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Chapter 27: Dancing
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"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 into 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?"
Sherlock stared for a second, then groaned. He pulled John down and bit his throat, just below the ear, leaving a mark and eliciting a moan.
"Of course I want to take you, you idiot. But..." Not tonight, he finished mentally.
So he pushed John back slightly, and remembering his previous request, rolled on his stomach.
"You said you would massage me," he remarked, trying to go for the haughty tone. He heard John chuckle at his back and suddenly felt his warm breath against the nape of his neck. Sherlock sighed contentedly.
"You turn me down and then you give me orders?" John said in a low voice that made Sherlock shiver. John's hand running down his spine tantalizingly did not help him keep his composure either.
"I didn't... turn you down," he retorted, rather breathless from the position and the touch of his partner.
"You positively turned your back on me, love," John teased, because it was so rare that he could do the teasing and he relished it.
"But you...!"
John cut off the protest by kissing Sherlock on the nose again, which made the detective growl threateningly. The image of a very capricious, regal panther lying on their couch was conjured up in John's mind, and he couldn't help but laugh.
"It's not funny!" Sherlock growled. "I swear next time I'll bite you."
"You'll bite me anyway," John retorted, playing with a black lock of hair before kissing the beloved brow. "I'll be right back."
As John stood and walked to the door, Sherlock arched an eyebrow.
"Where are you going?"
"To get stuff."
Sherlock scoffed.
"You have me lying naked before you and you need to get stuff?"
"Oh, don't whine."
Sherlock didn't, but he snorted as John went up to his room.
He was still having a hard time getting used to John caring so much – being so insanely devoted and loving. Of course, John was such a good man to begin with, brave and faithful and caring. He was no mere soldier; he had been an army doctor, which was entirely different. He certainly liked the thrill, but he had gone there to save lives in the first place. There was something quaint and chivalrous about him and Sherlock was surprised this triggered more tenderness in him than annoyance. Still, regardless of John's nature, Sherlock found the contingency of John loving him of all people quite bewildering and rather miraculous. He wondered idly whether he had met so many people who hated him in his life (or rather whom he had made hate him) just because it was written somewhere that one day he would meet John Watson and receive a greater amount of love than most men on earth.
When he acknowledged this last thought, Sherlock slapped himself mentally. God, John's absence definitely made him more stupid. Or perhaps he was still a bit groggy from his last climax.
Soon John was back, and Sherlock did not bother hiding a smirk, realizing that he'd gone out onto the staircase wearing only a dog collar and a leash. John seemed to have had the same thought, for he returned his amused smile.
"So? What marvellous 'stuff' was worth leaving me here?" Sherlock inquired.
"Well, first of all, your Highness, lube."
"But I did get lubricant!" Sherlock protested, pointing at the table where John had put the small bottle.
John hummed as he leant in for a kiss. "Definitely not enough," he told him.
Sherlock pouted and turned his face at the last moment, so John's lips crushed against his jaw. John blinked and laughed.
"Oh, you infuriating man...Stand up."
"Are you going to massage me standing?" Sherlock asked, disbelieving but complying nonetheless.
"No, you idiot. Do you want to stay in the living-room?"
Sherlock looked around briefly.
"Yes. But can we turn off the light?"
John smiled, as if he had expected this.
"I will need to see you a minimum to do this. I don't know your body well enough yet."
Sherlock grumbled something incomprehensible and was almost about to sulk; but then he remembered he really wanted this and replied instead:
"Fine. But can't we at least make it dimmer?"
"Sure," John answered, and from his tone Sherlock already knew there was something fishy going on. His suspicion was confirmed when John took out of the plastic bag he'd brought down two candles, one in each hand. Turning to Sherlock with the largest of grins, he offered:
"Candles?"
"You planned this!" Sherlock exclaimed, seeing many more candles in the bag.
"No, I just knew you'd be difficult and fuss about the light."
"And so you thought: 'Ooh let's do something romantic'."
John smiled at the sarcastic tone and laid the duvet and the sheet on the floor.
"Of course. It's my first time, after all."
Sherlock stared.
"With a man," John developed. "With you."
The detective blinked, and to dispel the embarrassment John's gaze was causing him, turned and lay flat on his stomach on the sheet and duvet.
"Just light your bloody candles already," he muttered.
John obeyed happily. He'd learned to always have candles in the house, especially in one where a torch would most likely end up in pieces for Sherlock to play with. John liked candles better anyway, in the event of a power cut. That was something he got from his childhood. Whenever there was a power cut that could not be fixed within the house and when it lasted more than a few minutes, his mother would get the candles and tell them stories. Or they would just end up chatting in the dining-room. Absentmindedly, John wondered whether Harry had taken up the same habit.
After he'd lit the last candle, he turned off the light and admired their living-room, which was truly transfigured by the soft glow. John beamed.
"Won't you stop grinning like a fool and massage me?" Sherlock whined, losing patience and getting more nervous by the minute.
John simply shook his head and straddled his lover, sitting on his buttocks. Sherlock started and shivered, but then slackened once more. The smaller man leant in to kiss his partner's ear, the nape of his neck. Sherlock moaned softly as he felt John's genitals being pressed against his back, the skin of John's buttocks rubbing against his.
Enjoying every shiver it sent down his lover's spine, John stroked the black mop of hair and massaged the scalp. He slowly made his way to the neck, which he undertook to relax with an earnest, precise touch, spreading lavender oil and massaging with his thumbs. Sherlock was concentrating on breathing deeply and regularly, intent on completely relaxing his body to show John that he trusted and wanted him. But he was so anxious about it that it only strained his muscles more. Hence his focusing on his breathing so his body would stop being so difficult and stiff.
As he kneaded the tight muscles, John could tell how much effort Sherlock was making and only loved him more for it. He wished his friend would understand it was only natural to be tense and scared upon being touched so intimately, when you had been estranged from any tender physical contact for so long – perhaps even always? And most of all, when you had been so violently shocked into the realization of your own physical needs or desires.
"John..." Sherlock sighed.
"Mm?"
"You'll put me to sleep if you relax me too much. Won't you go lower now?"
John smiled. He was glad that Sherlock had decided to talk after all. This would make things easier, since John wasn't so good at guessing.
So lower John went, working out every knot on each side of the spine. He was fascinated with the way his touch made Sherlock undulate. Every time a knot melted a little under his fingers, John felt a wave of joy and triumph wash over him. Sometimes he had to use his elbow in order to tackle a very resilient knot and Sherlock jumped and writhed and cried out. Every time, John held his hand or stroked his hair, and not once did Sherlock complain.
First of all, because he knew it was in fact good for his body, even if it didn't feel like it presently; then because John wanted this and right now Sherlock was ready to accept anything John would want to do to him. Finally, because Sherlock too wanted to relax – desperately so. He knew John would never be able to penetrate him if he didn't, and even if he could, would never wish to do so.
So he kept breathing deeply and allowed himself to melt under John's touch. He was very surprised to see that his body did not stiffen when John lowered himself and knelt between his legs, parting them. Sherlock shut his eyes tighter but let John massage his lower back and the upper half of his buttocks.
"John..." he sighed.
"Yes?"
"John."
John furrowed his brow slightly and leant in, caressing his lover's hair.
"Yes?"
"Nothing... Just wanted to say your name," Sherlock replied drowsily.
John blinked, then blushed like a teenager and burst into happy laughter. Sherlock glared.
"What's so funny now?"
"Nothing. I love you."
"John... Stupid John..."
John shook his head and kissed Sherlock's exposed cheek, his chin, his throat, never getting enough. His hands kept kneading his friend's lower back and buttocks energetically.
"You're so tense here," John murmured. Sherlock made no comment, but took a deeper breath and tried to let go. He wasn't even aware of being stiff at all and grumbled: "Probably always have been. I don't even feel tense."
John smiled and kissed his way down to the area he was massaging, pressing his lips to the left hipbone, the coccyx, the right buttock, the left one... As he went back up again and traced the pelvic bone with kisses, his touch sent jolts of electricity throughout Sherlock's body at first, then shivers and waves of soft, gentle pleasure that went straight to his groin.
"John..."
"Yes?"
"John."
John smiled.
"John... Your name is weird."
"My name is weird?"
Sherlock nodded and John noticed a faint blush spreading to his cheeks, which deepened every time John kissed him.
"How so?"
"It's such a common name. Has been for a while, too."
"And that's weird?" John teased, moving on to the thighs.
"No. But... it should be impersonal. It should be nothing special."
John grinned widely as he palpated the strained muscles of Sherlock's thighs.
"And it is?"
Sherlock snorted, burying his face into the duvet.
"Just shut up and keep massaging."
A smirk played on John's lips.
"Aren't you the one talking?"
Sherlock growled vaguely and fell silent as John parted his legs a little wider and kissed his inner thigh.
"I'm going to use the lube now," John said. He paused. "It's probably going to smell like ylang-ylang... Is that all right?"
"Ylang-ylang? I wouldn't have thought you to be so exotic."
John chuckled. "I'm really not. It just happened to be both lube and massage gel, so..."
At this, Sherlock could not help turning his head towards his friend, a question in his eyes.
"You bought it for me?"
"For us."
"As I said."
"Problem?" John inquired a little worriedly.
"Not at all."
"It might be a bit cold at first."
"Yes, mother hen."
Sherlock still jolted when John spread the lube over his thighs and buttocks, but John was wise enough to make no comment about it. He concentrated on massaging instead, his touch becoming lighter – a caress. Slowly, he went up from the thighs to the middle of the back, then down again. He worked out the tighter knots that had resisted his massage, linking the back, buttocks and thighs together again, sending stirring quivers throughout them, making Sherlock shiver again and again until the detective could finally feel his body as a whole and stop cutting himself off from sensations.
Sherlock just lay there quietly, his breathing natural again. The different scents around him were mingling together – lavender, ylang-ylang, but also the wax from the burning candles, the distinct smell of their living-room, the smell of his own bedsheet, John's scent... Despite the duvet, he could feel the hardness of their floor under him. From where he was lying he barely recognized the room. The glow of the candlelight cast shadows around them, and on his white sheet with John over him, Sherlock had the impression of floating on a raft of mist across a nocturnal world of phantasms. Their world.
He could not tell how long the massage lasted or when it turned into sensual caresses and passionate kisses. John's kisses were funny, Sherlock mused. Distinctly overflowing with desire, yet worshipping and full of respect; but even that did not make them akin to the idolatrous kisses of fanatical lovers who see a divine being in the one they adore, and whose touch betray the fear and doubt of those who believe themselves to be unworthy. John's kisses were respectful without putting this necessary distance between the worshipper and his god. They were lustful without being selfish, they took pleasure as well as gave it, and were very attentive to Sherlock's reactions. What John's kisses conveyed was joy – as if he felt inconceivably lucky to be able to be here with Sherlock, yet did not question his own right to it.
Such kisses gradually made Sherlock want to kiss back, and every time he did, he grew less anxious about answering them properly. His lips seemed to know exactly what he wanted and he thought observing John's reactions would prove more efficient than just guessing what was expected of him; all the more so as John did not actually seem to be expecting anything.
However, Sherlock now found out how frustrating John's kisses were when he could not answer them in any way – when he could not even touch John, or see him. Now he understood what John must have felt like, handcuffed to a bedpost and blindfolded. Reciprocating, was it? Such a strange concept. But Sherlock did not dare tell John anything and so he patiently waited, lying on his stomach.
That is, until John started to part his buttocks and kiss him there. Sherlock knew it was John, could recognize his touch, his scent; and he could not deny whatever John was doing with his lips and his tongue was very pleasurable. Yet his position, perhaps, or the fact that he could only lie there and wait, made him stiffen almost imperceptibly. The moment Sherlock realized it, he forced himself to slacken at once, praying that John hadn't noticed.
But John had. He even frowned a little when he saw his partner was trying to hide it.
"Sherlock..." John said, warning in his voice.
"Mmm?" Sherlock replied innocently, trying to sound drowsier than he was.
"What was it you didn't like?"
"What?"
"Right now. You stiffened. What did I do that you didn't like?"
"Nothing. You're imagining things."
"Sherlock."
Now John's tone was genuinely hurt. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt. He sat up and moved his legs so as to have John sitting between them again, this time facing Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man possessively and pressed their bodies together tightly, a look of candid determination in his eyes. John rested his brow against his lover's and hugged him back.
"We don't have to do this, you know," he murmured.
"But I want to," Sherlock retorted. "I just... Can I lie on my back now?"
John blinked, and finally understood. A smile lit up his face and he gave Sherlock an Eskimo kiss.
"Of course. I wanted to see your face anyway."
"Actually, I'm good here too," Sherlock mumbled, wrapping himself around John and feeling the warmth. John smiled and stroked the back of his head.
"Then stay."
"Kiss me."
"I can't kiss you if you rest your head on my shoulder, Sherlock. Quite a bit of contortion, don't you think?"
Sherlock snorted, but raised his head. John leant in. However, before he could do anything, Sherlock pinned him with a glare and added:
"Not on the nose."
"Aw, come on."
"No."
"Just one kiss?"
"No."
John pouted and kissed Sherlock on the eyebrow.
"What's with the eyebrow now?" Sherlock groaned.
"Nothing. I like how it twitches when I kiss it."
"What's wrong with my mouth?"
"Oh, nothing's wrong with your mouth, believe me."
And to make his point, he kissed the luscious pair of lips. Sherlock whimpered with satisfaction.
"So, which is better..." he murmured as they broke the kiss, pressing his groin against John's for better effect. "My nose, or my lips?"
"Mmm... not sure. Let's see." And teasingly, he gave Sherlock a peck on the nose. The taller man growled and bit John's lower lip, making him gasp. He grabbed the leash and pulled John in for a wild, inflamed kiss. His firm grip on the nape of John's neck, his hips bucking slyly against John's erection, his tongue piercing him almost pushed the poor doctor over the edge.
"Sherlock!" he moaned.
He would have been content just spending the whole night holding Sherlock like this. But he knew what his friend wanted, and regardless of how inclined he was to just cuddle all night, he wanted to please him, and accept his token of trust – since trust was mainly what this was all about.
"Sherlock?"
"Mm?" Sherlock replied distractedly, sucking John's earlobe experimentally, then biting it as if he were getting bored with its lack of response.
"I'm not sure this is the best position for..." John trailed off.
"Oh."
Sherlock seemed to think for a second, then frowned.
"Shouldn't it work just fine?"
John couldn't repress a chuckle.
"Sherlock, you can't enter someone out of the blue. Especially not in anal sex – unless your body is really used to it, perhaps? I'm not even sure. But in any case, your body definitely isn't used to it. I have to prepare you."
"Isn't that what you've been doing, though? You've massaged me for at least an hour!"
John smiled indulgently.
"Yes, well... I meant a more local preparation."
And slowly, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face to observe his every reaction, John slipped his hand down Sherlock's back and between his cheeks, which were already parted since he'd wrapped his legs around John. John's fingers caressed the sensitive skin and stopped on Sherlock's entrance. As Sherlock breathed in deeply, John felt his friend's heart hammer against his own chest. But Sherlock did not stiffen and his eyes, locked with John's, were glowing with determination.
"Fine," he said. "In what position do you want me?"
The question made John melt and he hugged Sherlock tightly, leaning in for yet another French kiss. Sherlock let him. Gently, a hand on the nape of his lover's neck, John bent to lay Sherlock on his back. But he did not let go of him and kept kissing him, their torsos brushing, their legs slowly unravelling.
Truth be told, John was just as nervous as Sherlock. He did not want to hurt him, yet was well aware that avoiding pain in anal sex, especially the first time, was more than difficult. At best, it would be uncomfortable. And then, perhaps, pleasurable. It wasn't something he would've wanted to do, at least not for a while. There were so many other ways to pleasure Sherlock, ways that would only be enjoyable. John had never had anal sex with a woman and he wasn't confident about his skills to say the least.
But this held a special meaning for Sherlock. It was his way to show John that he cared about what they had. It was a bit extreme, but so typical of Sherlock. John wished he could make him understand that it wasn't necessary, that he knew Sherlock trusted him. But John also knew it wouldn't be enough. Furthermore, he feared that Sherlock would infer from his refusal that John did not want him, which was ridiculous.
True, John had to admit it did feel a bit awkward. He did not think he could have done this with any other man. But with Sherlock? With Sherlock, he was actually excited. His erection was even becoming painful, and it occurred to him that Sherlock's probably was, too.
As his hand wrapped around the hard member however, Sherlock jolted and gave him an almost betrayed look.
"I'm fine. Go on," he said.
John kissed him again – it was becoming an addiction.
"I know you're fine. But isn't it painful?"
Sherlock frowned.
"I'm fine. You already made me come once."
"Do you think I won't be able to make you come a third time? And a fourth? And a fifth?" John teased, punctuating each word with a kiss down Sherlock's chest.
"I... That's not the issue... ah! John!" he protested as John swallowed him and started sucking. Sherlock put his hands on John's head in a desperate attempt to stop him, but soon forgot why he was trying to put an end to the marvelous sensations John was giving him and unwittingly began to massage the scalp that was offered to him.
"John..."
"Mm?"
"Aah! John... John, John, John, John, John..."
John smiled. Sherlock wasn't saying his name like a passionate lover giving in to ecstasy. Rather, he sounded as if he were testing the name, trying out different ways to pronounce it with a different emphasis each time. Sherlock's tone was actually curious. It was exhilarating.
A second later, he came in John's mouth with a strangled cry. John waited until he was completely limp, then moved on to kissing, licking and nibbling his thighs gently. When he looked to see his lover's expression, he saw Sherlock glaring at him with a groggy, sullen pout that made him look like a sulking child. In an irrepressible surge of affection, John hugged him, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his head on his hip and thigh.
"John?"
"Mm?"
"If penetrating a man repulses you, it's–"
"What? No!" John crawled back up to be face to face with Sherlock. He looked him in the eye intensely. "You're just so impatient."
"Did you ever think of it before I mentioned it?"
"What?"
"Anal intercourse."
John saw something quiver in his lover's pupils, and replied firmly:
"Yes."
Sherlock looked genuinely surprised. Then he seemed to remember something, and his expression became thoughtful, almost questioning. John studied him closely.
"You're trying to guess when."
"When you shoved me against the wall."
John nodded decidedly. This was no time to be embarrassed. But to his surprise, Sherlock's annoyed face broke into a smirk.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Oh come on, tell me."
"John, as you said, I am impatient. So can we move on?"
"Did you?"
Sherlock arched an eyebrow.
"Think of it before considering it as a... a means?"
The detective smiled as he let his hand fall to John's erection. John gasped.
"Yes. Now won't you move on? Or rather, in?"
John simply answered his smile. He spread lube all over Sherlock's groin and set to work. With kisses and caresses, licks and nibbles, he made his way to Sherlock's entrance.
"You don't have to lick it," Sherlock suddenly said.
"Would you rather I did not?"
"I would rather you kissed my throat."
John chuckled at the commanding tone, but complied heartily. Sherlock hummed in contentment and spread his legs wider for John to have better access. The doctor caressed the soft hole delicately, stroking until it was twitching under his touch and Sherlock's moans turned to threatening growls. Only then did he put his other hand on Sherlock's lower belly and say:
"Breathe in here, now."
Sherlock ignored the fact that this sounded very much like an order and obliged. As he did, he felt John's middle finger deliberately enter him.
"Could you make it any slower?" he groaned to dispel his unease. John smiled and resumed his kisses and caresses while he fingered his partner. Distracting Sherlock with many pleasurable sensations proved to be quite effective and reassured John greatly. Feeling more confident, he continued his ministrations for a while, relishing the way Sherlock was gradually growing hard again and noticing that he was, too.
"Jooohn... John! Enough already!"
"But this is just the beginning."
And it was. John traced a nipple, pinched the other, blew on Sherlock's neck as he arched his back to the touch, tickled his thigh and crotch, brushed his hip... He teased. By now he knew exactly how to set Sherlock's body on fire, even if he was sure there were still many areas to be explored.
Apart from the hipbone and the side of the throat, John had noticed a few other peculiar erogenous spots: the wrists and the middle of the palm, the small of the back and the coccyx, the lower belly... He set to stimulate all of them and many more, and whenever he saw Sherlock's hard-on was becoming too painful, released him skilfully. Every time Sherlock came, his grip on John tightened painfully and if his mouth was anywhere near John's flesh, he bit into it. John noticed Sherlock was becoming more and more careful not to hurt him too much in the process. He was touched, although he found Sherlock's biting rather lovely.
In fact, all of Sherlock's reactions were endearing to John. He was so sensitive it was a pleasure to touch him in the simplest ways. Gradually, the several ejaculations helping, Sherlock relaxed. Each time he came, John felt him tighten around his fingers – two, now – and in the afterglow he could feel Sherlock's sphincter muscle slacken around them. Each time, he spread more lube all over the area and on his fingers before penetrating Sherlock again.
At some point the detective stopped complaining about John taking so long and just let his partner stretch him more and more. He was losing track of time. The shadows cast by the candlelight were swaying around them, lulling him to a state of blissful ecstasy.
The more he loosened up, the more intense was the pleasure he felt. He ceased to care about where they were going and simply basked in the sensations John was giving him now. As he did not want to enjoy this selfishly, he tried to pleasure John several times, but John always escaped his hand, kissing him, caressing him, teasing and cosseting him. Sherlock thought that perhaps, John wanted to keep his hard-on until he could enter him, and so he gave up after a while.
He could not tell how long John had been touching him, kissing him and nuzzling him when he started trembling. He blinked, not understanding at first why his body was shaking. He wasn't cold, nor scared, nor anxious. He felt incredibly good and craved more, more, more... Oh. A delirious chuckle escaped his lips.
John had managed to make him tremble with sheer desire. This intense sense of thrill, this unquenched thirst, the profound lust that was boosting his brain and expanding his mind palace in ways he would never have thought of alone, was now making his body quiver with unrestrainable anticipation.
"John," he murmured.
John's free hand came to cup his cheek and a pair of lips kissed his chin.
"Are you all right? You're trembling."
"I want you. Now."
John's eyes widened as Sherlock's words went right to his crotch. He groaned. His fingers inside Sherlock kept massaging, titillating, yet were strangely soothing. Until now John had avoided any direct touch to the prostate. But this time, to release Sherlock, he pressed his two fingers on it. Sherlock's hands clenched and he bit down at John's throat as he came with a muffled cry. But once the orgasmic spasms had died down, he was still trembling.
"John. I want you."
"You have me," John assured him in a placating tone.
"More."
"Yes, just a bit more. Isn't this good, though? I am in you already."
John was so focused on not giving in and shagging Sherlock senseless right now that he missed the feral glint that lit in his lover's pupils. Sherlock felt like he was burning from the inside and John was refusing to give him water. He growled threateningly.
"Hey, calm down. I'm here, it's me. We can stop whenever you want," John murmured, completely misunderstanding the signs. His erection brushed against Sherlock's thigh. That was the last straw.
With a sudden, forceful jolt, Sherlock spun them around, completely ignoring his injured arm, knocked John over, and pinned him to the floor with a violence that completely staggered the doctor. He didn't have time to ask what in the world Sherlock thought he was doing, for the taller man abruptly impaled himself on John, up to the hilt.
John cried out and Sherlock gasped, the searing pain winding him. Somewhere in his mind, he'd known it would hurt, but he hadn't given it a thought. Even now, as he was struggling against the stupor that threatened to overwhelm him, he could not care less about any damage done to his body. All he knew was that he wanted more, more, more.
"Sherlock!" John finally shouted once he had found his voice. The violence and the abruptness of Sherlock's gesture had only enhanced the pleasure John felt: he could never have guessed how good being in Sherlock would feel. But this was definitely beside the point. "Move, now!" he ordered, the doctor in him terribly worried about the state of Sherlock's anal canal. The pressure and the intensity of the pleasure it provided prevented John from feeling whether Sherlock was bleeding or not. "Sherlock, move!" he repeated with some difficulty, fearing he'd come any minute.
"I'll move, I'll move! Just give me a second," Sherlock grumbled, trying to adjust to the foreign sensation.
"No, Sherlock, I meant get off!" And at Sherlock's surprised and pained expression, John quickly added: "You're hurting yourself!"
This time, John saw the feral glow lighting up the detective's eyes. The pale blue irises had been swallowed by the black pupils. His lips were parted, but his teeth clenched as if it helped dealing with the pain. His heaving chest was glistening with sweat. In the soft candlelight Sherlock was shining, blazing with an ardour John hadn't thought him capable of. Not in such a situation. Not during sex.
Sherlock's vision was blurry and John's words only echoed in the distance. He felt dizzy from the pain, the heat, the lust. Regardless of how much it hurt, still the craving was so acute it almost made the itching worse than the ache. His body was still trembling with longing, an avidity for John's flesh that prompted Sherlock to lean and lick John's chest up to a nipple. He bit it.
John cried out.
"Sherlock, please! I'm begging you, get o–"
His voice shattered into another scream as Sherlock held him down by the waist, slid up, and thrust down again.
"Sherlock!" John wailed.
But his cries only stirred up Sherlock's excitement. John's hoarse voice, his erratic breathing, his hardened nipples, his glazed over eyes... Sherlock wanted more of it all, wanted to devour him with desperation. His hands glided up John's torso possessively, kneading and pinching and stroking to arouse. His touch was far from gentle and his kisses alternated with bites and licks, making John feel like some very appetizing meal.
"Please, Sherlock, I'll..."
But as he met Sherlock's blazing gaze, he knew all words would be ineffective. Sherlock was hurting himself because he wanted something and no longer gave a damn. The only way to reach him now was to give him what he wanted.
John's face broke into a challenging grin. He pulled Sherlock down into a bruising kiss, piercing him with his tongue, running his hands through his curls damp with perspiration and bucking his hips. Sherlock moaned into the kiss and John sneaked a hand down his torso to tease his leaking erection. This distracted the detective enough for John to suddenly reverse their positions, rolling them around and pinning Sherlock to the floor. Sherlock cried out in surprise and frenetically grabbed the leash to pull John down, glaring at him heatedly. John chuckled.
"You're a real beast, you know that?" he purred.
Sherlock growled and writhed to impale himself further, wishing to get more of the titillating sensation he'd got a glimpse of. He wrapped his legs around John to prevent him from going anywhere.
"I won't be able to move in you if you hold me so tightly," John teased, breathless.
Sherlock gave an irritated groan and slackened his grip a little, enough for John to move back up. Sherlock puled in pain and frustration.
Very carefully, John slid a hand between Sherlock's legs and grabbed the base of his own shaft to orient it slightly differently. With his other hand, he gently caressed his lover's entrance.
"The tissues around and inside your anus are very sensitive and prone to tear easily," he murmured. Sherlock's glower told him he did not care much for the doctor's lecture. With a tender smile, John slid in again at an agonizingly slow pace, aiming at the prostate. When he hit it, Sherlock jolted and gasped for air, then bucked his hips furiously, trying to get more.
"John..." he growled, pulling on the leash.
John smirked and thrust in again, eliciting a wanton moan from his partner.
"More," Sherlock demanded.
John thrust in again.
"More!" Sherlock insisted, his tone commanding as ever. John complied, this time also wrapping his hand around Sherlock's shaft and pumping alternately with his thrusts. He was starting to see stars, the pleasure too intense, the sensations overwhelming and delightfully enhanced by the certainty that Sherlock was enjoying this too. It felt like a dance, like each and every movement, bite, caress and kiss was meant to be, yet was given spontaneously. They were building the dance with each thrust and each cry, creating it in the rhythm and the beat they imposed on the world as they moved together, unrestrained. A whirl of incandescence and fervour.
Sherlock felt like he was hovering over an abyss, waltzing on a thin, thin string above bottomless chasms. Around him the shadows were dancing with the candlelight, flickering, rippling in unison. He could feel John's body against him, in him and around him, his presence pervading the room and inviting him to come along in an infinite expansion. The Union Jack cushion sparkled with secret fireworks in the shimmering glow of the candles, and on the mantelpiece the skull grinned, winking down at them. It was their world, strange and familiar all at once, whose downy glimmer surrounded them. But it was also a world of darkness and fire, a world in which John's body gleamed and set Sherlock alight.
He would have to admit later that John had a better idea of what he was doing than him. Each of John's thrust elicited a cry, a moan or a whimper; each time it sent galvanizing currents throughout Sherlock's body and straight to his brain. Feverishly, he pulled John down to him once more, shortening the leash, and nibbled his earlobe. Licking down John's throat, embracing him tightly, he unwittingly rubbed their nipples together and gasped from the exquisite friction. He was almost sitting now, wrapped around John, John's hand on the small of his back, the other on his hipbone, holding him, keeping him in place to always hit the same intoxicating spot with every thrust.
Fear was flirting with lust, and agony with ecstasy. Sherlock could feel the tension building like the adrenaline during a chase through London, like the thrill of putting his life on the line and triumph through cleverness, like so many things he knew and yet so different...
And suddenly the explosion.
Sherlock arched his back and felt his whole body tense at once before shattering into a scream that unveiled the night, joining the shadows and shimmers in their dance. The kick was stronger than anything he'd ever experienced with cocaine. All the muscles that he'd clenched at his apex suddenly slackened and he was propelled to a higher sea, in a higher world. He pulled on the leash, brought his partner's lips to his, and let out in a whisper: "John."
Feeling Sherlock clench around him, Sherlock come in his hand and all over their stomachs, Sherlock whisper his name against his lips pushed John over the edge. He tried to move to avoid exploding inside him, but Sherlock's last gesture had been so unexpected, so poignant that John had been thrown off balance. Like Sherlock, he fell into the abyss, and like Sherlock he suddenly found himself flying high above everything they'd ever known. He kissed him back desperately, passionately, as if it were the first and last time.
The craving had swayed Sherlock beyond the pain, making it waltz with pleasure like the glints of candlelight with the shadows of the room. Now the fluid suddenly filling him was washing away both pleasure and pain, leaving a profound sense of contentment and exhaustion. Sherlock felt it from above, like a mountain sensing the waves of the sea at its feet. But soon this image was replaced with that of a volcano in his mind, as he felt the wetness and sheer warmth truly inside him, like hot lava. His grip on John tightened and he buried his face in the crook of his partner's neck, kissing him there, trying to enhance John's pleasure until the very end.
John rode his orgasm and they remained there for a while, in the same position, completely knocked out. John was caressing Sherlock's head as if it were what his hands had been made for and Sherlock was trying to catch his breath, resting his head on John's shoulder. Then suddenly he broke into a fit of soft, quiet giggles. John smirked, wondering what marvelous after-sex-word Sherlock had found this time. The detective's eyes were twinkling when he whispered in John's ear:
"That... was amazing."
John could only concur.
xXx
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tbc