John kept his eyes on his hands as the moved about the medical box, pulling out gauze and alcohol while the only sounds in the heated tension was the rustling of Sherlock's shirt being draped over a chair. He bit the inside of his lip, his hands stilling as he tried to pluck up the courage of coming face to face with Sherlock's sexual exploits.
"Just sit there," he murmured to the detective as he caught a glimpse of him hovering to the left.
"...I'm sorry I called you a hoodlum, John. You're so much more than that."
John chuckled at the roundabout compliment, before turning, and sobering at the reddened, damp mishmash of wounds on his flatmate's otherwise immaculate skin.
Sherlock sat backwards on the chair, the wooden spine pressed firmly against his chest and both arms wrapped around the top. He was watching John steadily and the doctor let out a small sigh.
"I'm sorry I punched you," John said finally, dashing a generous amount of acrid alcohol onto a gauze and moving to stand behind his flatmate. "But you did deserve it," he added lightly, unwilling to break the truce while he had bare skin under his fingers.
"Possibly," Sherlock shrugged. "Listen...um...there's more of them. Under...well, further down. If it wouldn't bother you, could you do those too?"
John felt his hand hesitate just above Sherlock's left shoulder blade where a particularly dark welt was prominent. He had to force his eyes to see this as a medical problem, that he was giving Sherlock medical assistance. If he didn't, it would all go to shit.
"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat so his voice was a little steadier. "Sure. Let me get these ones first."
"Thankyou," came the rumbling reply. The detective flinched and eased out a small noise of discomfort as John began work. Immediately, Sherlock began to orate, and John suspected he did it to distract himself from the pain, which, try as he might, he couldn't simply delete.
"...I'm not just trying to get you to rub my bum, you know. I could probably do that easily enough without actually enduring physical injury."
John let out a surprised laugh, shaking his head at Sherlock's teasing words (which had a ring of certainty that he brushed over).
"Is that so?" he asked teasingly, clucking his tongue before moving the gauze down the patchwork of Sherlock's back.
"You've already kissed me. Shared in my climax. A bum rub wouldn't be too extreme, relatively speaking."
John narrowed his eyes even as a flush rose in his cheeks. He couldn't think of a witty enough response so instead he continued his methodical swiping with the gauze. Once Sherlock's back was clean and glistening, he took a steadying breath.
"Okay, turn around."
Sherlock gingerly stood and turned, settling back down on the chair with a pained sigh. John was surprised to actually be seeing him half-dressed for once. The man wasn't exactly keen on clothing, but even when he wore just a sheet, it tended to swathe him from head to foot.
His eyes turned back to the table again, taking new gauze to douse before leaning forward. The lashes wound over his shoulder, across the collarbone and to his ribs, making John angry and sympathetic at the same time.
"Do you really enjoy this?" he couldn't stop himself from asking, his curiosity peaked as he leaned forward to move the gauze over taut skin.
"No," came the quiet reply. "I asked for it. I miscalculated," Sherlock mumbled.
John pursed his lips, shaking his head.
"You should never have to do anything someone forces you to do. This guy? He's bad news."
"He hasn't forced me to do a single thing, John. I was the one giving orders."
John felt his lips part in surprise, his eyes moving up to catch Sherlock's. Everything about the startling green depths told him that was true, and John just couldn't wrap his head around it.
"You're... Not going to do this again, are you?" John poked one of the welts gently to show what he was referring to.
"...I didn't achieve what I was hoping for," Sherlock said enigmatically, sighing. "Will they scar?"
John broke the gaze and glanced down, having to step closer to be able to study the skin. His fingers trailed up the middle of Sherlock's ribs, before he shook his head.
"No, but they'll possibly bruise. It'll take a while for them to clear up completely."
There was a hum of acceptance. John steeled himself, then spoke again. "Can I ask you a personal question, Sherlock?"
Sherlock's eyes swept upwards, one of his delicately curved eyebrows twitching as he fixed John with an intent stare.
"Of course."
John met his stare bravely, and then patted Sherlock's waistband, asking for permission to tend to his other injuries. The detective nodded, and John stood back to let Sherlock rise and start to undo his zipper.
Taking advantage of the distraction, he asked quietly, "This...guy. Don't get offended, but...is he a prostitute?" Is that what they called males? Christ, he didn't know.
There was nothing but silence for a few long moments, and John had to wonder whether Sherlock was deliberately ignoring him or whether the man hadn't heard. Just as the trousers dropped to the floor, John glanced up. Those eyes we watching him with something akin to wonder, and scepticism. It was an odd look.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes, he is." The reply was simple and without much emotion.
"Oh." Oh.
Holy shit.
John was glad he'd cast his eyes away before Sherlock spoke, but now he was paralysed with looking at Sherlock's thighs.
"Oh."
"You can't be that surprised, if you asked in the first place."
"Well it's just... One thing to wonder and another to know, I guess. Sit back down."
John was alarmed when Sherlock sat, and made to shuck off his dark blue underwear as well. When the detective sensed his discomfort, he raised an incredulous eyebrow. "You can't very well do it through the fabric. Besides, if you ruined these, I'd have to hurt you. These are my 'pulling pants,'" he chortled.
"Pulling pants?" John asked, still slightly shocked, but cleared his throat and forced himself to be professional. He nodded sharply, taking more gauze and trying not to look as Sherlock pulled off his pants. He licked his lower lip before he held his gauze at the ready, eyes staying strictly above the belt.
Sherlock had swiftly turned, leaning with one hand on the chair, presenting his bare backside to the doctor. It was clear that this was where the full brunt of the punishment had been meted out. The entire plane of milky flesh was a burning pink, and practically radiating heat.
John let out a long breath before turning his attention to the swollen and aggravated skin. The first touch of the gauze to the skin just above Sherlock left buttock caused the detective to jump, the muscles in his arse tightening as he clenched.
Oh, fuck my life, He thought darkly.
"So, um...tell me about him. When did you meet him? Was he...working at the time?"
Smooth, Watson.
Sherlock let out a long hiss as John brushed over the deepest welt - this one actually bleeding slightly.
"It was not a chance meeting, John, if you must know. I don't often go on the prowl for prostitutes."
"No, I...no. How did you end up...I mean, with you...paying him? Not being funny, but you're the last person on earth who'd have no choice but to pay for it."
Sherlock turned his head to glance at the doctor briefly, leaving John with nothing but a glimpse of thoughtful eyes.
"I required a man with certain skills, availability and eccentricities. It just so happened the man I found charged for his services. It was - ah!"
The following deep, whine of pain was dangerously similar to that of intense pleasure. John berated himself harshly for the thought, but it was difficult to stay objective in the circumstances.
"I'm sorry. You've got some open ones here. What did he use?"
Sherlock had tensed, his back curved as his knuckles stood white against the wood of the chair.
"Crop," bit out the detective, the word dragging out to end in another deep moan. John's hands only faltered briefly as he paid attention to the worst welts.
"…I admit I'm not used to this, John," Sherlock continued, through gritted teeth. "This isn't actually routine. As a matter of fact...this is the first time I asked for it," the detective told him, still speaking to dampen the numb, yet utterly-consuming twinges of pain.
"Well I think you went a little overboard, to be honest," he said, moving the gauze to the underside of his right cheek. He had no choice but to get to his knees, realising that should someone walk in on them now, there would be no way to deny their compromising positions.
"Yes, that's evident in hindsight," Sherlock agreed. "...This situation is...most unusual, John." Understatement of the century. Then, out of nowhere, "...You were better off without that woman."
John felt his shoulders tense, before he rolled his neck from side to side attempting to ease it. The anger he'd felt from that morning was now doubled, certainly not gone, and Sherlock was stoking the embers.
"Says you."
"...If you thought otherwise, you would have gone after her."
"Just because she wanted to shag me to try and manipulate me, doesn't mean I didn't want to shag her too."
There was another pause. Sherlock couldn't have been more vulnerable, and yet he chose to murmur the most inflammatory thing yet.
"Do you ever think about having sex with me?"
John balked at the question, his hand stilling (consequently right on the mostly fleshy, tender part of Sherlock's arse) before he took a long breath.
"Are you really trying to piss me off again?" he asked slowly, unable to move. Be it from shock or anger, he didn't know.
"No. I'm just curious. Since we're having a deep conversation, and all that."
Deep... Oh dear fucking Lord.
"There's not much I think of during sex apart from ' that feels fucking fantastic' and 'oh right there'," he muttered, moving down the back of Sherlock's warm thigh.
"I don't mean during sex. I just mean...does it ever cross your mind? What it would be like if we were lovers? How we would be, physically?"
"Why are you asking me this, Sherlock? You know I'm not..." Now, he couldn't really finish that sentence with a straight face, could he? After his admission last night about his crush on Matthew Danes, and then the mutual wanking session. John took a deep breath, moving to the other side and still running the gauze slowly over Sherlock's skin.
"You don't have to lie to me, John. Of all people."
"I'm not lying!" he snapped a little too quickly, his hand pressing a little too firmly on a particularly risen red line.
"Fine," Sherlock replied huffily, dropping the enquiry. John could hear him sulking. He also picked up the tight hitch of breath as Sherlock endured the new pain.
John worked in silence for a few moments, careful to keep his touches gentle but thorough. When he'd cleaned the battered flesh, a sudden thought came to him which hitched his heart into his throat and caused his voice to come out a lot higher than he'd expected.
"Anything on the front?"
He nearly swallowed his tongue when he saw Sherlock look down at himself, his voice muffled. "Nothing I can't handle. A bit...inside, but I can deal with that."
Inside.
John made some kind of noise before he somehow managed to get to his feet.
"You'll... Ah, you'll have to take relatively lukewarm showers for a couple of days. I'm going to put some antiseptic cream on the worse ones. You should be able to sit properly in a day or so." John swallowed the gathered spit in his mouth, trying his damned hardest to keep his voice even.
"Thankyou. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again...John? Will you keep an eye on them?"
"Y- yeah, okay."
Sherlock straightened up and carefully slipped back into his 'pulling pants.' John was eyeing the glossy, pink buttocks that were disappearing from view, and almost didn't catch the next words.
"You'll have a reprieve for the next few days. My friend is staying with his partner for a week. So you can give the earplugs a miss."
John snapped his eyes up just as Sherlock turned, before nodding.
"You need some rest too," he added without thinking. "I don't think your arse could-" The doctor bit off his words with a sharp breath, his thoughts running rampant as he tried to still his racing heart.
"...Could take any more pounding," Sherlock chuckled, actually blushing a bit. "Come on John, we're all adults here. Well, technically I am one. Though I rely on you to keep up appearances."
John sniggered before setting Sherlock with a small smirk.
"Says the man who shoots at walls when he's bored."
Sherlock huffed with laughter. "If I didn't keep you in a constant state of chaos, you'd lose interest and abandon me. Leave me," he corrected smoothly.
John slowly crossed his arms over his broad chest, giving the man a flat look and arching an eyebrow.
"Oh yes, I completely forgot you've 'claimed' me."
"Well, you are mine," Sherlock shrugged. "Even if not in a sexual sense. You're the closest thing I'll ever have to a life partner," he informed him calmly.
"So that means I can never have a partner, does it?" John asked steadily, his temper just about quenched from the wrestling match ten minutes before.
"I would really rather you didn't. But of course, I can't stop you. I can try and stop them, though," he laughed, his face crinkling up, and a hand going to his cupid's-bow mouth.
John huffed out a breath through his nose, keeping his composure although having Sherlock laughing at him certainly wasn't helping.
"That's not going to happen, Sherlock. I'm still going to date, you're still paying Mr Mystery. You can't just lay claim on someone. This isn't the Dark Ages."
Sherlock suddenly stopped laughing, and stared at John, with the alarming fixation he dedicated for the apex of a particularly-wonderful case. John froze.
"So if I stopped engaging with my friend, and you weren't dating...then it would be okay?"
John opened his mouth but couldn't form the words to respond. He was far too dumbstruck by the intensity in Sherlock's face, the way his eyes pierced through him as if he were on the verge of closing a case. The final moment when everything came together - all it needed was that last piece.
"Sherlock..."
"...Oh. I...That must have been inappropriate. Sorry," Sherlock blustered, scratching his glossy curls and avoiding John's gaze. Well, almost avoiding it. He flashed him one confused, pained look that nearly broke John's heart, before the detective sat down on the sofa, turning on the TV loud and trying to appear enthralled and utterly-focussed on it.
John stood there, motionless for a good two minutes. Everything the man did just confused him. He couldn't pick up on subtle shifts, he wasn't great at deciphering deeper meanings. Sherlock wasn't giving him anything to work with, and John had never felt so fucking stupid.
He finally let his shoulders slump, shaking his head. Without another word, the doctor turned and moved up the stairs, closing the door to his bedroom with a soft click.
John was mildly surprised to then hear Sherlock running across the flat and into his own bedroom below. A few seconds later, a panicky-sounding text infiltrated the phone in his pocket. He retrieved it with caution.
John are we still friends? – SH
John frowned, perching on the edge of his bed.
Of course we are, Sherlock. - JW
But you just went to your bedroom. Silently. That's usually A Bad Thing. –SH
I thought the conversation was over. – JW
A short pause.
Can I sleep with you? Not like that. - SH
John cocked his head, staring at the bright screen for a few moments. He supposed he couldn't be surprised at Sherlock's shift in mood, or the sudden vulnerability of his flatmate. He'd punched him in the face, after all. And now apparently he was Sherlock's property.
He didn't understand what was shifting between them, or how things had spiralled out of control so quickly, but he couldn't quite get that hurt expression from his head. Something was going on in that brilliant brain that he may not understand, but it still niggled his guilt reflex.
If you want to. – JW
He almost laughed at the immediate thump of Sherlock's feet, racing across the flat and upstairs in what felt like seconds. The detective screeched to a halt after flinging open John's door, perhaps realising that throwing yourself onto your flatmate's bed in happy anticipation of snuggling might be a Bit Not Good. At least, that's what the shocked look on the doctor's face was telling him.
John let out a long breath, the tease of a smile on his lips, before he got to his feet and shucked his jumper and shirt. He pulled off his jeans, leaving his boxers and his thin t-shirt before climbing into his sheets. When he looked up, Sherlock was still hovering by the door. John gave the detective a questioning glance. Well?
Spurred into action, the detective pulled at his shirt buttons and fly at once, rather ineffectually. John watched him struggle without elegance out of his designer gear, before Sherlock made his way to the light switch in his underwear, tripping on his trousers on the way.
"I'll turn it off?"
John pulled the covers over his lower face a little more to hide his smirk, before nodding. Sherlock was rarely so... befuddled. It was endearing, and almost made up for what the bastard had cost him tonight. The room went dark following a small click, and John took a breath as his sight fought to adjust. The bed dipped mere seconds later, and the doctor forced his body not to go rigid.
"Okay?" he asked after a few silent moments.
"...Yes," Sherlock replied in the dark, getting under the covers. He had only been in this bed once, but that was more than enough for him to have memorised every aspect of this part of John. "...I won't masturbate or anything. Unless-" There was a faint click as the detective shut his mouth hurriedly.
John felt a flash of a smile wash over his features before he turned his head. His eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet, but he could see the faint outline of the detective next to him.
"Unless what?"
There was a considerable pause, punctuated by a soft, undecided sigh and a few gentle swallows. "Unless you want me to."
John bit the inside of his lip, wondering why an immediate 'no' hadn't sprung out of him. Instead he lay there with his pulse almost visible under the sheets.
"Uh..."
Sherlock quickly began to explain, and defend his statement. "Well, you were expecting some gratification tonight, and it was my fault that you're not in bed with the fake nurse. And I think you...like it."
John opened his mouth, turning in the bed until he lay on his side.
"Like what?" he probed, his voice small.
"…John, will you, please, do one thing for me? Tell me, without ambiguity, whether it arouses you when I pleasure myself."
John pursed his lips, feeling as though the darkness could shield him from the truth of his words.
"Yes."
A huge, gusty exhale from the detective surprised John, and he heard him muttering. "Thank god for that."
John should have felt the urge to laugh, or tease, or shake off the admission. He couldn't. It felt too real. He felt too exposed.
"Well then...is it okay if I do it now? Being in bed with you is very affecting. I admit that this might have been an ulterior objective of mine. You do have a remarkable effect on me."
John's mouth went impossibly dry, and he couldn't do much but nod. His eyes were intense, taking in as much of Sherlock as he could.
"Speak, John. I need to hear it. Tell me what you want me to do for you." A cool hand reached out to gently cup John's face. Sherlock waited.
John took a shuddering breath, the hand against his skin drawing him back to some kind of rationality.
"I... The noise," he tried feebly. "The noises you make. Lots of... noise."
"It pleases you to hear the sounds I make?" Sherlock pressed, running his thumb fondly across John's cheek. "Remember - speak."
John let his eyes flutter closed, pushing aside his rising panic and giving in to the sensations moving over his cheek. "Anything," he rasped. "Do anything that makes you... moan."
The thumb began to caress his bottom lip, before teasing at the corner of his mouth.
"And if I ask for you?"
John's eyes flew open, still lulled by the sweet deep tones of Sherlock's voice. "To do what?"
"To blow my mind."
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