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Chapter 21: Gentling

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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."

John pouted, not expecting that sort of answer.

"Yes?" he repeated.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed with a grin as he leant in to kiss him. John beamed smugly.

"That didn't taste very grass-like to me," he remarked when they parted, his tone playful.

This time, Sherlock frowned and let his hand fall deviously to his partner's exposed groin, fondling and pinching his thighs.

"Ah! Sherl... ngh... Please... If you do something like last night again, you're going to kill me."

"That's a nice kind of death, though, isn't it?" the detective commented with a sly smile.

"Sherlock, I... ha! I'm serious. Be more gentle, I don't want to pass out again."

"You wouldn't pass out," Sherlock argued with a scowl, "It's not like we have hours this time."

"Sherlock."

"Fine, fine... Gentle, then."

He stared at his hands and at his friend's crotch for a moment, pensive. After a while, John wondered what was wrong and looked up at him questioningly.

"Sherlock, by gentle I didn't mean 'Stop touching me altogether'."

"Quiet, John," he retorted, ignoring the indignant scoff of his flatmate. "I'm thinking."

"You're... What? You're thinking? About the case? Now?" John was so miffed he was at a loss for words. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Not about the case, John. About you."

John blinked, confused.

"You're thinking about me," he reformulated, incomprehension in his voice. "I'm lying naked before you and you're thinking about me?"

"Shut up," Sherlock grumbled, looking away as a very slight blush crept up his cheeks. John watched in fascination. "You never asked for gentle! How can you expect me to give you what you want right away?"

John's eyes widened and he missed a heartbeat. A silly giggle escaped his lips and in a surge of sheer mirth he wrapped his arms around Sherlock, brought him down to him again and smothered him with kisses as they rolled on the grass.

"John! What the.. hmpff! What are you do–"

But the smaller man didn't let him finish, and kept kissing him until Sherlock had clearly had enough and was ready to walk away there and then, leaving his stupid – and very naked – lover behind.

"Will you stop this?!"

"How can you expect me to give you what you want when you're being so damn adorable?" John teased with a wide grin. Sherlock snorted.

"Fine. Have it your way. You're the one with the erection, after all."

"Oh come on, don't be a twat."

"No, no, really, I don't see why I should waste my time giving it so much thought if you're just happy frolicking around," Sherlock continued obstinately.

John gave him a sullen moue, but shrugged.

"Fine. Let's get dressed and return to the house, then."

"You're going to walk back with a hard-on?"

"Not like it never happened before," John said off-handedly as he groped for his clothes. A flash of insecurity traversed Sherlock's eyes, and he looked away. He did not move, though, and just sat there, bare and absent-minded.

"Sherlock? Are you not putting your clothes back on?"

Sherlock heard the words, but they just passed across his mind without him registering. What came out next from his mouth was less than a whisper:

"I'm sorry."

John froze, unsure whether he'd heard correctly or not.

"What?"

"I can't be as good as anyone else."

"You... No, no, no, wait!"

Discarding the clothes he was holding, John fell to his knees and grabbed his friend's shoulders, forcing him to look up at him.

"Hey. You keep saying idiotic things, you know."

"Why, thank you, John, I feel much better now."

John chuckled softly and kissed his lover's brow.

"What do you find so funny?" Sherlock protested. Then, in a quieter voice: "Am I really that laughable?"

At the question, John's face became grave all at once, and he fixed his gaze, clear and straightforward, on Sherlock's darkened pupils.

"You're not laughable. Never. Your movements are always swift and graceful, your gait just makes people want to follow you, and..."

"I meant during sex, John," Sherlock cut in. Obviously, suggested his annoyed, yet somewhat lost voice.

"During sex? You're anything but laughable. You're refreshing and endearing and so bloody talented it's unfair, but..."

"I'm not talented," the other man mumbled, regretting that there was no pillow around to bury his face into. He really hated this type of conversation, but knew it couldn't be avoided, if he wanted this to work with John. And he did want it to work, desperately.

"Will you stop interrupting and let me finish my sentences? Inexperienced doesn't mean untalented! Surely you know that."

I do, Sherlock mused darkly, but I still can't shake it off... The lack of confidence. Never in his life had he truly faced such an unpleasant feeling. The doubt he'd felt during the case of the Baskerville Hound was entirely different: right now his senses were perfectly fine, if assaulted by never-ending waves of new sensations. But he was learning to deal with that. What he really couldn't get rid of, though, was the fear. He did not feel in control of the situation with John anymore.

John was no longer just a friend, and Sherlock already had a hard time believing people could remain best friends until they died. But lovers? They'd have to die very young, then: Sherlock knew nothing more fickle than love. When John said "I love you", it was all at once reassuring and disquieting; very satisfying, yet a source of concern. How long? Sherlock always thought. How long will you keep saying that? He had calculated that considering their lifestyle, their life expectancy wouldn't be great, and at best, they would have about thirty years to live. Thirty years. It wasn't that long, without context, but as far as relationships were concerned? Would John seriously need him for thirty years? Right now, Sherlock knew he was what the ex-soldier most needed – someone to take care of, someone to admire, someone who would provide him with the much desired thrill and 'adventures' that he craved. But in one year? In ten years? John would be in his fifties already. Would he still bother with chases and life-threatening situations? And what about family? Sherlock certainly couldn't give him that. If John stayed with him, he would never get to be a father.

So the consulting detective knew that the chances were high that John would leave him within the next five years. It wasn't so bad, he thought. Still, he would rather have remained a virgin for his whole life, and kept John as a friend for thirty years. As it was, either they retained the bond they had now, as the closest two men could be – best friends, or whatever people called it – or they lost everything. Even if Sherlock had never been concerned with such things, he was well aware that people who slept together and 'broke up' didn't usually remain friends. Not close friends, anyway. And John would move out. Sherlock would be alone again.

Suddenly, he realized he'd been silent for quite a while, and John had been observing him intently. He blushed, averted his gaze, muttered something incomprehensible... and then decided it was a good time to make a run for it.

But he still didn't have any clothes on. He groaned. Why do I have to be naked every time I want to get away?

"Don't even think about it," John deadpanned, cutting off his thoughts. "Tell me what you were thinking about just now."

"A gentle way to touch you," Sherlock replied smoothly. So you'll get addicted to my touch and stay. What he trusted the least was the chemistry of the body. He knew John would probably always be willing to give his own life up for him, because he was a true hero and a true friend. But to keep on living with him was something else entirely. If he could just get John's body addicted to his – his hands, his mouth, his curls, whatever John liked – then he was more likely to settle in Baker Street indefinitely.

"That's not all, though, is it?" John insisted, snapping Sherlock out of his musings again. The detective mentally frowned. Damn. You're getting better at this.

"A gentle touch that you would enjoy," he developed. This time, he must have sounded convincing, for his friend seemed persuaded and didn't press any further.

"It's okay if you're not gentle. Just do whatever you'd like, but warn me first."

Sherlock scowled.

"You think I can't be gentle?"

"That's not what I'm saying!"

"Fine. Just lie back."

Rolling them the other way, Sherlock turned around so he was on top, and stroked his partner's throat.

"I'll be gentle," he said, and John couldn't repress a deep shade of crimson filling his face as he squirmed in uneasiness.

"But you have to look me in the eye the whole time," Sherlock added with a sweet, sweet smile that never bode well. John moaned as a shiver ran down his spine, and was mortified to hear how yearning he sounded already.

"You don't have to give me verbal feedback, since I'll be watching you closely..." Sherlock trailed off, revelling in the expected groan his remark elicited from his lover, "...but you must let it all out. You're not allowed to hold anything back. Understood?"

John furrowed his brow.

"You can't possibly ask this of me!"

"But I do," Sherlock retorted seriously. "That's the deal. Take it or leave it."

"Why?" John inquired, curious to hear the reason behind such determination.

"Because I need to know if you like it or not; how much you like it, or how much you hate it... Words are always deceitful in some way if you formulate them in your mind first, as is usually the case."

He caressed John's hip down to the buttock and came back to knead his inner thigh, which made John jump a little and arch his back, unwittingly wanton. Sherlock smiled.

"But your reactions, the noises you make, your facial expressions... Those are much more trustworthy. They are direct feedback. Don't take it away from me by being stupid and repressing it."

"I... aah!" John bit his lip violently, and Sherlock glared.

"I said no holding back."

"You're not being gentle!"

"Yes I am," Sherlock answered, truly surprised that John wasn't finding his touch gentle. "Look, I'm being very gentle."

He was right. All he was doing was stroking and fondling and his kisses were light and soft. But the places upon which he decided to bestow them were all of John's most erogenous spots.

"You devil... This is torture!"

"A sweet one, though?" Sherlock inquired innocently, hiding a crooked smile.

"Aah! It's... torture nonetheless... Sherlock! More..."

Sherlock chuckled and kissed John's brow.

"You're not making much sense, John."

"Stop saying my name," he moaned back, wiggling under him in a – failed – attempt at cutting short the teasing.

"Why? I like your name... John."

"Sherlock!"

"Mmh, definitely keep saying mine," Sherlock nodded in contentment.

As he held John's pulsing member in his palm, stopping his strokes and just holding him, feeling him beat against his hand, Sherlock stared in wonder.

"John?"

"What?" John gasped, out of breath because of the palming.

"Um. Well, you know... It's... good. No, it's... kind of you to..."

"Sherlock, to the point!" John cried out, hardly able to take it anymore, because just knowing that what he could feel around him was Sherlock's hand was almost enough to push him over the edge.

"I like it. Holding you."

At the words, John's eyes snapped open and he glanced at his friend, then at his hand, and back at his face.

"I could do anything to you right now," Sherlock went on. "Anything at all."

He stroked the quivering length and John whimpered.

"Please..."

"I don't know how you can trust me. I don't know how you ended up trusting me, of all people, with this. You're very weird, John."

"Look who's talking," the doctor groaned back.

Sherlock fondled his balls and circled the bottom of his shaft, slowly moving up, like John had taught him to do the first time he had masturbated. He found that performing it on someone else – on John – gave him a lot more pleasure.

"I want you," he blurted out before thinking. Then he blinked in horror as he realized what he'd just said.

John also stared, nonplussed, before his face broke into the most luminous grin Sherlock had ever seen on him.

"That's lucky. I just happen to want you too. Badly, I must say."

"Do you prefer the base, or the tip?" Sherlock asked rather precipitately, just to move on. He rubbed both places one after the other to observe John's reactions. "The tip, then," he concluded as the latter elicited a moan, then a wail, from his writhing partner.

"Sherlock, please..."

"Shh." He petted his hair soothingly, and John couldn't believe the way he managed to mingle gentleness and complete dominance over him so skilfully. "Won't you just relax? You're enjoying this, right?"

"Can't you tell?" John mumbled, averting his gaze.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "John. Your eyes."

Soon the two glaring pupils were back on him as John glowered, sweating, his cheeks red. Sherlock thought he had never seen anything as endearing. He pinned him with his gaze, and relished the shiver it sent through his lover's body.

"Oh. Interesting."

"What? What is?" John babbled.

Sherlock leant in closer, searching his eyes.

"Do you realize what I can do to your body with my eyes? Just my eyes?"

"You... Oh, I'm never going to hear the end of this."

"Look at me, John."

"I am looking at you!"

"Good?"

"Uh?"

"Is it good?"

"God, Sherlock, it's... aah! More than good..."

Suddenly, something occurred to the taller man, and he frowned.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Were you like this with your girlfriends too?"

"...What?"

"Did you have the same reactions? ...Did you make the same noises?"

John groaned and brought his hands to Sherlock's to stop his moves.

"What the hell?"

"I was just wondering!" Sherlock protested.

"Wondering? Sherlock, look..."

"Never mind."

"No, listen! You ask questions, so listen to the answers!"

"Yes, mother..."

"...You can't call me that when you're holding my– "

"Fine! Just answer!"

"No!"

"But you just–"

"I mean, the answer is no!"

Since he couldn't look away in embarrassment, John decided to harden his glare, which only resulted in exciting Sherlock even more.

"No?"

"No! I always top with a woman, so I don't squirm and I don't babble and I don't–"

"Good," Sherlock interrupted before pressing his smiling lips to John's softly at first, light enough to start with, but getting more and more gentle, so gentle in fact that it got increasingly lascivious until their embrace was so sweetly lewd John felt he wouldn't hold on for much longer.

Sherlock must have understood his signal, for he broke the kiss and murmured against his mouth, so close that his words felt like a caress, and not a mere brushing:

"You feel my hands, John?"

"Ngh..." was all John could manage as an answer.

Sherlock smirked, and in his low baritone voice, ordered:

"Then move in my palm and make yourself come."

John moaned loudly at the command, but Sherlock's voice was so compelling, his touch so taunting, he could no longer take it and complied. Bucking his hips, thrashing and thrusting his pelvis up frenetically, he arched his back and cried out as he fell into rapture, the ecstasy blinding him – and yet he just couldn't get enough and kept thrusting and thrusting, wriggling his hips and dragging Sherlock down into a bruising kiss. He gasped as Sherlock bit down on his lower lip and kept dancing in his arms, too far gone by now to realize how debauched he looked. He wailed and writhed and pounded against the taunting palm until he'd ridden out his orgasm, and fell back limply onto the earth.

Sherlock held his head up so it wouldn't hit the ground, and John nuzzled up to him automatically, aching for the feel of his lover's skin against his, pining for his embrace. Running a hand through his hair, Sherlock obliged without John having to ask for anything out loud, enveloping him with his arms and curls and scent, and his presence was so crowding John felt crushed and exhilarated all at once.

"I love you," he whispered as he buried his face into the nape of Sherlock's neck. "I love you."

Sherlock simply held him, and did not make any comment.

xXx

When they arrived at the house, Hilton was already back from his ride. He sent them a funny look, but did not make any remark on their dishevelled clothes.

"How was the walk?" Elsie inquired with a charming smile.

"Lovely," Sherlock replied in the same sugar-coated tone. "It was nice enjoying the fresh air, since we'll be back to London tomorrow early in the morning – and we definitely won't get any there," he said with a sigh.

"Oh, so you're going back already?"

"Already?" Hilton echoed, distress in his voice, and a question in his eyes.

Sherlock nodded.

"We have to visit Mike's sister who is in hospital," he explained, shaking his head sadly.

"Oh well, then we'll have to treat you to something good tonight!" Elsie exclaimed. "Is there anything you'd like to eat?"

The consulting detective turned to John, since, obviously, he did not intend to eat at all.

"Whatever Maria cooks will be fine – she's fantastic!" John replied with a smile.

"All right, then."

"Are you feeling better?" the doctor inquired, forgetting for a second that Elsie had probably been faking it all. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Were you unwell, dear?" Hilton pressed on, turning to his wife with worry.

"No, no, I'm fine! I was just a little tired after the ride, so I rested a bit in my room."

They exchanged a fond gaze, and John wondered how this woman could possibly want to trick such a loving husband.

Sherlock finished a text, then looked up to the couple and announced:

"We'll go to our room and wash up a bit, then come back down later, if you don't mind."

"Of course! Do as you like."

As John followed his friend up the stairs, he murmured:

"Why did you say we were going back tomorrow morning? Our train doesn't leave until three..."

"Indeed. But I would rather have Elsie and her lover try to kill Hilton Cubitt tonight."

John stopped dead in his track.

"What?!"

"Shh! Come on into the room. We'll talk there."

John grumbled an incomprehensible reply, but complied. Once their door was shut, Sherlock resumed:

"As I said, this is a trap. They most likely want to frame us. And if we leave tomorrow early in the morning, this means they will be forced to act tonight."

"But Sherlock, if it's a trap, why don't we just tell Hilton and get the hell out of here?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Have you seen him? He is completely blind. He will not believe a word of what we say, if we accuse his wife."

"...Right. What's the plan, then?"

The consulting detective smirked smugly.

"Put Hilton in such a situation that he will not be able to have any doubts."

John did not reply, but thought that perhaps using their host as bait might be a little risky. However, he could not think of any better idea, so he just checked his gun while Sherlock confiscated his laptop before he went to shower. John told himself that everything would be all right.

"John!" Sherlock suddenly shouted as he burst out of the bathroom, dripping wet and barely wrapped in a white towel. "This is terrible!"

"What? What is?" John said, standing and walking up to him with concern.

"I've just realized something. I might have an illness."

"...What?"

"A sexually transmissible illness, John!" Sherlock snapped, as if that had been crystal clear from the beginning.

John blinked.

"But Sherlock, you've never–"

"I could have HIV from birth; or hepatitis B or C or even A considering some of the places I've been to."

"Sherlock, hepatitis–"

"I did share needles, John!"

"Will you calm down!" John yelled. His outburst made Sherlock freeze, and he deflated like a pierced balloon, losing all energy. Quietly he fell back on the bed and sat there, staring at John pointedly.

The doctor took a deep breath, and came to sit next to him on the mattress.

"Sherlock. When you stopped doing drugs, surely they took blood samples. If you'd had any kind of hepatitis, you would know."

"But–"

"Shh. As for HIV from birth, do you have any reason to think so? It is unlikely that you would not be aware by now. I think you're just freaking out suddenly. What made you think of this?"

"Nothing..." Sherlock mumbled, looking away. "I just can't believe I didn't even think of it until now. He touched me, he–"

"Sherlock," John interrupted, putting a hand on his partner's nervous one, "he touched you through your boxers. There wasn't enough contact to–"

"It doesn't matter, John! I was so stupid I didn't even think to check for diseases!"

"So that's the problem? That you didn't think of it? Is that why you're so angry all of a sudden?"

"I'm not angry. Just irritated," Sherlock groaned.

John smiled indulgently.

"Right. Sherlock, look at me."

He did, his mouth pouting, his eyes glaring.

"I'm not a child."

"Yes, you are, but that's beside the point."

"I'm not a–"

"Shh," John repeated, running a soothing hand through the silky black curls that were a little wet from the shower, and caressing Sherlock's clenched jaw with his other hand. He chuckled, and Sherlock glowered. John kissed his nose.

"Shouldn't you be more worried for yourself?" he went on before Sherlock could complain.

"You're a doctor. And a good man. You would make sure that you're completely safe for any of your partners," he muttered.

"Hey," John insisted, turning Sherlock's head and resting his brow on his, "Why are you so grumpy about it?"

"I'm not grumpy!" the consulting detective protested. "It's just that... I was an idiot. I didn't even think about protection and..."

This time, John couldn't repress a giggle, and Sherlock was so offended by his reaction that he stood to get away. But John caught his wrist and brought him back down, pinning him on the mattress, holding him securely.

"Let go!" Sherlock growled threateningly.

John stared, and the taller man felt himself blush unwillingly.

"Nope. Listen to me: the circumstances were such that it is perfectly natural that you didn't think of such things."

"But I'm sure you did!"

John laughed.

"Is that what's making you so frustrated? That for once, I thought of something that didn't even cross your mind?"

Sherlock gave him such a sullen moue that the doctor could only be confirmed in his deduction. This made him giggle even more, and Sherlock bit down on his arm in annoyance. However, it did not intimidate John in the least. On the contrary, he found himself rather aroused by the gesture, and leant in to kiss his insufferable lover tenderly. Sherlock blinked, blushed, and glared daggers at him.

Smiling with amusement, John sneaked a hand down his torso and fondled his groin gently, eliciting a moan from his pinched lips.

"You... Did you listen to a word I said?"

"Mmh," John asserted with a small nod, kissing Sherlock's cheek chastely. "But in any case, if you do have something – which I highly doubt – I'm already contaminated, so there's no point in fussing now."

"But John..."

The quiver in Sherlock's voice made the doctor stop, and he looked him in the eye.

"Stop it. Just stop this. I feel like you're trying to find every possible reason to be sullied, or harmful to me." He stroked his friend's brow, pushing back the curls softly. "You're not. There is nothing wrong with you."

"John..." Sherlock whined, squirming under the tantalizing touch between his thighs.

"It's all right," John soothed, embracing him closely. "Just relax."

"Is this your way of–"

"Yes."

Sherlock didn't see what he could answer to that, and so he kept quiet, letting John arouse him until his hard-on became painful, and he sent him a pointed look. John simply smiled, kissed his brow reverently, and gave the last stroke to release him. Sherlock cried out in surprise – even though he should have been used to it by now, he just never seemed to be prepared at all for the blazing torrents of sparkling pleasure to submerge him, and arched his back delightedly before falling back on the mattress with transport. John did not let go of him until he went flaccid in his hand, feeling groggy and utterly relaxed.

xXx

Dinner went well – Maria had prepared a full three-course meal, and for dessert the most delicious chocolate cake John had ever tasted. Naturally, Sherlock barely ate anything, but for once John could fully understand: even he was tense (and excited) about tonight's events, and he did not want to feel too heavy with food.

Elsie retired for the night quite early, but the men remained in the little parlour, chatting.

"So..." Hilton began once his wife had gone off to sleep – or had told them as much, anyhow, "Have you found what those little dancing men are?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and their host beamed.

"And?"

"And you shall see for yourself tonight."

Hilton blinked, confused.

"Tonight? Why? What will happen tonight?"

"As I said: you shall see for yourself."

"But..."

"Just do as usual and read here until midnight. We shall retire for the night now, but I promise everything will be clearer tonight."

"Actually, I wasn't going to read tonight. Elsie wasn't well, so..."

"No," Sherlock cut in sharply, grabbing his host by the shoulders. "Do not mention anything to your wife, and just wait here until midnight. At that time, she will come down herself, and explain everything to you."

"Elsie? At midnight? I don't understand, why do I have to wait?"

But Sherlock was already standing and walking to the door. He turned back and declared in a grave tone:

"You must trust me, Mr. Cubitt. Do as I say, or the most tragic turn of events will occur."

And with those dramatic words, he left the room. John bade good night to their host, not really knowing what to do, and ran after the detective.

They waited for midnight in their room. Sherlock had said that they couldn't keep the light on, or it would be suspicious. So John was hiding in the bathroom, typing on his laptop, only discerning the keyboard from the light of the screen, while Sherlock lay on the bed in the darkness of the room, restless.

Suddenly, they heard a gunshot rip the silence of the night. John jolted, and Sherlock jumped to his feet with panic: it was only eleven.

"That idiot!" he screamed ragingly, before dashing out of the room.

"Sherlock, wait!" John exclaimed. He dropped the laptop on the bed, grabbed his gun and ran after his friend.

But Sherlock wasn't waiting. He had remembered the whole layout of the house from his little visit on the day they had arrived, and knew exactly where to go. John however did not have this information, and lost him at a corner.

"Sherlock!" he called anxiously, not very keen to lose sight of him when they didn't even know what was going on. Well, when he at least didn't know what was going on.

Another shot to his right prompted him to run that way, and a dreadful, feminine howl told him behind which door the tragedy was unfolding. Slamming the wooden panel open, John burst in on a ghastly scene.

Elsie Cubitt was holding the bloodied body of a woman and pointing a gun at her husband. Her face was contorted with hatred, and her hand wasn't trembling. Hilton, on the other hand, was shaking feverishly, and dropped his own gun as the body of the man who had suddenly jumped and taken the bullet for him fell into his arms.

John blanched.

"SHERLOCK!"

xXx

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tbc