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Chapter 17: Trembling

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When John woke up in the morning, he couldn't remember having ever slept so deeply and so refreshingly in his entire life. The soft morning sun rays were piercing through the windowpane, as the curtains hadn't been pulled, and filled the large, white room with a golden honey light. John felt surrounded by warmth and smoothness, and thought for a second that he was back in childhood, lulled with a sense of joyful trust and safety. Then he remembered that his childhood hadn't exactly been so ingenuous, and that he hadn't felt so right and home since he'd met...

His eyes snapped open. Sherlock. The warmth was emanating from his curled up body pressed against John, only separated by the blanket the doctor was wrapped in. And when did that happen? From his viewpoint, John could only see the mop of black hair, and the tip of Sherlock's nose pointing out from under it, brushing against John's hand as the detective squirmed a little, moaning softly. A nightmare.

It all came back to John at once. His cheeks turned crimson and he groaned, burying his head back into the pillow. He seriously had no idea how he could face his friend ever again. The previous night only appeared to him in a blur – but he knew he'd turned into a babbling, begging mess and had never acted so shamelessly. He could still hear his own wanton, pleading voice crying out and chanting Sherlock's name. Sherlock. John was positively amazed by his flatmate's unexpected skills. But again, it was Sherlock : the devious bastard was probably gifted in everything he did. Except socializing, John amended, a smile spreading on his face as he caressed the smooth skin of his lover's cheek, invisible under the abounding black curls. Sherlock shivered and almost recoiled. John snuggled up closer and slipped a hand behind his head, cupping the nape of his neck, delicately massaging the base of his scalp while his thumb stroked his ear and played with the earlobe in a tender, soothing way.

He could now see partly the face of his infuriating partner, and felt the urge to smother him with kisses until he woke up in indignation. He won't like this, John thought. But the sleeping face was so peaceful and so damn appealing that he couldn't stop himself. Just one kiss. Carefully avoiding the lips for fear of wanting more, John leant in and kissed Sherlock's nose, which wrinkled comically under the touch. Chuckling quietly, John repeated the gesture, this time eliciting an adorable frown from his lover, and he was doomed. It was too late. Now he wanted to see the pout and the scowl, to hear the groan and the whine, and to stifle the protest that was sure to come under a shower of kisses.

John assailed the left temple first, loving the awaited pout; he continued on to the right cheekbone, then before he could stop himself he kissed the wing of the wrinkled nose as well. The tempting scowl came (and God, was there anyone else on the surface of the earth who could manage to be tempting with a scowl?), then the groan when John kissed the twitching eyebrow, and the whine when he teased the corner of the mouth. Sherlock grumbled something incomprehensible and was about to roll onto his other side – John had to act fast. And so he suddenly swooped down on the sleuth as he was turning and smothered his deliciously disgruntled face with relentless kisses. Sherlock stirred, then groggily shook his head in annoyance, and finally opened half-sleepy eyes already filled with daggers. Their pupils locked and John froze, his own face automatically lighting up as he engraved the image of a drowsy, dishevelled, pouting Sherlock in bed. The doctor's lips curved up and his fond gaze sparkled with jest and mirth.

"Hello, sunshine," he said with a grin before kissing the waking man gently on the mouth. Sherlock's lips parted in surprise and John swallowed the expected protest, his hand running up the scalp swiftly, relishing the curls and the beloved head, teasing the ear. They parted and stared at each other – John, beguiled by the very light blush spreading on the pale cheekbones, Sherlock, noticing his friend's reaction, and already giving the hint of a smirk.

"Don't be so ironic first thing in the morning, John."

"I wasn't being ir–"

"Then that's even worse. Sunshine?"

Sherlock's mumble and his lingering scowl were just too much and John couldn't resist. Before he knew it, he found himself kissing the irresistible moue over and over again, until Sherlock got tired of it and sneaked a devious hand between his naked partner's legs. John yelped and fell onto the detective, interrupted in his onslaught. When Sherlock's hand fondled his groin, he moaned and buried his face in the crook of his now clearly smirking lover's neck.

"Sherl...nngh!"

"Mm? You're not being very articulate, John."

"Shut up, you... ah!"

John shut his eyes and clenched his teeth with determination. He'd humiliated himself enough the previous night, and absolutely refused to make any more of those lewd noises. Sherlock kissed his throat and pinched it slightly with his teeth, nibbling his way down from behind the ear.

"But I like the noises you make," he murmured, his tone titillating.

John suddenly moved back and Sherlock was so puzzled he let go of him, turning a disoriented and inquisitive look towards him. John saw the panic and the fear in the fair irises, and pressed himself closer to his friend in an attempt to assuage him.

John remained silent for a few seconds, groping for words, not sure where to begin. Finally, he said:

"Thank you. I can't remember ever sleeping so well. You really are amazing."

Sherlock's pupils were no longer comatose, and they sharpened as he studied John closely, observing every sign.

"But?" he asked, trying to prevent worry and most of all this detestable sense of insecurity from filling his voice.

John wrapped his arms around him, and Sherlock squirmed.

"Wait, you're clean but I'm still..."

"Shh. Just listen to me. Please."

Sherlock froze, suddenly terrified that he'd done something irreparable. His face was blank, but he thought he felt his heart miss a beat. John took a deep breath.

"Please promise me you'll never do it again."

Sherlock's pupils blurred, and he no longer bothered to hide the fear.

"What did I do wrong?" he asked precipitately.

"Hey, calm down. You did nothing wrong."

"But then why..." He frowned. "You loved it. I know you did."

John felt his face burn up and averted his gaze.

"That's not the issue here."

"Then what's the issue?" Sherlock insisted, irritation now piercing in his troubled tone.

John laced his fingers with his, trying to convey that this did not jeopardize what they had – that no matter what, he could never lead a life without him in it.

"You didn't let me do anything for you," he murmured. Sherlock's lips quivered, but his eyebrow twitched in annoyance.

"I came almost as many times as you did, you know," he admitted reluctantly.

"That's not... wait, you did?" John blushed, a silly grin spreading on his face. Sherlock's gaze turned cold.

"You didn't notice? I must not have been so bad, then..."

"Sherlock–"

"Tell me. Just tell me where I went wrong."

"You handcuffed me."

"And you loved it."

John swallowed his pride, and nodded firmly, the military courage back in his eyes.

"I did. But I couldn't touch you."

"Brilliant deduction, John–"

"No, listen. Just listen to me, for once."

John missed the flash of hurt in Sherlock's eyes at the words and went on.

"I couldn't touch you, couldn't see you – I was completely powerless. And you're right. It did excite me – a lot." He chuckled a little nervously. "Denying it now would be absurd. But Sherlock... still, I can't approve of it. Do you realize the meaning of what you did?"

Sherlock felt a shiver run down his spine and the bitterness of panic fill his throat, threatening to choke him. His gaze wavered. Seeing that he was misunderstanding his words – again – John quickly answered his own question.

"You thought that the best thing for me was to spend time away from you."

Sherlock blinked, twice, and still did not understand. He remained quiet, for fear of not saying the right words, not asking the right questions – for fear of being himself, and as always, messing up the whole situation. He really wasn't very delicate about these things.

But his puzzled look betrayed him nonetheless, so John went on, explaining.

"Not seeing you, not being able to touch you, to hold you... Don't you see? Then you wore me down until I passed out so I would spend at least a few hours relaxing by not thinking about you..."

"But John, I–"

"You were right by my side, I know. But I can't concur with this way of thinking. Please promise me you won't do it again."

"What, John?" Sherlock finally snapped. "The manacles? The blindfold? The massage? The lavender oil, the shiatsu, the repeated and forced ejaculations, the biting, the kissing, the touch..."

"Hey, hey, hey... Sherlock! Look at me. Here."

John cupped the trembling face lost in anger and confusion, and looked his partner in the eye.

"I. Love. You. I don't know how to say it, in what language you'd understand the concept – I want you to do all those things to me."

Sherlock tried to get away, to escape the unwavering, assured gaze of his friend and lover. It really frightened him. What if he could never answer the confession? He just couldn't get it. The "love" he knew was one that led desperate people to murder, that was passionate and destructive and dangerous. Or something warm and fuzzy and mollifying that made you weak and dumb. But what Sherlock had with John wasn't the love he encountered in cases, nor the one he could research on Google – there were no clues, no bearings whatsoever. It was new and exciting. It was new, and terrifying.

Suddenly Sherlock realized John had stopped talking and was observing him. He blinked, then blushed, and babbled an excuse for having disconnected from reality. Unwittingly pressing John's hand, he tried to find the words, frowning almost comically, like a child concentrating on an unsolvable problem. When he tried to take the situation in hand, it obviously didn't work, if John wasn't pleased with the result...

"I am pleased."

Sherlock gaped. John smiled and kissed him.

"You were being obvious."

"I had to use the handcuffs," Sherlock abruptly said, "or you wouldn't have listened. Or is it that you can't trust me? You think I'm still too fragile to handle this and you..."

"No," John cut in, his tone categoric. He turned crimson. "Obviously you handled it very well." Then, in a smaller voice: "But you didn't need the handcuffs..."

Sherlock's eyes widened, his pupils dilating. The unspoken words sent a jolt straight to his groin and he groaned. Taking John by the elbow, he pressed him closer and kissed his brow, then his temple, his ear, the sweet spot behind it, his neck and collarbone, hands roaming and groping. John jolted and moaned, fidgeting.

"Sherlock... I am trying to have a proper conversation here!"

"Then stop being so alluring," the detective retorted grumpily. But he sounded more confident now. "I can't promise anything." He bit the earlobe and licked the sensitive skin behind it before John could protest. "You liked it. And you needed the undisturbed sleep."

"But..."

Sherlock silenced him with one of his drilling kisses that left John panting and squirming for more. He suddenly realized that Sherlock was still clothed, and felt utterly vulnerable and exposed, naked in his arms. He could not even retaliate against his lover's attacks. Well, nothing new under the sun.

"I got it. It isn't the means you didn't like, but the intention behind it. Still, I can't promise anything. Sometimes you'll need to 'get some air', as you put it."

His deep voice made John shiver and his pelvis bucked of its own accord, pressing his crotch to the other man's thigh. Sherlock chuckled in his hair, kissing the top of his head and nuzzling as he caressed his back and buttocks, eliciting very effective moans from the ex-soldier. Sherlock leant in until his mouth was but an inch away from his friend's ear and whispered:

"John. Won't you let me service you in those times?"

This was the last straw and Sherlock knew it – he smirked as John moaned loudly, arching his back when the sleuth's hand came back upon his genitals, teasing and stroking.

"Please Sherl.. aah! Not ag..."

Sherlock kissed his way down the well-defined torso to the dark nipples that were already sticking out, his hand never ceasing its ministrations on John's groin.

"You can't go down to breakfast like this," he teased.

"But I... ah! … can take care of it myself!"

John struggled weakly, more perfunctorily than really trying.

He lowered himself until he could snuggle up to Sherlock's chest and sneaked a hand into his trousers, biting a nipple through the fabric and grabbing his shaft. Sherlock started, then froze completely. This snapped John out of his voluptuous confusion and he pulled his hand back when he saw his partner was trembling.

"I'm sor..."

But he was interrupted by Sherlock's hand catching his and bringing it back to his soft member. Shutting his eyes tightly in an attempt to stop the trembling, Sherlock let out in a whisper:

"It's fine. Please do whatever you want."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, outraged and horrified by his expression and his words.

"I said it's fine!"

"No, it is not!"

They glared at each other heatedly, their faces mere inches apart – hands struggling against each other, one trying to pull away, and the other pulling it back.

"Sherlock, stop this! Do you seriously think I could stop wanting you if you refused me?"

"Yes!"

The word had slipped out before Sherlock even realized it, and when he did it was too late. He paled, and his grip on John's hand slackened enough for the doctor to pull it out and wrap his arms around the long, petrified body, embracing it tightly.

"You're an idiot, Sherlock, such an idiot..."

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled back, and John chuckled into his curls.

"Kiss me, you big idiot."

Sherlock grumbled sullenly, but complied, biting the doctor's bottom lip, making him gasp – teasing the inside of his mouth, crowding him until he was wiggling helplessly under him.

"You asked for it," Sherlock pointed out in a mumble, and he was so endearing John kissed him again, and again, and again, wondering how he could ever stop wanting the maddening man. If you're uncomfortable with me touching you, then...

"Sherlock?"

"Um?"

"Please... touch me?"

A genuine smile graced the detective's lips, his face filling with a peculiar mix of candid innocence and domineering playfulness. John hummed softly as he was kissed again, enjoying the waves of pleasure washing over him, revelling in how bonded he felt to the brilliant, insufferable man in his arms. He still felt somewhat awkward about being so submissive, but if that was what it took to reaffirm his partner's self-confidence, John would commit to it without the trace of a doubt. He trusted Sherlock with his life. There was no reason he should not trust him with his body. Well, actually... He started giggling like an idiot, remembering the jam and the belt and the perverted shiatsu – Sherlock was experimenting, and there was no telling what he would do next.

"What are you giggling about?" Sherlock asked, sounding offended – and his tone made John laugh even more.

"It's just that.. aah! Ha ha... you're such.. ah... a susceptible twat..."

Frowning, Sherlock intensified his caresses on his lover's most intimate parts, enjoying the way he could gradually deprive him of his sense and of his speech.

"You... really are... you daydream when we... but if I... nnh... Sherlock!" What was intended as a reproach came out as a plea, and John felt his blush deepen. But the fire burning in his cheeks got even worse when the detective leant in and murmured in his ear, his voice low and vibrant, yet childlike in its tentativeness:

"John... please touch me too."

John groaned and pulled Sherlock closer to him, inhaling his exhilarating scent, pressing their torsos closely. He slipped his hand back into the trousers, slowly, observing his friend's reactions attentively. Sherlock blushed, shut his eyes, and while his devious fingers were sending John to the seventh heaven, he snuggled up to him like a lost, frightened child... or so John thought, until he felt the bite on the side of his throat.

He smiled fondly. He had noticed already that Sherlock was very... mouthy, so to speak. He did incredible things with his lips, tongue and teeth, and there was something feral and raw in his way of tasting. John was getting used to the dear mouth, and could now tell the difference between the submit-to-me-and-be-a-good-boy bites and the I'm-scared-please-hold-me ones. OK, so maybe Sherlock wouldn't have formulated it that way, but John took it for what it was: a way to reassure himself, and to get a hold on something – like a frightened cat reacting to a hug with teeth and claws. But Sherlock could have got away, and he didn't. John kissed his temple and his brow, kissed the curls and the reddened ear, as his hand began regular strokes on his lover's shaft, enjoying how it hardened to the touch.

So they stroked and fondled, kissed and bit in a concert of quiet gasps and stifled moans, until they felt they were going to burst and, pressing their faces even closer, drank their name on each other's lips, orgasm hitting them like a Flood of blinding white light.

When they finally came to, John chuckled and remarked:

"You turn me into a teenager all over again."

Sherlock furrowed his brow adorably, and wondered what kind of teenager John could have possibly been.

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xXx

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tbc