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Chapter 20: Touching
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"That's why they say love is blind."
His voice was deep, his tone mocking – the tone of a cynic. John's hand in his curls pulled the hair gently and curved around the nape of his neck, forcing Sherlock to lock eyes with him.
"And do you think it is? Blind."
Fear and an indefinable anguish flickered in the clear pupils, which blurred – but Sherlock did not avert his gaze. He forced himself to look into the depths of John's irises, to really look, even though their intensity was blinding, their determination dazzling. You give me so much, he thought, quite scared at the fact.
"It blinds you," he finally let out in a whisper, "it blinds you, but it clears my mind. I told you already. You are unbeatable as a conductor of light."
John felt his heart clench at the words, and he hugged his friend tighter. But Sherlock suddenly swooped on him and impaled him with his tongue. John squirmed and moaned under the onslaught, but soon surrendered. Just as he did, though, the detective broke the kiss and fixed his gaze on him, frowning in childish discontent.
"John. I want you to touch me. Touch me."
And as John just lay there, blinking in bewilderment, Sherlock groaned and added demandingly:
"Now."
John stared and observed his friend closely. There was determination in his eyes, but he could see no desire. Frowning, he brought his hands to the pale cheeks and... pinched them, then pulled. He loved the way Sherlock's eyes widened in indignation.
"Whot ore you dchoing?!" he asked, mystified, before he scowled as he heard his own silly voice.
John chuckled and before his partner could protest, pressed his lips to Sherlock's lightly, not intending to tease at all – just giving him the softest of kisses. Sherlock quivered, and when his lips parted, John had a very, very hard time not to give in. Damn you, he thought, but he forced himself not to deepen the kiss. Instead, his lips fell to the dear chin, to the throat, then up the neck to the ear, covering the temple with butterfly kisses. Sherlock frowned under the attack, and glared at his friend through his curls and the never-ending pecks. John smiled.
Sherlock was obviously annoyed, and the fire was back in his darkening pupils. John stopped his ministrations, and stroked his cheek, their faces mere inches apart. Slowly, very gently, his hand fell to the nape of his lover's neck, and he rested his brow on Sherlock's as his fingers started tapping lightly on the soft, soft skin.
It took the detective a few seconds to realize what John was doing – what he was playing. The first notes of Bach's Double Violin Concerto in D minor. It hit him like lightning, and a shiver ran down his spine.
"What are you..."
Stopping in mid-sentence, he was appalled to hear his own voice break into a sob. Pursing his lips in an attempt to stifle it, he became aware that tears were streaking down his face, and he fell back in horror. But John's hand on his nape, never stopping its playing, kept him in place, preventing him from just recoiling out of fear. He could easily shake off the embrace, though, if he truly wished to get rid of John. But he didn't. Especially not when his flatmate was so evidently doing this for him, and not to please himself.
John's other hand came to rest on his chin, and caressed his tight lips until his mouth trembled under the touch and fell apart – just like Sherlock felt himself falling apart. That's not quite true... the voice whispered in his head. He shook it off, but it was right. He hated the feeling, and he didn't even want to think about it; but he was letting John undo him, disentangle the terror and the shame, unravel his whole mind and body through disconcerting sensations. His gestures were puzzling, his touch so perplexing. It terrified and galvanized Sherlock all at once. He craved the tingle to his senses, yet it scared him senseless, and consequently, peeved him to no end, because he hated having to admit that he was scared, and he could hardly convince anyone of the contrary in his current state. Especially not John.
But the doctor was making no comment, only stroking Sherlock's tears away, brow against brow, their noses brushing; his fingers, on the back of Sherlock's head, were still playing the concerto.
Sherlock hated John's gentleness, hated how considerate he was being – he hated it, because it made everything harder, and only hurt more. It was so terribly understanding, so terribly tolerant and sickeningly selfless.
"Do you not want me?"
"You know I do," John whispered back, his voice firm and secure.
"Then why?"
"You know why."
Sherlock shivered and grabbed John's wrist, stopping him from caressing his tears away. Breathing in deeply, he synchronized his respiration with John's pulse, which was not hammering, but rather regular and soothing. Assured.
Hesitantly at first, then more confidently as the music went on, Sherlock started playing the second violin's part on his partner's wrist.
At the silent gesture, at the renewed duet through a movement that could only be received, a music that was to remain unheard, John felt a pain he'd never known. Loving Sherlock physically hurt. John wasn't sure whether it was because it was Sherlock, or whether love was supposed to be painful, and he'd just never found out before.
He was interrupted in his musing by Sherlock's other hand coming to rest on his back, and beginning to tap gingerly on his shoulder blade. It wasn't the concerto, though. John had no idea what it was exactly, but somehow it felt like it held some meaning – like Sherlock was truly telling him something, something more than the music, something...
He froze. Morse code. God, only Sherlock would think of using Morse code in such a situation.
"Only you could be so twistedly poetic," he murmured against his friend's mouth, and was startled to feel it pressed against his own with desperation.
"It's not desperation," Sherlock groaned against his lips, before he resumed kissing him vehemently.
"Then what...?" John sighed, already shivering with sheer want. Sherlock's smirk against him only enhanced the longing.
"You know what, John."
Desire.
Hearing his name sent a jolt of electricity throughout the doctor's body, and he remarked to himself distractedly that there really was no way he could ever belong to anyone but Sherlock. Longing, belonging... This is stupid. A pause. And since when do my thoughts resemble Sherlock's so much?
"Won't you pay attention to my real voice rather than the one you hear in your head, John?"
John jolted.
"Wha–"
"I can see it on your face," Sherlock whispered in an unwittingly (or not so unwittingly?) sultry voice.
"The annoyance?" John suggested playfully.
Sherlock smirked, and John squirmed helplessly. "No, John..." God, stop saying that name. "The infatuation."
"I'm not infatua–"
"Shh. Quiet."
John was about to snap that he wasn't his dog and wouldn't take such condescending orders, but his mind changed as it dilated under the hunger of the kiss they shared. He couldn't help but smile into the embrace. Sherlock felt like an infant – a very demanding, starving infant, who would suckle pitilessly on the breast of his mother. Slowly, very gently, John broke the kiss, all the while keeping Sherlock in a tight embrace, holding him close. His fingers continued to play the concerto on the soft, pale nape of his neck. Sherlock's kept playing his part on John's inner wrist, right against his pulse.
"You said 'Touch me', but you weren't any more specific. I feel like touching you like this, is it all right with you?"
As he spoke, John let his free hand play with Sherlock's earlobe and stroke the soft spot behind it. Sherlock sighed with contentment and nodded.
"It's fine."
But when John started playing with his nose and his cheeks again, he scowled and sent him one of his death glares that looked ridiculously adorable when he was having them with such dishevelled hair and a slight blush on his face. Be it anger or embarrassment, it just made John want to eat him all up.
"When I said 'touch', though, I didn't mean 'play with me, John'."
The doctor smirked, amused.
"Oh, really?"
His fingers danced on the long neck, and made their way to his throat, playing down the shoulder and the arm until they met Sherlock's very own, which had danced up John's arm to his shoulder and were now playing on his chest.
Miffed that he was being beaten at his own game, Sherlock frowned.
"Not the musical playing, John, the–"
"Then be specific," he interrupted. "Tell me what you want."
Sherlock froze and almost missed a note – almost. He blinked, then seemed to consider the different (and very varied) options that were being offered to him. It was extremely difficult, all the more so as he'd set up all this little romantic outdoors 'stroll' only for John's benefit. Even if the doctor himself had never realized it, Sherlock had deduced that 'sex out in the open' was definitely one of his fantasies, and since he still seemed a little upset about not having been able to touch Sherlock the previous night, the consulting detective just thought it would be a good idea to give him the opportunity. Yet here he was, poking his cheeks, pulling them gently, playing with his nose, his earlobes, his curls, tracing his chin and his eyebrows, stroking his lips, as if he were a nice wax figurine, a toy of some kind, and John a five year-old girl.
And now he was even asking to be told what to do? But do whatever you want! Sherlock wanted to shout back. That meant, however, that John would keep playing with his face, while he was engraving the concerto in his skin and soul all over again. Sherlock was at a complete loss as to what to do. A flash of confusion traversed his gaze and he simply said:
"Do whatever you want."
At the words, John felt something sink inside of him.
"Is that what you want?"
Anxious not to say something wrong again, Sherlock just nodded firmly. John sighed.
"All right. That's okay, too. But you must tell me what feels good, and what doesn't. What you like, what you like a lot, and what you don't really enjoy... Can we do that?"
"That's a lot of talking," Sherlock remarked.
John smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"Yes, Sherlock. But we can do a lot of talking, right? I won't manage it in Morse code, though, especially not if I have to concentrate on the concerto too."
"You're doing fine."
T.H.A.N.K. Y.O.U., John tapped in Morse code on the detective's chest.
They exchanged an amused, knowing look. Thank you. That was also what Sherlock had been tapping, repeatedly, until John had noticed. Then he'd stopped, perhaps out of shyness, perhaps out of restraint. Either way, John loved him even more so for the simple sobriety of the gesture.
They were now entering the largo. Perfect timing, John thought. Stroking a lock of hair away from the beautiful white brow, he kissed the temple softly, and rested the bridge of his nose on the side of Sherlock's head, nuzzling and breathing in deeply the intoxicating scent.
"You know, your dreams... nightmares," he corrected.
"Mm?"
John let his left hand roam across Sherlock's chest and caress his arms and shoulders, while his right hand kept playing the Double on his lover's throat very, very gently.
"Well... What are the white ones about?"
Somehow the colour drained even more from Sherlock's face, and his hands became even colder.
"John, I..."
The words failed him, just like everything else. He couldn't possibly answer that the whiteness in his nightmares was pleasure – for what would John think? How could anyone have bad dreams about pleasurable things? Perhaps they weren't so bad, perhaps they were just so intense they wiped away the black and the red and...
"Sherlock. Sherlock! Hey, stay with me, will you?"
Sherlock snorted.
"Not doing so would be quite hard considering our position, don't you think?"
John looked down at him and smiled. True, lying on the grass under him, Sherlock could hardly go anywhere physically. But in that damn head of his... John kissed his eyebrow and caressed his forehead with his own.
"I mean stay here wholly."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John chuckled before rolling onto his side next to his friend, their only contact their fingers, still playing, on each other's wrists, Sherlock's long arm across John's chest. The doctor closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the afternoon sun on his lids and the coolness of his lover's touch against his skin.
"Is your plan getting your body used to the intensity, so that at some point you'll stop feeling so shattered by the waves of pleasure?" John went on, sensing the echo of Sherlock's shiver running down his arm into his hand and into the music he was playing on him.
"No."
John turned his head towards his partner and came face to face with him. He smiled, and kissed his much too tempting nose, which wrinkled under the nettlesome peck.
"Sorry, Sherlock. I love your nose. In fact, I love your face. I think I could spend hours just kissing it. Weird, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," Sherlock concurred strongly, and his insistence was so comical, John couldn't help but giggle like an idiot and kiss him again. But he stopped himself this time, aiming for the lips to put an end to it, and to silence Sherlock's protests. When they parted, he murmured:
"So... no?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"I just want to... learn."
John blinked.
"Learn? Learn what?"
The detective frowned in confusion, obviously looking for the correct words. "How to dance when my senses are shattered. Well, not just the senses I guess... and I don't like metaphors, but... how to make it work, you see? Like an archipelago."
At this, John's eyes turned into saucers.
"An archipelago?" he repeated dumbly.
"Yes. Scattered pieces of land, small islands that shouldn't make sense at all – but that still make a whole somehow, that are linked in some way. To have an energy linking the morsels, that would keep them alive."
"Thank God you don't like metaphors..." John grumbled, not getting a word of what Sherlock was saying. Islands? Energy? Morsels?
Sherlock sighed and rested his brow against his friend's.
"What I mean is that..." His fingers danced up John's arm all the way up to his shoulder and ended on the nape of his neck – John realized this was, for both of them, a very intimate, vulnerable, and consequently erogenous part of their bodies; John loved touching Sherlock there, but the detective himself always seemed to prefer the throat. Naturally, the throat was just as intimate and vulnerable and erogenous, with the jugular vein and the sensitive skin. But for some reason, the symbolic dimension of the nape was much stronger for John. He hadn't thought Sherlock had noticed at all. But for him to play the end of the largo on that specific spot meant so much, and felt so heartbreakingly protective on his part, that John felt himself fall in love all over again.
"What I mean is that I have to explore the sensations, and..." With his other hand, he traced an invisible line traversing John's chest, all the way down to his hipbone. "... I have to explore yours, too. But that's easier. I think I could be perfectly content if I always touched you, and was never touched."
"But you..."
Sherlock gave one of his irresistible Cheshire cat-like grin and replied in a deep voice:
"Oh, I would get off on it, I assure you." His hand fell innocently from John's hipbone to his thigh, then to his crotch, and as the poor doctor squirmed helplessly, Sherlock pressed his own hardness against his leg in silence and chastely kissed him on the cheek
"See? That really wouldn't be a problem."
"But I want to touch you..." John let out in a sigh.
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. That's the problem."
John's eyes snapped open.
"It's not."
The consulting detective, startled to be thus interrupted, arched an inquisitive eyebrow.
"If that is your reason for concern, then I am telling you, it's not a problem. I can live without touching you. Well... maybe we can discuss the hugs at least? Light kisses?"
Sherlock blinked and had to repress a chuckle. John could truly be adorable. He kept his face in check, however, and let him go on.
Since Sherlock wasn't answering, and his expression remained impassible, John swallowed and continued promptly:
"OK, well, we'll see about that, it's fine. As for you touching me, I'll probably get annoyed with it at some point, especially if I can't touch you at all... it will feel a bit like I'm just some toy or stress release doll, so... But I guess we can talk about it."
Sherlock nodded gravely, giggling like crazy inside. John really was something.
As the detective still wasn't saying anything, John misunderstood, and added precipitately:
"Of course, it's perfectly fine if you don't touch me at all either! I can live without sex. Well, perhaps not yet, but I can take care of it myself and... Uhm, Sherlock? Won't you say something?"
"Certainly, John. I was just waiting for you to finish babbling rubbish."
"Babbling rub... What?"
"You didn't let me finish. Although, I think I was quite clear about it." He snuggled up closer, crawling up to John very much like a predator to his prey, until their breaths were mingling. "I want you to touch me. Touch me. Now."
"Oh, you impossible man..."
John rolled both of them to the side so that he ended up on top, and started to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.
"What are you doing?"
"Stripping you."
"Completely?"
"No."
Sherlock pouted – not that he wanted to be stripped completely, mind you, but because John was being bossy again – or motherly, whichever. Same thing.
After the shirt came the trousers, and again Sherlock let John remove the piece of clothing, obedient but not especially helpful either. Not bratty, but rather princely. Of course, the shoes and socks had to go too, or the trousers would have just been stuck at the ankles, and if that would have made for a cute, funny sight, John doubted Sherlock would have appreciated it very much.
Once he was done getting rid of the unwanted pieces of clothing, John stood and admired his work. Sherlock lay sloppily, pearly white against the bright green grass and wild flowers, a frown on his face.
"Seriously, John, what could possibly be arousing about me lying half-naked on the grass?"
John smirked. Everything, you idiot. He went down, straddling him, and retorted:
"Well, for one thing, you're more than just half-naked, love."
"Oh, really? Why do I feel a bit at a disadvantage here, darling?"
"Umm... Perhaps because you are?" John teased as he traced his partner's lips with his thumb, then parted them and slipped his fingers inside gently, caressing the lower lip. Sherlock shivered.
"Is that all right?" the doctor asked, looking his lover in the eye intensely. "How do you like it?"
Sherlock blushed, then scowled... and bit.
"Ouch! You–"
"How am I supposed to answer if you keep your fingers there?" Sherlock pointed out.
John pouted. "You didn't have to–"
"I like it. But you're not going past the teeth."
John blinked in surprise, then smiled.
"Yes, your highness."
He obliged pleasantly, enjoying the way Sherlock slipped the tip of his tongue between his teeth to tickle the intruding fingers. Perfect timing for the allegro to begin, John thought as he stroked the lips goodbye and let his hand fall back to the throat and the neck. He lowered himself and kissed Sherlock lightly on the chin.
"I'm going to go down, now. All right?"
Sherlock bit his earlobe playfully, if a little snappily. "How about I tell you when it's not all right, mm?"
John laughed, and the detective was so surprised by the wholehearted reaction that a candid smile spread across his face.
"Sure," John said.
His hand playing the allegro fell to Sherlock's hipbone, while he wrapped an arm around his waist. Sherlock moaned softly and arched his back as John pressed his fingers into the sensitive spot in the crook of it.
"Good," he whispered in a breath. "It's good."
John chuckled against his partner's chest, and nibbled at a nipple just to test the reaction – which turned out to be a good idea, for Sherlock whined loudly and writhed under the bite.
"Unh..."
"Uhm? Not good?"
Sherlock shivered and pressed John closer to him, unintentionally rubbing their erections against each other. They gasped in unison.
"It's... fine..." Sherlock let out, breathless.
"Just fine?"
"Just... fine..."
His glowing pink cheeks and his now lust-glossed eyes made for a very attractive sight, but John was intent on keeping to the lower parts for now. He played with his hipbone and pelvis, enjoying his partner's moans when he tapped the allegro on the hip joint, which seemed to be a ridiculously sensitive area on Sherlock's body. Gently but quite assuredly, John parted his legs, tracing the music onto the soft white skin of his thigh, and he could positively observe the jolt that it sent straight to his friend's groin.
"Oh. You're liking the thighs, it seems."
"Obviously," Sherlock grumbled.
John smirked, and leant in to kiss him on the nose.
"Won't you stop doing that?" Sherlock exclaimed with annoyance, wrinkling his nose adorably. John grinned.
"Nope."
He jumped, however, when he felt Sherlock's hand – the one that was playing so skilfully the second violin part of the concerto – creep up his right buttock.
"You're not removing any of your clothes," the detective whimpered with a moue that made John melt and beam like an idiot.
"I thought you'd never ask."
"Let me do it."
Soon John was left with nothing on but his boxers. He looked around like an agitated puppy.
"But Sherlock, what if someone comes by?"
"That didn't seem to bother you too much when I was the only one naked."
"Don't be stupid. I'm more concerned about you being seen than me."
Sherlock frowned, not liking this at all. He arched an aristocratic eyebrow.
"And why is that?"
John blushed. Sherlock stared in amazement, for he could not fathom the reason for it at all.
"Isn't it obvious? I just don't want anyone else to see you but me."
They locked eyes, and Sherlock blinked.
"Hum, John... Surely you must realize there is absolutely no way that I will ever let you lock me up in a room away from everybody's eyes?"
"Don't be silly," John retorted as he crawled onto his partner and straddled him again.
He jolted suddenly as Sherlock palmed him out of the blue.
"What the..!"
"It's impressive what extreme reactions we can get from such a small morsel of flesh," Sherlock commented with interest in his matter-of-fact voice.
"Sherl... ah!"
Sherlock removed his hand with a stroke – the last thing he wanted was to upset John. As the doctor played the last notes of the allegro on his partner's torso, playing with his nipples tantalizingly, he was in fact quite glad to see the concerto come to an end: now he would have both his hands free.
"You really test my capacity to concentrate, you know..." John muttered.
"I don't need to test it."
"Right. You're just pushing me over the edge."
Sherlock smiled innocently and tilted his head.
"I know," he replied sweetly, a smirk on his face. John shook his head and pressed the very last note on the nose of his infuriating lover.
"You...!" Sherlock exclaimed with indignation.
But John did not give him enough time to protest. Swooping down on him, he bit down on his throat, very lightly, just enough to leave a mark. This seemed to calm the detective, and for one second John wondered if he'd done something wrong, and if his friend had frozen on the spot again. He looked up worriedly, but Sherlock was smiling down at him in a surprisingly warm way, his face glowing with an uncharacteristic tenderness John had never noticed there before, or had always construed as the genius merely indulging him.
Well, to be fair, perhaps that's exactly the case, he mused quite morosely. But Sherlock seemed to read his thoughts. Ruffling his hair with both fondness and possessiveness, he pulled him down into a kiss which turned out to be of the I-am-going-to-devour-you type. John smiled into the kiss beatifically, and did not even bother feeling stupid about it. He was much too Sherlock-conscious to feel very self-conscious at the moment.
His hands roamed down the beloved chest, stroking the hips and circling the waist, finally lifting Sherlock's back slightly to sneak his hands under his buttocks. He was pressed so close to the detective that he felt the air catch in his throat, and his heart miss a beat. John froze and was about to remove his hands, but Sherlock sat back on them forcefully, and John squealed in painful surprise.
"What... Sherlock, are you all right?"
"You're stuck there now," the detective remarked childishly, the biggest of grins splattered on his ridiculously happy face.
"You idiot! Release me now!"
"What, aren't you enjoying the groping? Well, to be fair, you can't really grope... But I can move, if you'd like."
"Sher..."
He did move, quite efficiently so. John could not believe how stupidly arousing having a man pressing his bum onto the ground in his hands was. Not just any man, though, he stressed mentally, sighing in contentment as he kissed his way down his partner's throat, his whole body pressed to his. That's when he noticed the trembling.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, John."
"You're shaking."
"Your deductive skills never fail to impress me."
"Sherlock."
"I'm not too keen on the... arse, obviously."
Obviously? John thought. Then it hit him. Obviously. God, I'm such an idiot. But he had touched Sherlock there before...
"Precisely. It shouldn't be a problem. I don't... like it, and I don't think I would especially like it even without the trauma."
He was trying to keep his voice in check, John could tell, as if he'd been commenting on the weather.
"Release my hands, Sherlock. I can find other ways to touch you."
Sherlock furrowed his brow, his nose wrinkling like that of a stubborn child, and he shook his head obstinately.
"I do not want any prohibited area on my body, John. Surely you can understand that."
John blinked. Prohibited area? What kind of vocabulary was that?
Since he could not fondle his partner or stroke him in any way, nor kiss him on the lips – John's head was approximately on the level of Sherlock's nipples, with his hands stuck under his buttocks – he decided to nuzzle up against his torso instead, in a surge of affection, and kissed a nipple. Sherlock shivered.
"Actually, I'm not too fond of nipple-teasing either..."
John jumped back.
"What can I do, then?! You're keeping me trapped here and–"
He was interrupted by Sherlock lowering himself and pressing his lips to his promptly, messily, almost missing his mouth and kissing his chin as well.
"You're the one who said I should give you feedback."
"Yes... Yes. You're right. I'm being an asshole. But then again you're being stupid! Just release me now!"
"No."
"Why?"
"...I want it to be your touch."
"What?"
"It's your touch I want to remember."
John felt the words squeeze the air out of his lungs, and freeze the grass and the wild flowers and the tree around them. Then the ice seemed to turn to the most brilliant sparkles and the world melted into colours again, beautiful and alive as water, water dancing around them, and pouring on them, pouring...
"John. John!"
John felt Sherlock's hands on his face, holding it firmly with his palms and thumbs, and they felt incredibly warm all of a sudden, but the image of Sherlock was still peculiarly blurred and...
"You're crying. Why are you crying? What did I say? Did I say anything? John? John, answer me, for goodness' sake!"
"If you release my hands, that'd be great and I could wipe my fa–"
"I can take care of that."
John blinked, disbelieving. But a moment later Sherlock was indeed stroking his tears away very carefully, more methodically than lovingly perhaps. John however, was more than happy with the touch, and wouldn't have traded it for any other, more gentle, maybe more lover-like one. This was Sherlock, and he was touching him artlessly. It was all that mattered.
The tears were soon taken care of, and John wondered since when he'd been the type to cry so easily out of pure shock. Since the one person you ever loved was defiled? a snide voice offered. He stifled it, but it had a point.
Once he'd found his voice again, he rested his head against the beating chest, and said:
"I can find other ways to touch you there. You know, without you actually squashing my hands into the ground?" He tried to sound playful, but failed quite miserably. Sherlock was stroking his hair, caressing the nape of his neck, and John felt very much like he was the one being consoled here, which really wasn't right. But perhaps that was what Sherlock needed. Not to be comforted, but to comfort. John still did not like it.
"You seemed to like it quite a lot before you noticed I was trembling," Sherlock remarked smoothly.
"Yes, well. You do realize that's quite a turn-off."
Sherlock stiffened.
"Oh, don't be stupid!" John exclaimed. "Not you trembling in general, or you doing anything in general, just... you, not liking it, lying there not saying a word about it, and me not even aware of it until... Just... You do understand, right?"
Sherlock gave a small, silent nod.
"I love you," John said suddenly, and he kissed Sherlock's chest, avoiding the nipples.
The detective gave a somewhat pained smile.
"I said no prohibited area. And nipple-teasing is pleasurable. I just don't like it because... I just don't like it."
John frowned. There was definitely something there.
"Because?"
"Nothing. It's irrelevant. Here. I'm releasing you." Then in a quieter voice, almost hesitantly, as if he were wondering whether he was entitled to say this again or not: "Touch me?"
"Sherlock..."
"I have to say it is getting quite painful."
"...What?"
Sherlock stared.
"Oh. Right. Sorry, I..."
"I am well aware that you are much more experienced in this John, but you must realize that the whole concerto plus our discussion is a very long time for me to feel you right on me. I'm quite surprised I haven't come yet."
"Well, first of all, let's get rid of this," John offered with an apologetic smile, removing the boxers. Sherlock blushed and looked away. Being entirely naked out of the flat, in the middle of nowhere, on the grass, was definitely not one of Sherlock's turn-ons. But the look of utter bliss on John's face, of mirth and marvel, was worth it a thousand times. He looked like a child at Christmas. Or perhaps like a puppy awaiting a treat, Sherlock added mentally. Either way, his whole behaviour made up for the situation, and so Sherlock forgave him how uncomfortable the ground under him and the grass and flowers against his skin were (Sherlock decided he would probably prefer either very rough surfaces, or very smooth and enveloping ones... grass and the earth under it were just sneaky and unpleasant to the touch; very nice to look at, but he would not repeat the experience, except for John).
The air felt surprisingly cold around his hard member, and Sherlock looked down at it to see if anything was wrong. His eyes widened when he saw John kneeling between his spread legs, his face mere inches away from his penis. He stared for a second, the second it took for his brain to send the explosive signal throughout his entire body, and he burst with a moan, which soon turned into a cry when he felt John mouth him as he was coming.
"No... please... don't...aah!"
He tried to push him away but was already too far gone for his moves to be coordinated in any way, and so only managed a very weak – and failed – attempt. John was so engrossed in his own task that he did not even hear the plea, and only concentrated on heightening his partner's pleasure and awareness of it, holding his hand as he was giving him his first blow job – hell, as he was giving his first blow job! – caressing his thigh softly (for he had noticed that the thigh, and the inner thigh especially, did not elicit any shaking, but on the contrary, quite satisfied, non-traumatized responses). If he could link the buttocks to the thigh somehow in Sherlock's mind so as to make him feel them as part of a pleasurable whole, perhaps that could do the trick.
John found that the taste of sperm was not as bad as he'd thought at first. Because quite frankly, he'd expected it to be awful. Nor did he expect that he would enjoy sucking someone's cock: just the idea of putting a penis into his mouth was enough to make him go green and sick to the stomach. The thought was absurd, but more than that, it disgusted him (although he never had any problem having his sucked and fondled and taken care of, mind you). But as ridiculous as it sounded, this was Sherlock, and it made all the difference.
If he had had any lingering doubts until now, this could not leave even the trace of any: he was helplessly, desperately, irreversibly in love with the git. There was no other way he could actually do this. There was no other way he could enjoy it. Because he was enjoying it, quite immensely. He loved the way Sherlock was powerless in his mouth, squirming helplessly under him, moaning and thrashing and screaming his pleasure, and John was here holding the most importance piece of the whole, the key, so to speak, that could still elicit one more cry, one more shiver, send another unexpected wave of ecstasy through the body already racked with spasms of pleasure. He loved the sense of power it gave him, of authority over Sherlock – he was complete master of his release, and it felt amazing. He could positively feel inside his mouth, against his tongue, that he was enhancing his partner's pleasure tenfold, and that must be one of the best feelings in the world for a lover to get.
When it stopped, and Sherlock finally became limp in his mouth, John slowly, very gently let go of his soft member, always holding his hand, always caressing his thigh, now in a soothing, non-arousing way. Sherlock seemed too utterly relaxed to get excited again, for now anyway. His breathing, however, was erratic, and so John crawled up to him and rested his head on his own arm to look down at his face and see his expression.
He looked simultaneously mortified, touched, and terribly confused.
"You... you just..."
John ran a hand through the black curls fondly and kissed his sweaty brow.
"I what?"
"You didn't have to do that."
John felt very cold suddenly, and wondered if Sherlock had enjoyed it at all.
"I'm sorry, I should've asked, I..."
"No! I... I liked it... no, more than that... It was good... very good..."
He was almost purring, but soon seemed to come back to his senses, and panicked again.
"But you can't possibly have enjoyed it!"
"What?"
"You're straight, John. You can't possibly like penises and breast-less chests and..."
"Wait, wait, wait... stop, Sherlock. Stop right there." John petted his lover's head, calming him. So that's where the problem with the nipples comes from, he thought.
Sherlock fell quiet, pursing his lips like a sullen child who has just been scolded by his mother – revolted, but scared.
"I would be terrified by a breast-less woman with a penis, if that's what you're saying. But in case you haven't noticed, you're a man."
"Exactly!" Sherlock concurred, as if that was the heart of the issue. And perhaps it was.
John kissed him on the nose because he was just too damned cute for his own good.
"Will you stop this? I'm trying to have a serious conversation here!"
"Yes. Then tell me, genius, why in the world would I give you a blow job if I did not feel like it? As you can observe, there is no weapon being directed at me. Nor at you."
Sherlock swallowed, and nodded.
"But–"
"Shh. Yes, I'm straight, I'm quite aware, thank you. Though I'm sure I would have a hard time convincing anyone who'd burst in on us right now."
Sherlock smirked.
"But think about it for a second."
At this, Sherlock frowned, offended. You think I don't think?
"Would you handcuff Lestrade to a bedpost and do to him what you did for me last night?"
Sherlock's eyes widened in horror.
"No! God, no!"
"Right. Well, as much as I like the guy, I would never in my whole life be able to give him a blow job without being sick. And I am not saying he's disgusting or anything – he is, in fact, quite good-looking."
John missed Sherlock's displeased pout at the comment, and went on.
"I'm just not attracted to men."
"I'm not sure how I'm supposed to take that."
Their gazes met, and they broke into a fit of giggles as they looked away.
"I hate grass. And I hate wild flowers," Sherlock whined.
"Aw, you poor thing..."
"You...! Oh."
The widest grin spread to Sherlock's glowing face. John didn't like that face. At all.
"Oh, don't lie, darling. We both know you love it."
Sherlock swiftly tripped John and brought him back down into his arms, pinning him to the ground before he could put any clothes on.
"How about you have a taste of the grass and lovely flowers on your skin, mh?"
"Mmh... Is that all I'll get to taste?" John teased, playing happily with Sherlock's earlobe.
The detective smirked.
"Oh yes."
xXx
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tbc