"Mycroft, it's John Watson. Yes, of course you knew that, how ridiculous of me to even bother with basic manners. As a matter of fact I do want something. It's a bit of a massive favour. Well, by my calculations you owe me a bit of a massive favour. Or three. Oh really? Would like me to list the ways I've kept your brother alive, clean, and out of jail over the past two years? All right, mostly out of jail, I'm not a superhero. A sample of the drug from Baskerville. You know which drug. And its molecular formula. Professional curiosity. Christ, Mycroft, you think I'm planning on fashioning a hallucinogenic bomb and making all of London go mad? I'm asking for an ounce or two. See, I think you can, whether or not I give you a better reason. No, Sherlock didn't put me up to this. I have concerns as a doctor to the long term effects on myself and anyone else who's been exposed. Well, you'll excuse me if I don't entirely trust the word of the chaps at Mad Scientist, Inc. Like hell it has. Goddammit, Mycroft, I have never asked you for a single fucking thing, so just get me the bloody drug, shut up, and trust me! Fine. Fine. Fine! I'll sign whatever you like. No, today. It's Dartmoor, not the moon. Fine. Pleasure. Bye."
Listening to John shout at his brother over the phone is highly entertaining, few people other than him ever stood up to Mycroft like that, and in some ways John was better at it than Sherlock, there was no family baggage, no younger sibling dynamic that nearly always made Sherlock seems just the smallest bit petulant no matter how hard he tried, John just took Sherlock's part automatically, thoughtlessly, had done even before he'd really known him…
John slams his mobile down on the table harder than is wise. "Okay," he says, still breathing loudly through his nose in annoyance. "He's doing it. It'll be at be at Bart's by the end of today. Do you think he bought my reasons?"
Sherlock snorts. "Of course not. He knows something is going on, but he's choosing to let you handle it for the time being. You will be watched, though."
"What else is new?" John grumbles. "Might as well have let you talk to him."
"If he'd have talked to me he would have deduced what was wrong precisely within thirty seconds, and in that case I doubt he'd be content with a laissez-faire policy."
The awkwardness of John's pause is practically audible. "You know, I don't trust Mycroft either… but he loves you and he has resources I can hardly imagine. I know you hate admitting weakness to him but it might not be a… terrible... idea to let him in on this."
Sherlock shakes his head vigorously.
He's already counting on Mycroft for too much, he trusts his brother with his life, but that only means he'll do anything to keep Sherlock alive, up to and including destroying everything else Sherlock wants or plans, if given an inch he swoops in and takes control and fixes things in a way that's not always how they should be fixed, and he's far too proud of the army at his disposal, his pride blinds him…
"My brother himself is bad enough, even if he's genuinely concerned with my health. But I don't trust his resources, and I don't trust him to be able to resist using them. And that could be disastrous."
"All right. You know best." The silent "for now" of John's reluctant acceptance is painfully obvious, but Sherlock lets it go.
He fidgets impatiently in his chair. The end of the day seems like years away. The boredom is starting to creep in on him again, and with it the tendrils of fear of the darkness. Sherlock could work on the cat burglar case some more, but without the ability to go after him, what would be the point?
John senses his mounting anxiety and comes over, sitting down in his own chair and moving Sherlock's feet from the cushion his lap. "What are you going to do until we have the drug to work with?" John asks, rubbing them in a calming fashion.
Sherlock doesn't answer, knowing anything he says would make his distress more obvious.
"I was thinking," John says, running his hand from Sherlock's stockinged foot to up along his calf. "That as once we have the drug a cure likely won't be long off, perhaps we ought to take advantage of your lack of sight for the moment."
"Advantage?" Sherlock snaps, offended.
"Yes," John answers placidly. "You know, the heightening of other senses. If you'll recall you tried that once with me…"
Sherlock finally catches his drift.
After a deposition, John had been wearing the least attractive shirt and tie combination Sherlock could conceive of outside of the circus, it had offended his sensibility so greatly that as soon as they'd got home he'd ripped the shirt off John and handcuffed him to the bed, using the offending tie to blindfold him on the basis that he clearly wasn't using his vision anyway, keeping him naked and spread eagle while Sherlock teased every nerve John had until John had begged Sherlock to finish him…
Sherlock hesitates. Even the ghost of the memory is enough to turn him on, but it feels his current predicament is too serious for that sort of activity at the moment. There's too much to worry about, too much that could end badly if the Baskerville drug isn't the answer.
"Come on," coaxes John, still caressing his leg. "Sulking all day is only going to make you edgier, and neither of us has anything better to do but wait and get more and more wound up. Why not release a little tension instead? I'll make it worth your time…"
Sherlock becomes aware that even if his mind is far too wound up and cluttered to contemplate John's proposition, his body is most certainly listening and is enthusiastically in favour of the idea. Sometimes, it is best to listen to one's urges.
Sherlock makes a very low sound of assent, and John pulls him to his feet with an arm around his waist. "Get undressed. Get in bed."
It's always lovely when John has a plan, even now when Sherlock is far from in the mood to play, he decides to let John do whatever he wants, perhaps he'll get drawn in, perhaps it will distract, as least for a minute or two…
He does as he's told and John joins Sherlock on the bed presently. "Smell," he says, holding a finger under Sherlock's nose.
"Coconut oil," Sherlock answers promptly. "Pleasant."
"Good. Now roll over."
Sherlock turns onto his stomach. John promptly straddles his waist and Sherlock is made vividly aware that John is also completely naked.
John dribbles some of the warmed oil between Sherlock's shoulder blades. He leans down and whispers in Sherlock's ear. "We're going to test your senses. You have to tell me exactly what I'm doing as I do it."
Oh, a game, he loves games, particularly these kinds of games, how clever of John to think of something to take his mind off his impairment, he'll happily play along for as long as John likes, or as long as he can stand, whichever comes first...
It's unfamiliar, verbalising like this, but Sherlock does his best. "You're spreading coconut oil over my upper back and shoulders with your hands. Now you're rubbing my neck, working your fingers up into my hair and running them down into my shoulders, pressing into the muscle as you go."
John's good at this. Sherlock can feel the tension he's been carrying there start to melt away under John's sure touch.
"You're massaging my earlobes with your thumb and forefinger." Sherlock just manages to keep his voice steady. There appear to be nerves that run directly from his ears to his groin and they are firing on all cylinders.
John releases his ears and shifts forward for better purchase.
"Now you're digging into my shoulders and trapezius with your knuckles, reaching deep tissue, and working inward."
John is ruthlessly seeking and destroying all of the knots Sherlock hadn't known were there, and it hurts, but in the best of ways. Sherlock leans into the pain as they dissolve under John's onslaught.
"You're easing up. You've poured more oil in the centre of my back and you're running your fingers very slowly down my spine to the top of my buttocks." Sherlock sighs involuntarily as a shiver of pleasure runs along the path traced by John's hands. "Now you're smiling at my reaction; your knees are squeezing me noticeably tighter and your pulse is elevated."
Stripped of other distractions, Sherlock can acutely feel the blood pumping through John's femoral arteries against the thin skin of his hips, the heat coming from between John's legs and seeping into the small of his back, the weight of John's fullness pressing down on him...
He feels his own arousal surge as John shifts again.
"You're sliding up my torso, leaning over and rubbing your chest on my back. Your teeth are on the nape of my neck as your hands are rubbing up and down my arms. Your erection is touching the base of my spine and your legs are lined up with mine."
John's nipping at the spot under his hair where Sherlock's skull attaches to his spinal column, and it drives him to distraction as always, making his whole upper body tingle. John is draped over him completely and the spot where his cock is digging into Sherlock's skin is hot like a flesh wound.
"You're slipping down now, running your whole body over mine, hands following." Sherlock's voice catches and goes up half an octave. "Now you're kneeling between my legs and rubbing my buttocks and the backs of my thighs with more oil."
John is kneading his arse with both hands, deeply, sliding them into his cleft and spreading him apart while massaging until Sherlock is breathless with the stimulation, electrified, John teases then, moving down to work on Sherlock's thighs, skirting but not quite touching between his legs, tormenting him gleefully...
"You're..." Sherlock begins, but chokes. He's lost his words and shakes his head mutely. John chuckles, rubbing his thumbs in agonizing little circles on Sherlock's inner thighs for a few more seconds before dragging him over onto his back.
John climbs onto him again, aligning their hips so his hardness is pressed tantalisingly against Sherlock's, his oiled chest slick on Sherlock's own. The top of his head is right under Sherlock's nose.
"John," he gasps.
"Yes?" John asks, running his tongue along the line of Sherlock's jaw, flicking up behind his ear before moving down to suck gently on his throat.
Sherlock plunges his face into John's hair and breathes him in. "You smell of... palm trees and hot sun and lust and herbal soap..." he manages.
John makes a pleased sound and puts his hands to Sherlock's collarbones, playing them like a piano. Sherlock moans freely, and John holds something to his lips.
"Touch, hearing, and smell all seem to be in order. What about taste?"
Sherlock opens his mouth and licks. It's the inside of John's wrist. He laps at it and then cranes his neck to follow all along the inside of John's arm to his axilla, raising gooseflesh under his mouth as he goes. "Salt... curry from dinner... coconuts... antiperspirant... sweat... copper... nutmeg."
He twists his tongue into the hair under John's arm unabashedly, and then lets his head fall back to the pillow. "Mostly, you taste of John Watson."
Sherlock's caught unprepared the swiftness and strength of John's kiss, crashing into his lips, teeth nearly colliding, thrusting his tongue fiercely down Sherlock's throat before Sherlock can even respond, as if John is suddenly trying to climb inside of him.
All the languid slowness, the teasing, is gone from him now, John wants, every cell in his body is demanding answer, there's no softness in him anymore, everything is hard, rigid, focused, coiled to strike like an Indian cobra, it rouses Sherlock from his docile state...
Sherlock wraps his arms around John, crushing him to his chest, and throws a long leg over John's thighs to keep him close. He intends to roll them both over so he is on top of John, but he pushes too hard and they are both still coated in oil. They roll one and half times and then John slips out of Sherlock's grasp and off the side of the bad, crashing to the floor.
Sherlock listens for John's breathing and, before he can get up or say anything, Sherlock pounces on him, barely managing to hold on to the greased body as he pins John to the carpet, face up. John growls happily and bites at Sherlock's wrists without any real force behind it. He presses his hips up, rubbing his thickness against Sherlock's stomach. He's trying to goad Sherlock into action and it's working.
Sherlock releases one of John's hands so he can snake one of his own between John's legs. There's more than enough oil for lubrication, and he slips a finger inside of John without warning, feeling his friend clench and relax around him as Sherlock rubs a thumb just behind his testes. John wraps his free hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulls his face closer. "Don't stop," he grunts, panting like a wild thing, his breath savoury and warm in Sherlock's nostrils.
In response, Sherlock slides another finger into him, searching for his prostate while still smearing his thumb across John's sensitive perineum. John cries out when Sherlock brushes against the gland. He frees his legs and throws them over Sherlock's shoulders, tilting his hips up, inviting Sherlock in.
Feeling John's readiness, he withdraws his fingers, steadying himself on the ground, and pushes into John. He sinks in slowly, deeply, John's body welcoming him. John's legs tighten behind his neck, shifting and letting him in that tiny bit more, fitting to him perfectly. Sherlock stills, relishing the moment of intimacy, of wholeness.
The smell of John's passion, sex and sweat and desire mingling in the air, the furnace of John's body threatening to burn him up, the strength of muscular thighs against his chest, tight internal muscles holding him securely, pulsing around him, the sound of John's ragged breathing, containing just a hint of a whimper, the taste of his mouth still coating Sherlock's tongue...
John makes a stuttering intake of breath. "Sherlock..." he rasps. "Move."
Sherlock moves and John moves with him, letting him slide out and then drawing him back in, anything but passive. He keeps one hand on John's hip, feeling him undulate beneath it, and wraps the other around John's cock, stroking the smooth, taut length of it in a steady, matching rhythm.
John is usually quiet, given to soft, restrained noises, made only when he cannot hold them in anymore, to whispered words, if any, and the occasional deep cry of pleasure at climax, signaling Sherlock has gone above and beyond, but now he is vocal, grunting as Sherlock thrusts deeper, harder, keening at the touch of his hands, gasping audibly for breath, maybe it's on purpose, giving Sherlock aural stimulation to replace the visual, either way every sound seems to reach deep inside him, sets his heart racing ever faster, fans the flames of his desire...
The pressure starts to build within him, ready to overflow and he doesn't try to stop it. His mind is past thinking, pure bliss racing through his synapses, shorting out dendrites, silencing neurons, demanding his full attention. He arches his pelvis forward, holding John tight to him, and lets it crash through him and into his friend, like falling, like drowning, and then the relief of catching hold of something that saves you. A harsh, guttural noise escapes his lips as he spasms within John, finally stilling and coming back to himself.
Sherlock resumes his stroking of John, keeping him where he is, wanting to feel John's orgasm from the inside. He wishes he could see John's face right now, see the brilliance around him that must be like a thousand lighthouses. He resents this loss, even as he appreciates the new facets of the experience. He satisfies himself with John's unguarded sounds of passion, with smelling his musk, now overpowering, and with feeling John's every move; the tense vibration under Sherlock's hand, the contraction within him, the pulse of his testes against Sherlock's loins.
He feels it start deep in John's abdomen, quivering around him, almost too much for his current sensitivity but he doesn't care, he delights in the too-strong sensation as it spreads through John's whole body. John is quaking with anticipation, and a few more long strokes from Sherlock are all it takes before he jerks sharply upward and calls Sherlock's name almost in desperation. Sherlock holds him tightly as he finishes, finally feeling John's warmth spill over onto his hand even as every fiber of his being softens.
Sherlock releases him and they slowly separate, as if reluctant to return to being different people. Sherlock is breathing fast and John is gulping deep lungfuls of air. He grabs Sherlock's hand and entwines their fingers, pulling Sherlock down to the floor with him. Sherlock puts his hand on John's chest to feel the rise and fall of it as John struggles to get his wind back.
Sherlock still marvels, even after all these months, that John wants him so unwaveringly, even now, blinded and hobbled, that he will give himself so fully to Sherlock in every way, John never shies away in fear or revulsion, never shames him, accepts his deepest desires, pursues him, lets Sherlock penetrate and dominate and own him, trusts him with life and body and soul, no one has ever done so even a fraction of the amount John does, and Sherlock could never trust anyone else enough to let them close enough to try.
John's breathing normalises at last, and he kisses Sherlock's cheek almost sweetly.
"That was... a good idea." Sherlock tells him roughly, still overwhelmed as he often is after they are together. The combination of the physical sensation on his already hyperaware nervous system and the flood and exchange of emotions that he doesn't understand but knows are important often leaves him next to speechless for minutes or hours.
"I think so, yes," John agrees and falls silent, knowing Sherlock needs to process for a while, contentedly laying still beside him.
Sherlock lets his mind do as it will, filing the memories and feelings one by one until everything makes sense again and the daze recedes. He realises he is on the floor, covered in oil and bodily fluids and is starting to become cold. The creeping sensation of discomfort, disgust, and panic starts at his feet and spreads upward, raising all the hairs on his body.
John reads his mind, or at least his sudden tension, and announces, "I don't know about you but I think a shower is definitely called for." He scrambles to his feet. "Coming?"
Sherlock lets John take his hand and pull him up, and lead him to the bathroom. Already he's starting to feel impatience, and dread, over his situation and the uncertainty of the cause, but for John's sake he shoves it to the back of his mind and tries to keep a tight hold on what they've just shared.
