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Chapter 26: Reciprocating

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"Sherlock. I can't do this."

Something shattered in Sherlock's pupils, and John groaned.

"Don't take me wrong, you idiot. I am still hard from just seeing you with that damned leash and collar, bare and kneeling. But I can't do this, because you don't want it for yourself. You are just using it as a means to prove your trust, and it would, in fact, really prove it. But it would be horrible on my part to go along with this. I want you to want it. Not for me, but for us."

Sherlock growled something incomprehensible, in which John still caught the word "stupid". Catching John's hand, he brought it down to his own groin. His flesh was flaccid, and John tried to take his hand back, definitely persuaded that Sherlock could not possibly want this, and ashamed of his own feral reaction. But Sherlock held his hand in place. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Slowly, John felt him quiver against his palm, then little by little, rise and harden.

Rendered speechless by the fascinating twitch, John stopped trying to remove his hand. He wasn't even stroking or rubbing. Sherlock was getting aroused from the contact of his partner's palm through the sheet alone.

"Sherlock–"

"I do want you," the detective cut in, trying to dissipate his embarrassment. "I want you, beyond any motive or interest." He paused, then forced himself to look up. "So won't you have me?"

Oh God, this was just too much. If this wasn't manipulation, then what was?

"You are impossible," John murmured, unable to stop himself from caressing the pulsating flesh through the sheet, making Sherlock sigh and shiver.

John leant in for yet another kiss, never removing his hand, sliding the other one behind his lover's back and grabbing the nape of his neck. Massaging the tense tendons and the base of the scalp. Brushing their chests together. Stroking Sherlock's injured arm through the bandage.

Sherlock's moan died in the embrace as their breaths mingled. The contact of the detective's lips against his, the tentativeness of his truly devious tongue, were almost unbearable to John. He felt stupid because this made his head spin like it had never spun even when he was a healthy teenage boy. Either the psychological factors contributed to this profound sense of dizziness when he held Sherlock, or the lust was reinforced through physiological elements alone; in any case, John was really starting to experience within his own body the enactment of various expressions, hackneyed idioms, making them a blazing reality. To love to distraction, to fall head over heels in love... Anything that involved madness and this intoxicating giddiness.

"Fine," John eventually whispered against Sherlock's lips, tickling the soft spot behind his ear and playing with his curls. He could almost feel his friend straighten up in satisfaction at having won the argument – and perhaps, in anticipation?

"But this is something I want us to do together," John added firmly.

Sherlock put some distance between them to look his partner in the eye, arching an eyebrow. He did not see how they could do this not together. Then, if John meant they should both do it at the same time, he definitely did not see how such a thing was physically possible. Noticing his confusion, John chuckled and developed with a smile:

"Is there anything you feel like doing?"

Sherlock stared.

"I thought I had just stated that quite clearly."

John rolled his eyes but they were twinkling with amusement as he unwittingly tightened his embrace in some spontaneous, inexplicable surge. Sherlock truly did seem obsessed with the idea, but obviously in a very funny way, as if one could just spread a man's legs and shag him as easily as one opened a door and went into a room: without any preparation. Tracing his infuriating, adorable lover's lips, noting the way they quivered as an increasingly annoyed Sherlock tried not to bite, John reformulated playfully:

"I meant any other request, your highness?"

John thought the detective would bounce back on the word ("It wasn't a request!" he would protest with a snort), but Sherlock didn't. The flow of their conversation tinged with banter abruptly came to an end. John was about to make some preemptive comment so his friend wouldn't get this wrong; I'm not saying I am indulging you – I just want to do this with you, and not to you. But Sherlock forestalled him.

"Love, and be silent," he said.

His face was unreadable, and his words sent John into an abyss of wonder. It was the first time he heard the word "love" in Sherlock's mouth, not in a sarcastic or contemptuous tone. In fact, John couldn't quite identify his tone. Perhaps because it was a quote. The reference itself made the whole utterance ambiguous: was Sherlock answering John's second question, giving him an order, continuing their banter? Was this just another (Sherlockian?) way to say: shut up and make love to me already?

Or was Sherlock answering John's first question...? The poor doctor could make no sense out of it.

Slowly, a small, small smirk made its way to Sherlock's face.

"Then don't try to," he advised as he subtly shifted to fit more perfectly against his flatmate's body.

John groaned.

"Enough," he grumbled, pulling away and getting rid of his clothes under Sherlock's perplexed gaze. Once he was just as naked as the detective, minus the sheet, he crept back up onto the couch and onto his lover, straddling him, wrapping his smaller body around Sherlock's tall, slender one. His joy was infinite when he realized Sherlock was relaxing into the embrace, and not stiffening like he usually did at first. John kissed and fondled and cuddled and nuzzled, stroking and tickling, alternating caresses with groping, inconceivably attentive to Sherlock's every move, his every reaction, intentional or not; every sound, every gesture, every tremor.

Sherlock let John cosset him as he pleased, rather enjoying the attention. From an outer point of view, it still seemed utterly grotesque to him: people snogging did not make sense, never did, and never would.

But from his present perspective, Sherlock thought the matter was different entirely: from an inner point of view, there was only a thrilling closeness and pleasurable contact, a touch that sent shivers and electric jolts throughout his body, setting him alight. The tension was only titillated to be better tamed and splintered, and Sherlock could feel the irrepressible rising of something that would make his body burst and release him. There was something to carnal pleasure Sherlock had never considered, something that could put him and his mind on fire, send him towards higher spheres of consciousness and comprehension. He still remembered the dancing men on their piece of paper and the sense suddenly spurting out of John's touch as he'd pinned him against the wall.

But Sherlock hadn't forgotten his current goal either: proving his trust in John, to John, whom he had so flippantly deceived through seduction.

"John."

"Mm?"

"I'm enjoying this too much."

"It isn't supposed to be a punishment."

Sherlock fell quiet, a lovely frustrated pout gracing his face. John smothered it with kisses because right now nothing seemed enough and he felt ready to literally devour the detective any second.

"Could be dangerous," Sherlock said, catching John's thought God knows how. "Not in a good way, either."

"What do you mean?"

"Ever read Suskind's Perfume?"

"Nope."

"Never mind, then."

John sighed, shaking his head. Hesitantly at first, then more assuredly, Sherlock began to touch him as well, and to reciprocate the gestures. It was weird to do so while John was already pampering him, and Sherlock wondered why this felt so different. Uncertainty made him awkward, but John was too infatuated not to be indulgent. In fact, he enjoyed whatever Sherlock's hand did to him, because it was Sherlock's hand.

Truth be told, John too had goals he was intent on fulfilling tonight. Admittedly they weren't as ambitious as Sherlock's, but they were of great importance to John: first of all, to establish a link, both empirical and psychological, between Sherlock's thighs and his buttocks. To this effect, John knew he had to weave the sensation back from the thighs to the buttocks, and replace the traumatic coldness of unwanted hands with a new energy that would be Sherlock's very own, and no one else's.

The second goal was, if possible, to link the crook of the back to the lower back, buttocks and thighs as well. When massaging Sherlock, John had become aware just to what extent this part of the detective seemed to be cut off, most likely to get rid of all "pointless" sensations, unusable in a case. Then there was the matter of the nape of Sherlock's neck, and more generally of his entire spine – or rather, all the tense knots on each side of it. All in all, John was strongly determined to completely blow his lover's mind in the process. Since Sherlock seemed so desperate to assure John of his trust through penetration, John would try to include that, too. But it wasn't fundamentally necessary to the plan. Sherlock came first, mind and body; all of him.

And so as their limbs intertwined, so did the general direction of their intentions: in every sense, set towards the other.

"Throat," Sherlock indicated in a sigh, and John obediently kissed his way down the stretched, gauzy skin, tender to the mouth. "Temple," and John had to move back up, "trapezium," and John slid down, "elbow, ear, fingers, wrist, stomach, hip..."

Oh, how clever, John realized, but he was too engrossed in his lover to stop his ministrations. Sherlock, under the guise of his usual cockiness, was bringing John exactly where he wanted him, evidently hoping he would get carried away and take him on the spur of the moment. Well, that was not going to happen, John mused with a smile, kissing the hip reverently.

He sneaked a hand between his partner's legs, went past the trembling shaft and stroked the balls, eliciting a yearning whine and a reproach: "John!"

John smiled and nuzzled Sherlock's groin to stifle the protest, which only resulted in more whining at the teasing, and repeated glowers. It made John want to tantalize him even more. So he kissed and licked and blew softly, nuzzled and rubbed and petted, until Sherlock's complaints were reduced to a nonsensical babble. Sherlock believed he was in seventh heaven already, when he felt John's tongue glide past his balls and press its tip to his perineum.

Sherlock didn't know whether his cry or his climax came first. But he heard his own scream fill the room as he was hit by an orgasmic blow. He had never been hit by a train – and never wished to be, thank you very much – but he imagined that the sensation of orgasm, the peak of sexual pleasure, was analogue to coming into collision with a high-speed train of blinding light. The impact was staggering, the glare and brightness overwhelming. It completely swallowed the pain that intermittently stabbed him in the arm. Sherlock was positively knocked out and swallowed by the sheer intensity of the light. He was bursting, and the scream was just a way to release the tension that was threatening to shatter him from the inside.

"More..." he murmured as the sensation began to fade away, like the sea withdrawing after a tidal wave. "I want more," he commanded.

John laughed and hugged him tightly, kissing his cheek in a surge of affection, ridiculously happy. He felt blessed, and wondered what he had done in his life to deserve such bliss. His encounter with Sherlock was miraculous.

"I don't know what God to thank," he whispered in a smile.

Sherlock, dazed in the afterglow, sent John a groggy look.

"You can thank me," he said in a pompous, giddy tone.

John smiled and kissed him on the lips, deepening the contact gradually and drowning in the exhilarating warmth of his mouth, the addictive softness. Such deep craving was making him woozy.

"Is this all right? Are you enjoying it?"

"Can't you tell?"

John snuggled closer.

"I just don't want to be the only one getting off on this."

"Obviously I'm the one who just–"

"Won't you lie on your stomach?"

Sherlock's heart missed a beat and suddenly he didn't feel so dizzy anymore. He couldn't help but tense slightly, almost imperceptibly. But John noticed.

"I only want to give you a massage."

Sherlock scowled, both irritated that John had assumed he was scared again, and that he was still neglecting his own erection.

Sliding his hand down John's torso and between his legs, Sherlock rested his hand on his hard-on and locked eyes with him.

"You're the one not taking your pleasure."

"This isn't about taking, Sherlock. It's–"

"Stop giving me everything," he interrupted in a low voice, bringing his smaller partner closer. "Think of yourself."

"I do," John murmured, kissing his temple and resting his cheek against Sherlock's. "I do. But your very presence is so heady... It's hard not to be captivated."

"You're an idiot."

"Why, thank you."

"Come here," Sherlock said as he brought John ever closer, fondling his crotch.

"Nngh... Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"I'm fine, really. Please... I really want to massage you."

"Just massage me?"

"I'll do anything you want."

"You know what I want."

John nodded.

"I know. But you don't need that to get off, you–"

"Are you saying I am so inexperienced that it would be a waste to go all the way now because you can make me climax in much simpler ways?" Sherlock asked, clearly miffed.

John chuckled.

"Exactly."

"You–!"

"Won't you be good and turn on your stomach?"

"'Course I will. I told you you could do anything," Sherlock mumbled sullenly as he complied.

John's gaze broke.

"Is it that unpleasant?"

"What?" Sherlock replied, turning back, very surprised by his friend's tone, and horrified to see pain on his face. "No, John, I–"

"So you really are indulging me."

"No! I..."

He fell silent, not knowing how to phrase what he felt. As he was desperately groping for words, his eyes filled with anguish and his body started tensing again.

Wordless as well, John leant in and rested his whole body on Sherlock's, ignoring the fact that his feet didn't even reach Sherlock's ankles, nuzzling into the crook of his neck.

"I enjoy it," Sherlock finally croaked, bringing a tentative hand to John's back. "More than that. You're better than cocaine."

"But..."

This time, it was John's turn to fall silent, because he didn't know how to express his fear. Sherlock's hand on his back was getting lower and lower, until it reached the parting line of his buttocks and paused there for a while.

"I know what you think," Sherlock said.

For a change, John thought. Sherlock went on.

"Since I never manifested any interest of a sexual or romantic nature in you before the Basement, and since I made it quite clear that I was married to my work and very happy with it, you think that Moriarty has traumatized me in such a way that now I am desperate to keep you around, no matter the price, because you are my only friend and I am scared to be alone."

"Sherlock–"

"You think I never felt any attraction towards you before I was humiliated in front of you, and then my relationship with you was unnaturally twisted and perverted into the one we have now: that is, me being terrified of you leaving, and ready to do anything to prevent it. You think I only ever considered you as my friend – my only friend – and that the whole sensual aspect was never needed, never my own desire. You feel like although you only tried to help me, or thought you were only trying to help me, what you truly did was make me even more dependent on you, as Mycroft feared, and that you took what you wanted when I was most vulnerable and couldn't refuse you."

John's breath had caught in his throat, and he moved back to look Sherlock in the eye. His own pupils were trembling, his vision blurred.

"I'm so sorry, I–"

"Stop it. I said: that is what you are thinking. Now let me make things clear to you so you can stop revering me and treat me like a man – neither a god, nor a child."

John was completely lost, and searched Sherlock's face for answers. The detective took a deep breath.

"I never thought of you as anything but a friend before the Basement," he first confirmed, and John, even though he already knew that, felt even more miserable. "It never even crossed my mind," Sherlock added as if it was necessary to rub it in. John could no longer take it and averted his gaze.

Sherlock pressed his flatmate's arm to keep his attention on what he was saying.

"But John, did you forget what Moriarty said? Did you forget what you said when you danced for me?"

John's mind was brought back to one week before, and memories flashed before his eyes.

"Did you forget why Moriarty wanted you to be present? Did you forget what he said when I..." he gulped, closed his eyes, and reopened them with determination as he finished: "... as I came?"

The doctor looked back at his partner, a question in his eyes.

"I had never thought of it. I never dreamt of it at night either, or anything of the sort. But his demonstration was convincing enough. He managed to break me because of my lack of lucidity."

"But–"

"I'm not saying I was madly in love with you and never noticed until then. I'd be lying," Sherlock cut in. "And I don't know if I can ever give you the feelings you want from me. But you must understand I'm not... I am..."

He scowled, annoyed with his own poor elocution. John stroked his hair.

"There's only you, you see. I told you before we even started this. You're my best friend, and I never wish to lose this. I never had friends. To others, I am a "Freak". Then you have all the parental figures whom I annoy and worry, but who care, for some unfathomable reason. Because they are good people, probably. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade... Mycroft is different," he grumbled with a glare, and John was only falling more and more in love with him, because he was adorable. "Molly, too," Sherlock added as an afterthought. "But she's infatuated. Still, I'm sure she'll turn into a mother figure towards me when she gets married."

John believed so, too. But he didn't quite see what Sherlock was getting at.

"But you're different," the detective went on, and John wondered if that meant: in the same way as Mycroft. "You're the only person I ever lived with apart from family. You're the only one who stands living with me. You are the only one who goes on cases with me."

In the back of his head, John could hear Mycroft's words echo in his mind. What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes? - I don't have one. I barely know him, I met him...yesterday. - Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed, reading John's mind as usual. "It was only logical for him to make such an assumption, knowing me. But that was not all. You must understand; surely you must have found out already. Mycroft never makes any comment without a specific reason. Neither does Moriarty. Everything they do, everything they say is oriented towards a goal."

"Yes, yes, they are masters of manipulation. But you're almost as capable as them."

"Almost?" Sherlock echoed, his tone offended despite himself.

John smirked.

"Because you're a big kid. Manipulating people bores you, it doesn't make you feel all nice and superior, because you already feel superior as it is, and feeling above everyone else never made you feel nice. It's horrible not to have anyone to do some sparring with, isn't it?"

Sherlock blinked, bemused by John's deep understanding – deeper than he'd thought, in any case.

"And you're too bold. Except for cases, you don't give a damn about what people think of you, it doesn't matter in the least if it cannot help you solve a mystery. You're like a prince child in a tower... I was wrong about you. Mycroft knows, too. You're a genius, but you decided to become a detective. You chose a job – sorry, created – through which you would be in contact with people, actual people. What you deduce are human intentions and thoughts. You do not wish to be the puppet-master. You wish to be on stage, under the spotlight, and get all the applause."

Sherlock pouted, but did not deny anything. John, however, added seriously:

"But wanting to be in contact with people, hoping to be distracted from boredom... All that is very different from wanting to have sex with anyone."

"Yes, sex. Let's talk about it, since you're so intent on not keeping silent. The first time Mycroft met you, he basically told you you'd better marry me if you were to ever get involved with me, because otherwise, he'd have you killed."

John goggled.

"He did?!"

"Well, he was more subtle, of course. He used it more as a symbol. But clearly he told you that your position was not common – that no one ever had been in such a position with me. From day one, he told you that I cared."

This made John wonder about the elder Holmes.

"Then he tested you, of course."

"The spying and the money."

"Yes. And you rose in his esteem. He found you worthy of trust."

"Are you saying the kidnapping was just another test?" John asked, disbelieving.

Sherlock nodded.

"Never take what he says literally. His words are always suggestive. Moriarty's are rather of the performative type."

John arched an eyebrow, so Sherlock developed:

"He says you feel guilty, and suddenly you do. Of course it must have been there before, but he's very talented in bringing things to the surface. Mycroft's power is more that of suggestion, but Moriarty does have some of that, too."

While Sherlock was talking, John noticed his friend's hand had incidentally gone down again, and was now fondling John's crotch from behind. He shivered.

"Please get to the point."

"There are many points. Moriarty didn't expect you to be so brilliant and to save me after all. Now he's frustrated and thrilled all at once, and he's just playing with our minds. Mycroft too is playing with our minds, but differently: the kidnapping was both a test and a lesson. So were the cameras."

"You knew?" John asked, in shock.

Sherlock smiled bitterly.

"You mean I was fooled, too. There never were any cameras."

John stared.

"What do you mean?"

"Shame, John," he said, grabbing his balls from behind and eliciting a moan.

"Sherlock!" John protested.

"Self-consciousness," Sherlock went on, ignoring him. "Moriarty is messing with us, and Mycroft is making us ask ourselves the right questions. They really should get a life," he added sullenly.

John chuckled, then suddenly cried out and arched his back when Sherlock's hand tickled the base of his shaft.

"How can your arm be so long?!"

Sherlock smirked.

"Because your body is so small."

John looked up and glared, but Sherlock brought his other hand up front, and while the right one stroked and teased his balls and perineal membrane, his left one wrapped around his penis and started pumping very, very softly, not enough to make him come.

"Sherlock, we're talking!"

"Unfortunately, yes. So do you understand, now?"

John understood nothing at all, and was becoming less and less likely to do so. Sherlock sighed.

"I feel unworthy, you feel unworthy, and we're getting nowhere. I will still think my body is horrendous and I cannot comprehend how you can like it; I will keep trying to please you and to be a satisfying sexual partner, because now I have found I like it, and I would never want to do it with anyone else but you – not for any stupid romantic reason, I must say, but because there is no one else. Never has been, and probably never will be. You're my only friend. Now I want to keep you to myself until the end, and so I want you to enjoy it too. I'm sorry I can say nothing more. Your presence makes the atmosphere warmer and the flat more comfortable. You with me on cases provides the applause" (At this his eyes lit with amusement, and John even wondered if he didn't see him wink.) "You bounce back ideas, you make stupid comments and absurd remarks, but it gives my mind the light and energy to suddenly grasp everything. You conduct the light."

"Well, glad my stupidity makes me useful," John grumbled, and to assuage him Sherlock started rubbing his shaft more regularly. John groaned and held onto the sheet on each side of Sherlock to remain focused.

"In other words, I want you by my side because it makes everything better."

"Then what's the problem?" John asked, half-delirious already, and exhausted by the teasing.

Sherlock stopped his moves abruptly, and looked John in the eye.

"I put your life in jeopardy. I am not kind and loving and considerate. And you can never be a father with me."

"Oh that's fine, you fill the role of a brat as much as the role of a lover..." John groaned, trying not to thrust his hips wantonly into the touch.

Noticing his longing, Sherlock resumed his dextrous strokes, and went on:

"You could have been raped because of me."

"B... but you said it... yourself... 'twas.. empty words."

It never crossed John's mind that he was on top and could make Sherlock stop his devilish touch any time. The sensations were too powerful, and he, too addicted.

"It was. But the point is that you would have agreed to it."

At this, John forced himself to concentrate on the discussion again, and he brought his hand down to stop Sherlock's. His lover froze.

"This isn't your responsibility."

Sherlock shivered and looked away, trying not to break now. It wasn't the right time. But he'd been scared, so scared...

"I would've shot him, you know."

"What?"

"Moriarty. I would've shot him."

Sherlock's voice died in his throat. Moved beyond words, John leant in and kissed Sherlock like he had never kissed him. It was a "thank you" and a plea, a worship and a prayer; it said "You would have been wrong, I was wrong to ask this of you." It expressed infinite depths of love and gratefulness, it was an apology and a vow. It was so much Sherlock did not even know how to answer it, was at a loss as to how he should reciprocate this flood of... of what?

He should not have been so concerned. His reaction to John's touch was becoming more and more spontaneous. Soon he kissed back, and it was all hunger, a thirst begging to be quenched, and the seizing of what he wanted with voracity. His hands started moving on John's lower parts again and the pain in his arm was rendered irrelevant, a merely peripheral sensation. The poor doctor wriggled and moaned helplessly into the shrewd embrace, his body betraying his lust. Soon he was thrusting his pelvis down shamelessly, wailing in Sherlock's mouth and screaming as he arched his back and gasped for air: his body went rigid for less than a second before it was racked with spasms.

Sherlock kept fingering and pumping as he held the small writhing body, enjoying how John's skin was glistening with sweat, his brow drenched, his lips parted in a desperate attempt to breathe.

Finally, John fell back on his partner's body, limp, trying to catch his breath. Sherlock brought a hand to his head and hesitantly mimicked him, stroking his hair in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

Once his breathing had become less hectic, John pushed himself up on his elbows to look at Sherlock.

"I want the sex too," Sherlock murmured, quite exhausted himself. "I want it because it doesn't blind my mind, it liberates it. It doesn't prevent me from thinking, on the contrary. It makes me see things more clearly."

John smiled and stroked his cheek fondly. Sherlock looked away and added with a slight blush John found irresistible:

"And I like the power it gives me over you. Of course you have the same over me, but it's not a problem. I like touching you, and I like you touching me. Reducing you to a writhing mess and seeing that I can give you so much pleasure... Subduing you and pleasuring you has proved much more thrilling than I ever thought it would be."

John turned crimson but was too happy to feel embarrassed or offended. Sherlock took his hand gingerly (or maybe, rather groggily).

"Can we continue? Stop the talking. Just..."

"Love, and be silent?" John suggested with a smile.

Sherlock smirked and they exchanged an amused, knowing look. John leant in and kissed his lover briefly.

"Fine with me," he murmured against the fleshy lips as an idea popped in his mind.

He bent to the side, took the collar and the leash under Sherlock's puzzled gaze, and put them on himself.

"What–"

"Shall we do this, then?" John interrupted teasingly, nonchalantly playing with the leash.

Sherlock blinked in confusion.

"But tell me, dear," the ex-soldier continued in the same sultry, ironic tone. "Are you sure you do not want to take me?"

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xXx

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tbc