all domineering and now this while John was bound and couldn't hold him or kiss him to make him shut up. On second thought, though, Sherlock had indeed been very upsetting today, and apology sex wasn't always a bad thing. But that wasn't exactly John's idea of having someone making up for his attitude in bed.

"Wait. You're sorry, so you've handcuffed me to a bedpost?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I never said I was sorry." He sneaked a well-oiled hand in John's trousers and fondled his crotch. John cried out in surprise.

"Sherlock! You can't.. ah! I can't..."

"Have you seen the size of this house? You know their room is on the other side."

"That's not a reason.. aah!"

John bit his lip violently to stifle back what he feared was nothing less than a wail, and his head rolled back. This was torture. Whether sweet or not, it just shouldn't be allowed.

Sherlock frowned at John's obstinacy.

"John. I already decided I'd make you scream tonight, so you might as well give up now."

John blushed furiously, feeling the air rush out of his lungs at the unexpected bluntness. Sherlock's left hand had come to rest on his chest and was now creeping up until the detective traced his upper lip and teeth, which were still biting the flesh stubbornly. The hand that was teasing around his groin suddenly plunged in and John felt Sherlock's middle finger press against his prostate through the perineal membrane. He jolted and gasped, unwillingly allowing Sherlock to slip his left hand's fingers in his mouth, thus preventing him from biting his lip again. Thrashing and moaning wildly, he tried nibbling at Sherlock's fingers so he'd stop, get them out of there, but it only seemed to please his partner even more.

John had never been fingered, but he'd never thought of fingering his girlfriends' mouth before either. Sherlock's fingers were long and slender, cold against the hotness of John's oral cavity. They were playing with the inside of his cheeks, swirling around his tongue, stroking his palate or caressing the over-sensitive mucous membrane under his tongue... John let out a strangled moan. Sherlock was crowding him like no one else ever had – and he must admit that he loved it. He was appalled to realize that the awareness of being fingered, titillated in such intimate spots which never got stimulated, pinned on a bed, handcuffed, legs up and widely spread for Sherlock, was pushing him over the edge. He was going to climax and he had no idea how to let Sherlock know, for he couldn't speak and they couldn't even use eye contact. John's whole body tensed, his back arched, and as Sherlock pressed a second finger to his perineum, John's hips bucked of their own accord and he burst, screaming his pleasure. The sheer intensity of his orgasm knocked him out, increased tenfold by the fact that he couldn't move and had never been so passive in his whole life. He was reduced to an awareness trapped in a body that could only feel and be teased, completely exposed to outer stimuli. Racked with voluptuous spasms that never seemed to end, all John could still feel were Sherlock's fingers and scent penetrating him, wrecking him with waves of acute pleasure.

Then Sherlock was kissing him lustfully, his hand leaving John's mouth and grabbing his hair ferociously in such a possessive manner that it sent a jolt straight to John's groin and the poor doctor thought he'd never stop coming. Soon, Sherlock's other hand stopped tantalizing his perineum and glided up to squeeze John's shaft, pumping along rhythmically all the way through his release, until the hardness melted completely and softened in his palm.

John knew he'd blacked out when the white flashes stopped and he could no longer remember who he was or where he was – but he knew Sherlock was there, holding him, rocking their two bodies slightly, babbling something in his ear. He could feel Sherlock's curls on his face, the fabric and buttons of his shirt pressed against his own chest, his scent more overwhelming even than the lavender. John drowned – drowned in the curls, the fabric and the scent, drowned in the depth of this shattering ecstasy of Sherlock. It was ardent, all-consuming – it was everything, absolutely everything. Having lost the last shreds of his sanity and reason, he pressed himself closer to the inestimable chest, and gabbled.

"Iloveyousomuch-pleaseneverleaveme-sherlocksherlocksherlock..."

Sherlock caught his name but wondered if he'd heard correctly. John's words were echoing his own thoughts too perfectly to be true... weren't they?

The detective was quite confused and hadn't planned on coming himself – but John writhing under him, John thrashing against the handcuffs, John screaming as he came all over their groin was all too arousing for Sherlock, and he reached his climax just after his partner.

And so he was frustrated and half-sulking, because it hadn't been intended at all, but at the same time he felt light-headed and God the sight of John was worth it a thousand times. Sherlock thought there was nothing he wouldn't do to see John like this and to be the cause of it, to make John surrender and scream, to hear John's voice babble his name and beg him not to leave... because he'd said it, hadn't he? ...Hadn't he?

They stayed like this for a moment – and maybe more than a moment, John could no longer tell and Sherlock couldn't care less.

"Sherlock... Sherlock... Sherlock!"

Sherlock snapped back to reality when he realized John was actually talking to him and not just chanting his name. Bringing a hand to John's sweaty brow, Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair, a smile playing on his lips.

"Yes, John?"

"Won't you take off the handcuffs now?"

Sherlock smirked and tickled the skin behind John's ear.

"No."

"Good, then... Wait, what?"

Sherlock kissed the forehead wrinkled in puzzlement, and tried to back off – but John held him tightly with his legs, his thighs pressing around Sherlock's waist. Lost nothing of the soldier muscles, Sherlock mused.

"No, no, no, where do you think you're going? Are you just going to leave me like this?"

"As tempting as it may sound... no, John. I'm not done with you."

John blushed and slackened his grip in surprise. Sherlock took the opportunity to sneak out of bed and watch his partner.

"What are you doing?" John inquired, his tone more annoyed than worried, his moves sluggish. He was obviously still feeling very dizzy, and his body lay limp on the sheets.

"Admiring the view," Sherlock replied smugly. He observed mortification dawn on John's face and chuckled.

"You...! Oh, whatever..." John grumbled, too utterly relaxed to complain about anything. Sherlock smiled and walked up to him, his hands circling John's waist and suddenly pulling his pants down. John started.

"What are you doing?"

"You're not going to sleep in these. They're wet."

John's blush turned crimson and he growled, turning his head to the side and burying his face in the pillow. Sherlock grinned.

"Moreover, I want you naked. Are you cold?"

"No," John answered grumpily.

"Good."

"But I still don't see why you won't release me now," he added, mumbling.

Sherlock sat on the bed by his side and let his hand rest on John's heaving abdomen. "I'll release you eventually."

"Very reassuring."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, smiling. Funny that relaxed John meant sulking John. It was cute, somehow. Cute?

"John, I think you've done something terrible to my vocabulary."

"What?"

"Never mind."

Oiling both of his hands this time, Sherlock started stroking John's leg from the top of the thigh to the ankle. John jumped imperceptibly, but relaxed instantly as Sherlock nuzzled his calf.

Sherlock palpated the flesh a bit and once he'd identified the point he was looking for, pressed on the medial side of John's knee joint between the tendons. His other hand lowered to fondle the calf and stopped a few inches above the ankle, on the inside of the leg, where he pressed another point.

"Kidney meridian," he replied to John's silent question.

"You know shiatsu?" John asked, astonished.

"Just a bit. Three years ago there was a series of murders in which the criminal performed shiatsu on his victims before slicing them to pieces. I had to learn in order to identify the patterns."

John couldn't help but shiver.

"Great. So you're going to slice me to pieces?"

Sherlock smirked.

"Thought I'd already done that."

John scoffed and mumbled something which sounded like "Don't be so smug about it."

Sherlock went on to the other leg and repeated the gesture, pleased to have John as docile as a rag doll, and enjoying the utmost relaxation radiating from his face – or what he could see of it.

"Can't you at least remove the scarf?"

"No. You'd open your eyes to look at me."

"Oh yeah, now I see. That's such a big problem."

"Shh. You're such a chatterbox in bed."

John's mouth fell in outrage.

"I am not!" he stammered. Sherlock smiled and kissed his way up to his lover's belly. He located the conception vessel meridian in the middle of John's abdomen, and from there could find all the points intersecting the chong mai meridian.

"What points are you pressing?" John wondered.

"Well, I'm going to vary the kidney meridian and the meridian of the three heaters – used in erotic massage, I believe; it supposedly increases sexual energy and the potency of men."

John gulped.

"Wait, you want to..."

"I'm not good at massages," Sherlock blurted. "I can't give you one like you did for me yesterday. But because of this case I know the basics of shiatsu and reflexology. Quite frankly, I'm not convinced, and I've never even practised except on corpses, but I've been thinking about it and I do believe that I can use this to relax your body in depth," he said somewhat hurriedly.

John smirked.

"Who's a chatterbox?"

Sherlock smirked back. As he kept pressing the points he'd mentioned, he lowered his head to John's crotch and without warning, licked his shaft. John jumped, startled.

"Sherlock!" he cried in protest.

"I wouldn't start screaming now if I were you, John, or you won't have any voice left when I'm done with you."

John moaned and couldn't believe Sherlock was succeeding in exciting him all over again even though he was still dizzy from his last release. As Sherlock pressed a point on his side, he felt a wave of electricity run down his spine and hissed. Sherlock kissed the tip of his shaft, and John was mortified to feel his hips bucking to increase the contact between his slowly but surely hardening member and Sherlock's mouth.

"Please..."

"Mm?"

"Don't tease..."

Sherlock kissed the inside of his thigh and retorted:

"I won't. All I will do is make you hard again, bring you to your climax, then arouse you and make you come again, and again, and again..." He kissed John's balls, and his hair tickled the over-sensitive flesh of his crotch.

"Sherlock!"

"Every time, I will make you relax some more, until you fall to sleep naturally."

"I could've done that just now!" John protested in a moan.

"No," Sherlock murmured, his face suddenly close to John's ear, his tongue on his throat as his fingers pressed points on his neck and shoulders expertly. "You would've slept for an hour or so, then you would've sensed I was having a nightmare, and you would've held me or soothed me like you always do."

John's breath caught in his throat; how could Sherlock possibly know?

"You would've felt guilty and powerless, and even when you had eventually fallen back to sleep, it wouldn't have been a refreshing slumber."

"Sherlock..."

The detective kissed him softly to silence, sneaking a hand up his arm and lacing his fingers with his, relishing the clink the handcuffs made as the smaller man struggled against them.

"You haven't had a good night's sleep in days," Sherlock murmured, and John heard the implied: because of me. "And I know you. You won't just let go. You'll keep worrying about me and you'll be attentive to any sound, any move I make until exhaustion takes its toll on you and you fall back into a deeper slumber for an hour or two."

Sherlock's fingers searched for the right points on John's open palm and slowly pressed them, one by one. To treat anxiety, Sherlock's brain flashed before his eyes, the pituitary gland, the brain, the stomach...

"That's why you don't hear me when I get up in the morning." … the adrenal glands, the descending colon, the ileocaecal valve... "You've been paying attention to me all night long," he concluded. … temples, solar plexus, liver.

"Sherlock, I–"

"Shh."

Both of his hands were now on John's, applying pressure to specific points Sherlock deemed relevant – that one on the side in the continuity of the little finger, the shoulder... All the while, Sherlock was nuzzling up against John's neck, kissing his throat, biting his earlobe. It was all so sweet yet so firm and invasive John felt completely lost and at the entire mercy of his friend. In this position, Sherlock could've done anything to him – anything at all to make him scream – and here he was animating his body, sending sparks and shivers, restoring energy and dispelling the tensions... and teasing. Because he was teasing, of course. The only-consulting-detective-in-the-world couldn't do even shiatsu like everybody else – no, he had to use oil and his tongue and that knee pressing rhythmically against John's displayed genitals.

Suddenly Sherlock kissed him wildly and snapped John back from his dizziness. Not seeing anything really wasn't an advantage – but it was ridiculously arousing.

"I'm sorry, John, but we don't have all night – you must have some time to sleep, it's the whole point after all."

Dazed from the kiss, John barely had time to register what had just been said before Sherlock's mouth fell to his left nipple and his hand sneaked down and grabbed his balls, pulling none too gently.

John cried out in surprise and pain, but soon his cry was drowned in moans and pants. Sherlock's massage was driving him senseless, sending waves of savage pleasure, making him thrash and shriek uncontrollably.

"Pl... please..Sh... SHERLOCK!"

He came a second time screaming his partner's name, his body convulsing.

"You must've used something," he babbled, "put something in my drink or–"

Sherlock silenced him with his tongue and a bite to keep him quiet.

"You can scream all you want, John," he said in an unwittingly sultry voice, "but do. Not. Talk. Understood?" He sneaked a finger between John's leg to tickle his perineum, and John arched his back to the touch, screaming:

"UNDERSTOOD! Please..."

John couldn't believe he'd come twice and his third orgasm was already bubbling in his lower parts.

"Sherlock, you're gonna kill me! You... Aah!"

Sherlock had pulled him up, the handcuffs clicking furiously up against the bedpost, and his fingers drilling some very sensitive points in John's back.

"Ah! Sh... Sherlock!"

"The crook of the back... an overly sensitive zone used in erotic massage, was it?"

"Please... I can't... No more..."

"Oh come on John, a big boy like you," Sherlock teased, locating the tensed or twitching spots and penetrating them gradually but forcefully with his fingertips.

"I'm... too old for that aah!"

"Thataah? Bit late for neologisms, don't you think?"

John was too far gone to even register the affectionately mocking tone.

Sherlock kept his promise and made him come again. And again. And again, until John begged for mercy – at which point he retorted: "If you're still begging, it means you've got some energy left." And he made him hard again, weaving fire in zones John had never even thought of. Sherlock played with his hands, his wrists, saying something about the reflex point of the prostate being there and stimulating it; he turned his nipples into ecstasy buttons, harassing them until a mere brush was enough to send John to the seventh heaven; finally, he aroused him again simply by groping his buttocks and thighs, applying pressure to certain spots that made John jump and shiver and gasp, never touching his shaft but blowing on it teasingly until it was rock hard and dripping.

"All right. John? You're probably going to black out after this one. Please don't worry. I'm here," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

John was such a wreck he could only groan back incoherently, until he felt his lover's mouth on his throbbing erection. He jolted with a gasp.

"Sher... if you've drugged me I'm gonna..."

Sherlock frowned and slid down John's shaft with a pop – John moaned and thought he'd come there and then, but Sherlock pinched the tip of his penis, preventing any possible release. John cried in indignation:

"You're kid..kidding me!"

Sherlock's eyes turned to slits.

"I didn't drug you, John."

"How many times do you think you've made me come?"

"I didn't drug you."

"My old body can't take this, this is just–"

"I DIDN'T DRUG YOU!"

"FINE! Just let me come! Please, please, please, Sherlock..."

Sherlock was shocked to see that John was actually sobbing from exhaustion and an overdose of pleasure.

"Please... I'll be good... I'll stop talking... Just please, please... Sherlock..."

Sherlock froze, panting slightly, for he himself had come several times with John, just from seeing him reach his climax and cry out his name over and over again. Never letting go of the tip of John's hardness, he started licking the vibrating length.

"Say my name." Lick.

"Sherlock..." John moaned.

Sherlock shivered. This wasn't necessary to bring John over the edge one last time, but he couldn't help it – John's voice was such a turn on for him, he was sure he could come just from hearing it.

"Again." Lick.

"Sherlock..."

"Again!" Suckling.

"AAH! Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock..." This time John had completely lost it and was surrendering wholly. Sherlock could hear it in his voice, feel it in his flesh against his palms, sense it in the tension building and reaching its apex, his whole body stiffening under Sherlock's touch and reacting exactly like Sherlock wanted it to react. This time was the one. Sherlock knew that after this, John would sleep like he'd never slept in his life. Releasing the tip of his penis, he mouthed the entire organ and sucked, bobbing up and down the shaft until John exploded in his mouth, spurting and filling him, almost choking him. Sherlock's eyes filled with tears and he too was hit by his orgasm, but he didn't move back and stayed until the very end, pumping, draining John of his last shreds of energy. Draining him of his tension, of his worry and of his fears, leaving only a sense of contentment and of utmost relaxation. Exhausted, Sherlock fell back onto the mattress next to the trembling body of his partner, swallowing the last of John's come, engraving into his mind its salty bitterness.

Refusing to black out and fall into slumber just yet, he took the key that lay on the bedside table and removed the manacles from John's swollen wrists. His arms were limp and Sherlock smiled, relieved that he'd been right – John was already sleeping deeply. Delicately, he unwrapped the scarf as well and threw it to the side. John's face was red and glistening with sweat, but so relaxed he looked at least ten years younger. Sherlock's eyes widened and he stared, unable to tear his gaze away from his friend. Finally, he shook his head and stood up, went to the bathroom and came back with two towels – a wet one and a dry one.

With the latter he gently mopped his lover's face, then his throat, his arms and torso. He switched to the wet towel for the lower half, and cleaned him so he wouldn't wake up in stickiness. He removed the sheets that were dripping with come and replaced them with the ones he'd spotted earlier in the afternoon in the wardrobe, and had prepared to this effect. Finally, he wrapped John up in a blanket and fell to his side, worn out and dizzy from the exercise his body wasn't used to. He didn't even think of cleaning himself, nor of at least changing to his pyjamas. Instead, he snuggled up to John and buried his face in the blanket he'd wrapped him in, his ear pressed against his chest, looking for something.

When he heard the first beat, his face broke into a childlike smile. Closing his eyes, he allowed sleep to come and get him, lulled and sheltered by the regular beating of John's heart.

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xXx

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tbc