Fic: The Baker Street Nativity (16/23)
Nov. 1st, 2013 09:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
swissmarg
Title: The Baker Street Nativity (On AO3)
Author:
Beta readers:
ruth0007 and Rating: NC-17
Word count: This chapter: 8,257 words
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Summary: Fusion with Nativity! (2009 movie starring Martin Freeman). Sherlock is a primary school teacher and John is assigned to be his classroom assistant. Together, they are charged with putting on the school's Nativity play. What could possibly go wrong?
See chapter 1 for more extended notes, disclaimers, and acknowledgments.
Chapter note: Here be smut. There is a bit of plot at the beginning, so I recommend you read at least until they've drunk the soju. After that we earn our Explicit rating in spades, so feel free to step out for a tea at that point and come back for chapter seventeen if it's not your thing.
Chapter Sixteen - The Next Step
"Well, that went rather well," John said cheerfully, keeping pace with Sherlock and Gladstone as they walked past the houses decorated with bows and wreaths and twinkling lights. A lit-up plastic snowman stood gleeful guard in someone's garden. Sherlock would have liked nothing better than to throw it enthusiastically off a roof. "Better than expected, at any rate."
Sherlock gave him a sceptical look. "They were at each other's throats, John. We were lucky no blood was drawn."
"Yes, as I said," John agreed. He didn't say it with a straight face, though, and their shared giggles drew the attention of a woman passing by (early sixties but tells people she's fifteen years younger, thinks the laughter's at her expense, on her way to something artsy-cultural, divorced at least twice, trip to the States within the past month). Even once they were past her, John kept grinning, which made Sherlock want to kiss him right there in the middle of the street, but instead he pretended he needed to check something on his mobile so he could pass John Gladstone's lead. If his fingers happened to brush the back of John's hand, no one need be the wiser. It was a weak substitute, but it served.
The parents' questions had been surprisingly easy to handle, in the event. Things like how much money the children would be paid (none), whether they needed agents (no), when the movie would be released (depended on a lot of factors, John hedged), and when David Beckham was going to be on the set (never, good God, what kind of nonsense did people make up in those funny little brains?). No, the problems began with two parent complaining that their children's particular talents weren't being showcased enough, which quickly degenerated into a game of one-upmanship over whose child was better at singing, dancing, rapping, martial arts, playing a musical instrument, modelling, and just about every sport under the sun. The entire meeting deteriorated to the point that Lestrade ended up sending everyone home with the instruction to direct any further concerns to Sherlock's school e-mail address. Which was a fine solution, in Sherlock's opinion, considering he never looked at that account.
Sherlock and John had slipped away with the debate still raging at their backs. Sherlock retrieved Gladstone from the teachers' lounge (the meeting having only been a stop on their evening walk that he'd never intended staying long for) and the three of them rendezvoused in the car park. They didn't say anything about where they were going; it was enough just to be free of any responsibilities at the moment, walking together through the night-time streets in the crisp, damp air, companionable and nearly giddy over nothing at all.
They ended up in a hole-in-the-wall cafe, where John ordered a questionable biryani and Sherlock had a selection of sweetmeats. Afterwards, they walked down the mall, where the street performers were still plying their trade to the pub crowds, but Sherlock vetoed John's suggestion that they turn in for a pint. He'd never really warmed to the culture of ingesting alcohol in a group; the only use he'd ever had for a bar was as a convenient place to access drugs, or at least people who could provide them. And although he wanted to have John's company tonight, he didn't want it divided with the game running on the telly over the bar or the insipid women (and men) whose interest was likely to be aroused by two single men presumably on the prowl.
So they kept walking, on past the commercial district, talking about flesh-eating bacteria and bacha bazi, more or less letting Gladstone take the lead, until they somehow ended up standing in front of Sherlock's house. The friendly, casual mood dissolved, leaving something uncertain in its wake. Which was stupid, because John had been inside before and everything had been fine that time and there was no reason to think anything would be different now. But John put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders up against the wind.
"Well, thanks for-" he started, obviously about to end the evening, which sent Sherlock into a mild panic.
"You could come in," he blurted out, only realising a split second after the words had fallen out of his mouth what that sounded like, which was terribly awkward as he hadn't been thinking of sex at all. In fact, the sheets were still unchanged and the jars of mud were still cluttering the kitchen counters. Although he had cleaned up the blood in the bathroom. "You know, we don't-" he started to explain, but that was even more awkward, so he went back to his first statement. "You could come in," he repeated, firmer this time. Without waiting for an answer, he turned and whisked the keys out of his pocket.
His heart was hammering as he unlocked the door, which was ridiculous and juvenile and completely unnecessary. If John wanted to leave, that was fine. He hadn't planned on bringing him here. It wouldn't change anything. The evening had been enjoyable and to have it end now wouldn't change that. Sherlock had talked himself so thoroughly into the inevitability of them saying good night that he was startled to find John coming in behind him. He stopped short, causing John to crowd up against him in order to get the door closed.
"Everything all right?" John asked, amusement playing around the corners of his eyes (warm, blue, deep). He was close enough to touch - it was really only the result of a conscious effort on both their parts that they weren't encroaching on each other's space.
Sherlock swallowed convulsively and gathered his wits from where they'd scattered somewhere low in his pelvis. "Yes, perfect, I'll just - Kitchen," he said and whirled away, dropping his coat somewhere along the way.
Once alone - except for Gladstone, who had followed and now stood looking up at him, hopeful for kibble - Sherlock pressed his hands against the counter and tried to think. John. Here. He was here because he wanted to be here, with Sherlock. He was, apparently, enjoying himself, and Sherlock found that he was, too, even though they hadn't been doing anything particularly interesting, just talking and walking and sitting and – Sherlock took a deep breath. And now John was here and all signs were pointing toward a sexual encounter occurring sometime in the next hour or so.
Not because of some stupid rule of thumb or because it was just what people did, and not because either of them was sexually frustrated - Sherlock had gone for years without an assignation, his naturally low libido meaning that he rarely suffered from an unscratched itch in that area, and John was the one who had advised going slowly; it might be harder for him to wait than it was for Sherlock, but he wasn't only here for sex. Certainly there were easier ways to get it than to put up with Sherlock for weeks on end.
Sherlock had started this whole thing with John because he'd wanted to prove something to himself, and he hadn't quite done that yet: John could still get fed up and walk out any time, or Sherlock might decide being close to another person - whether emotionally or physically - wasn't something he wanted after all (he couldn't quite bring himself to admit that question had already been answered unequivocally). And while he still felt the thrill of the challenge and the determination to show that he could do anything he set his mind to - even if it meant joining the ranks of the likes of Stamford, and Lestrade, and even Donovan and Anderson, with their small-minded quests for gratification in another human being - what he really wanted was to feel the way he had last night: valued, desired, admired. The way he had that afternoon: safe, in balance, cared for. The way he did whenever he was with John: accepted, liked, capable. He knew - he knew with one hundred percent certainty - that desire was the worst possible danger of all. It would ruin him if he gave into it. The problem was, he already had.
"Sherlock, are you sure everything's all right?"
Sherlock whipped around. John was standing next to the kitchen table with a look of mild concern. He'd taken off his coat but left on the brown corduroy jacket over his button-down.
"Yes, fine," Sherlock said, hastily sweeping the jars of mud aside. "Drink?"
John chuckled. "Not if that's what you're offering. God, what is it?" He reached over and picked up a jar up, sloshed the contents around, unscrewed the lid and took a whiff, then grimaced and held the jar at arm's length. "Please tell me this didn't at some point come out of Gladstone."
Now that might even be more interesting. Sherlock made a mental note. Out loud, he explained, "Riverbank mud."
John set the jar back down. "You wouldn't have any beer, would you?"
Another mental note. "Wine, whisky, and soju." Well, and the fermentation experiment under the sink, but that probably wasn't safe to consume.
"What's that last one?" John asked
"A distilled rice beverage." Sherlock reached up into a cupboard to take out a green bottle with Korean writing on the label. He handed it to John. His dry cleaner had given him several bottles after he'd been able to prove that the jade hairpin the man was accused of stealing out of an article of clothing had never left its owner's possession.
"All right, cheers." John peered at the bottle with interest, and Sherlock took out two glasses and followed him back into the living room with Gladstone clicking behind them.
They sat on the sofa, and Gladstone flumped onto the floor with a great sigh, resigned to remaining on the periphery for the time being. Sherlock told John about the dry cleaner while John poured out two measures and handed one to Sherlock, then settled back, his body half turned toward Sherlock, to listen.
"That's amazing," John said when Sherlock finished the story.
"Obvious," Sherlock scoffed, although he couldn't help being pleased at the acknowledgment.
John smiled. "What must it be like for you: to see all those connections that no one else can see."
"Anyone could see them, they just don't care to."
"Is that the difference between you and the rest of the world then? You care to see?"
Sherlock didn't care, actually. He didn't care about Mr Kwok's reputation, or Angelo's restaurant, or Yosef's legal troubles. Nor did he care about any of those people or what happened to them. He didn't even care about the favours and gifts he received in thanks (and it must be said that the observations he made got him in trouble more than they were appreciated). He simply couldn't not say anything when obvious facts stared him in the face and other people were too stupid to notice.
He held his hands up on either side of his head in a gesture of frustration. "It's all just there, I can't not see it," he tried to explain.
John eyed him keenly. "It's like that all the time, isn't it? Like a kind of sensory overload, and saying it out loud helps to get rid of it, like bailing water out of a boat."
Sherlock pulled a face. "Don't try to psychoanalyse me, John. And that was a terrible analogy."
John grinned and shook his head. "No, that's not- I'm just trying to understand. I... It's fascinating, from this end. But I have the feeling you're not always happy about it."
Sherlock shrugged. "Happiness doesn't come into it. Are you happy about being left-handed or the fact that your parents are from Scotland?"
"I've never even mentioned my parents, how did you-" John started with a curious look.
"Your accent, at times, on certain words. The fact that you refer to the school caretaker as the janitor."
John smiled and licked his lower lip. "Yeah, that's exactly what I'm talking about. I'd um..." He leaned forward to set his glass on the table. "I'd quite like to kiss you, if that's all right." He paused with his elbow resting on one knee, watching Sherlock hopefully.
Sherlock gulped down the rest of his drink. "Because I deduced that your parents are Scottish?"
"What proof is this stuff?" John asked nodding at the bottle.
"About the same as vermouth." He put his glass down next to John's.
"Then yeah, I reckon it's all you," John said, his voice tinged rough with desire.
And that was- It was such a trite line, but that didn't stop Sherlock from hearing the fondness and honesty behind it, nor did it stop him feeling like he was undergoing a phototropic phenomenon, with John as the source of light. John's breath in his mouth - sweet from the soju, warm from his lungs. John's stubble (last shave before school that morning: not expecting to end up here tonight either) grazing his chin and upper lip. John's tongue soft-firm-wet on his lip, sliding against his tongue. John's hand on his upper arm, solid and grounding.
As they kissed, Sherlock pressed closer and John pulled him in, until they were reclined against the angle of the sofa with Sherlock stretched awkwardly across him. Sherlock still had his suit jacket on, which annoyingly restricted his range of motion just when he had John spread out underneath him to sample at will. He left off from John's mouth for a moment to push himself up and struggle his way one-armed out of the jacket, John trying to help and then dislodging Sherlock even further so he could take off his own jacket.
When they finally flopped back down, they were both out of breath and red in the face and laughing a little, and the little hollow at the base of Sherlock's throat hurt with how perfect it was. He held himself there, hovering over John, torn between not wanting to upset the moment and wanting more, wanting everything.
"Hey, everything all right?" John asked quietly, rubbing Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock realised he didn't know how long he'd been staring.
"It's fine," Sherlock said, annoyed at himself.
"Take your time; we have all night," John said and shifted underneath him as if getting comfortable for the long haul. "Let me know if it's ever too much at once."
Sherlock wanted to be irritated at John's presumption that he thought he knew what was going on in Sherlock's head, but it happened he was right. Not that it was too much, exactly, but the fact was that Sherlock had stopped so that it wouldn't be. Then there was the fact that he'd said they had all night. John meant to stay. They'd barely started, and John was already saying he wasn't going to leave. Dizzy with the implication, Sherlock let his weight sink down and settle onto John. He knew he wasn't light by any means, despite his lean physique, but John didn't complain, just wrapped his arms around Sherlock's back and held him there.
In previous encounters with other people, Sherlock had felt like he was boarding a roller coaster, not able to do much more than get in and hang on and ride out the twists and turns and drops and rolls, taking the exhilarating with the stomach-dropping and dealing with the metaphoric (and sometimes quite literal) nausea on his own afterwards. But now, John was there with him, giving him a safety net, waiting for him, asking him to choose the track together.
Sherlock pressed gentle, slow kisses to John's mouth, his cheeks, his neck, while John kept a firm grip on his back, not rubbing or teasing which would have been distracting, but keeping him aware of where he was so he didn't float away into the spinning sensations and their emotional counterparts. When he'd thoroughly explored the skin above John's collar, he unbuttoned John's shirt and nudged it aside to discover the patch of hair visible in the V of his vest - more than Sherlock had, actually, but as it was fairer it looked like less. He kissed his way down John's pectoral, but ran into the edge of his vest far too soon. He made a noise of displeasure and yanked the undershirt up.
John hissed in a sudden breath, and Sherlock looked up quickly, prepared to see annoyance, but instead was met with the sight of John's head thrown back, eyes shut, and his lower lip between his teeth; it might have been pain, but in the next second John tilted his head back down and opened his eyes, and the raw wonder there gave Sherlock all the confidence he needed to smirk and duck his head back down to drop open-mouthed kisses over John's stomach, which fluttered and shivered under his lips, up to the harder ridge of his ribcage and the gallop of that life-giving muscle beneath it.
In a line bisecting his own abdomen, he could feel the hard column of John's arousal. He had honestly not given a thought to his own cock until that moment, but now it responded to the probing of his mind with a pull of pleasure low in his groin, a weight and fullness he'd never cared enough about to purposely seek out as an end in itself. Now, though, it was something that connected him to John, a silent message that said more than he could put into words. He shifted just a bit so he could rub himself along John's thigh, and nudged John's vest up to expose a brown nipple, which he experimentally licked then blew on to see it tighten and pucker.
This whole time, John had been doing an admirable job of holding still under increasing pressure, but the latest provocation had him groaning and clutching at Sherlock's back. "Fuck, don't stop," he said gruffly in response to Sherlock's questioning look, delivered with his tongue just touching the tip of John's nipple. "You look incredible and you feel even better. I have some nerve damage on that side from the-" He inclined his head toward his shoulder. "It's just a … little more sensitive to heat and cold, less sensitive to touch."
Now that was interesting enough to stop what he was doing for a moment. They'd never discussed John's injury, and if increased physical intimacy was going to bring with it an expanded willingness to share information, Sherlock meant to take immediate and outrageous advantage. He shoved the undershirt up to get a better look, but it bunched too much under John's arm to get a look at the shoulder proper.
"Just here?" Sherlock asked, passing a hand over John's right breast.
"The whole- Pretty much the whole upper quadrant, here-" John drew an imaginary line with his finger. "The front more than in back. There are some odd spots-" He exhaled hard and looked up at the ceiling. "Fuck, never mind, you can- I mean, it's not unpleasant. At all." His eyes slid down to watch Sherlock's hand invade his shirt to palpate the damaged skin. "Um. But it's okay, I know it's not the most attractive-"
John was actually making to sit up, the absolute idiot. Sherlock pushed him emphatically back down.
"It's better than attractive, John. It's interesting. The other side is unaffected?" Sherlock pushed the vest up on the left as well, and really, all of these layers were getting tedious. While there was a certain appeal to the slow strip and discovery of new John-vistas in manageable chunks, he needed to have the entire area uncovered. The sooner the better.
"Um, yeah, pretty much normal over there," John said, his embarrassment turning to amusement.
"And are there any other anomalies I should know about?"
"Well, there's the- You know about my leg. No change in sensitivity there, just the... you know, the pain. Comes and goes."
"Does it hurt now?"
"Wasn't even thinking about it. And no," he added after a moment's consideration.
"Excellent. Up we go then." Sherlock untangled himself and stood, holding out a hand to pull John up.
John just lay there with a confused expression, shirt rucked up, hair mussed, mouth puffy and red. "Where?"
"To the bedroom." 'Obviously' hovered unspoken but generally understood. "I need to have more room, and you need to get your clothes off and there are covers there so you don't get chilled. We were going to end up there anyway."
"Oh really?" John tugged his vest down and tucked one hand up behind his head, looking amused at the thought and for all the world as if he had no intention of doing any such thing.
"Yes," Sherlock said, fretting now because had he really read this so stupendously wrong? Inconceivable. He might not be a genius when it came to relationships, but he damn well knew about sex, and John had definitely been broadcasting on that channel.
He must have looked as vulnerable as he felt, because John's expression softened and he said, "That's not a 'no', Sherlock." He sat up and patted his hair down. "That's a 'there are still some things we need to talk about'."
"Yes, fine, on the way then," Sherlock said, practically tapping his foot with impatience. There were so many things he could do while John ran through his spiel about safe sex and how they- Sherlock froze for a moment. Damn. He didn't actually have any condoms. But there were still lots of things they could do, he reassured himself, and anyway right now he wasn't interested in an orgasm per se, but in touching John's skin and reading what was written there and why was John still sitting on the sofa?
"No, Sherlock, seriously, you're not exactly making this any easier."
Sherlock pressed his lips together. John wasn't going to let it go until he was satisfied. Sherlock took a deep breath and rattled off: "I was last tested for HIV, syphilis, chlamydia, gonorrhoea, and hepatitis over five years ago and have not engaged in any risky activities since. You were tested for the same within the last year, likely within the past six months. You have never used intravenous drugs and have not had a sexual partner since your discharge from the army. Which does admittedly leave a small window in the period immediately prior to your injury, but you are conscientious - even overly so," he added with a pointed look, "and have never engaged in unprotected penetrative sex outside of a long-term relationship, which we have already established you have not had since your last screening. And now we really should be moving on to the bedroom, and if you've brought a condom so much the better, otherwise we will improvise for now."
John had the most curious expression on his face. Sherlock really didn't know how to parse it. John's next words were no help, either: "I don't know whether to laugh or punch you."
"Why would you do either?"
"Well, you've just roundly thrashed my masculinity, called me an anal retentive pisser, accused me of being incapable of maintaining a healthy relationship, and insinuated I'm a man-whore who'll sleep with anything with a pulse. Oh, and have condom, will fuck. On the other hand, full marks on all counts, so well done you."
"You do have a condom then? Excellent."
"No, not excellent, Sherlock," John said tightly. "Jesus. Look." John took a couple of deep breaths, looking at his feet with his hands braced on his knees. "Sit down."
Sherlock most definitely did not want to sit down. Sitting down was not moving toward more nakedness and silent communication. Sitting down was moving toward words that would not be flattering and very likely unpleasant emotions and quite possibly yelling.
"Please, just. Sit. You're giving me an inferiority complex with your-" John waved a hand in Sherlock's general direction. "Bloody elegant tallness. Even more than usual."
"The word is 'height'," Sherlock corrected him, but he sat down, if gracelessly, beside John. At least sitting down wasn't moving toward the door to leave.
John bumped his knee against Sherlock's, which was completely unexpected and made Sherlock's heart hiccup with a sort of limping hope.
John cleared his throat. "So. All that you said. About the health aspects. That's really good. You know, like I said, spot on. They screened me for HIV and hep before my surgery, and the other STIs were about ten months ago as part of my annual army physical, and I did always use a condom. And I um." John's hands were folded tightly. He licked his lips. "You were also right about the other- About no long-term relationship. Kind of hard to keep up when you're deployed, so. Not really in bad company there. But there were- God, this shouldn't be so hard, but there were quite a few others in there. Men and women. More than I'd care to own up to, to tell the truth. It was- I know it's not really an excuse, there were certainly plenty of lads who kept it in their pants or-"
"John, it's all right, you don't need to-" Sherlock tried to interrupt before both of them became even more uncomfortable. It really was fine. Sherlock didn't care one whit about what or whom John had done in the past. He certainly had his own share of ill-thought incidents that he'd undo if he could.
"No, I do," John spoke over him, and something in his voice made Sherlock let him continue. "Because it's like you said. I haven't had any kind of serious relationship in a very long time, and the last one I did have was with a woman and we were pretty much just kids, and I'm not saying it has to be any harder or even different with a man, but you're not just any man, are you?" John glanced at Sherlock with a wistful smile. "And I don't want to mess this up. It's probably silly of me, I mean we've only known each other a few weeks, but this feels different so far. In a good way. A really good way." John grimaced and looked away. "Sorry, this is probably more than you signed on for."
"Don't tell me what I want, or what I can handle," Sherlock responded automatically, but the irritation was just a cover for the whirl of thoughts that John's ramble had provoked. He'd used the words 'serious relationship'. Did he really mean he was thinking of some kind of labelled partnership with Sherlock? Something that might still exist after the holidays? Potentially even months from now? Sherlock hadn't even dared consider anything beyond the next day.
It was dizzying. It was impossible. John was in a vulnerable phase. He was the kind of person who needed bonds. In the army that role had been filled by his fellow soldiers - not the ones he slept with, but the ones whose backs he covered, the ones he protected, the ones he was willing to die for. His discharge had cut him off and set him adrift. He was simply seeking another place to fit in, another way of feeling connected and needed and supported. Sherlock was absolutely the wrong person for that. He knew that, and John would realise it soon enough. But until then, it was seductive, the idea of having John all to himself.
"I wasn't-" But John cut himself off, sighing. "Yeah, you're right. It's my problem, not yours." He straightened up and slapped his hand on his leg. "So, that's my piece said. Sort of the tip of the Watson iceberg, if you will," he finished with a lopsided smile.
An iceberg: a very apt analogy, this time. Sherlock already knew he was going to be broken, perhaps even destroyed, by this man. And yet here he was, sailing full-speed ahead on a collision course.
"If you think any of that will put me off, you don't know me very well," Sherlock said.
John became very still. His breaths were shallow and his hands were gripping his thighs. His eyes met Sherlock's, steady and deep. "I don't."
Sherlock's own heart rate quickened. "What – you don't think that will put me off, or you don't know me?"
"Both," John answered almost before Sherlock had finished speaking. "But I think we're alike in some ways." He slid his hands down his legs and pressed them together. "And if there's one thing that will make me come running, it's danger."
"What about the bomb technician?"
John appeared thrown for a moment. "What do you mean?"
"You said, in the army, when a bomb technician was running away you'd follow him to safety."
John's look of confusion turned sly. "I never said he was running away." His eyes dropped to Sherlock's lips and his mouth followed.
This time, John's hands went blindly to Sherlock's shirt as they kissed, deftly opening the buttons and peeling it away to expose him to his touch. John smoothed his palms up the entire expanse of Sherlock's flanks then down his back, covering great swaths and leaving goose bumps in their wake. Sherlock had known that John was a force to be reckoned with, someone who commanded respect through loyalty and trust rather than brute strength, but only now did he begin to understand the impact of what this rather unassuming man could bring to bear. Here was a man who could inspire confidence or break wills. Who could instil discipline or incite chaos. Whom men and women would die for. Or live for.
This time, it was John who laid Sherlock out and kissed and touched and elicited gasps. Who stroked and laved and spoke with his skin.
This time, it was John who said, "I think you said something about a bed," low and breathy against Sherlock's navel.
Sherlock slowly returned to his living room. He was stretched out on his back on the sofa, one foot on the ground. John was lying between his legs, his elbows braced on either side of Sherlock's hips and his chin hovering over the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. He was bare on top as well - when had he taken his shirt and his vest off? Surely Sherlock should have noticed that. John dipped his head to touch his nose to the swollen length inside Sherlock's trousers.
Sherlock lifted his hand to thread his fingers through John's hair. John inhaled deeply and mouthed at the material, just enough so that Sherlock felt a teasing pressure.
"We can stay here if you're more comfortable," John said without looking up. "Or I can stop."
"No," Sherlock said immediately. God, no. Awful thought. He withdrew his hand and moved his legs, just enough to indicate that John needed to get up first.
John stood up - both legs steady, his wounded shoulder far less spectacular than Sherlock had imagined, a soft swell of flesh above his belt - and for a brief moment, Sherlock experienced a backwards kind of déjà-vu: it was the feeling that he knew this scene from the future. A future in which John lived here, with him, and they were on their way to bed – their bed - at the end of the evening.
John would use the bathroom first while Sherlock put on his pyjamas, and then Sherlock would take his turn while John got settled. And maybe Sherlock would wander back down to the living room if he still had something on that held his interest, or maybe he would slide into bed beside John; and then maybe they would make love, familiar and steady and still taking Sherlock's breath away. Or maybe they would turn the light off and Sherlock would tell John the things he'd discovered and thought about and wondered that day, and John would smile against his shoulder and tell him he was daft and mad and brilliant.
But that was then. A flash of quantum possibility.
Sherlock stood up too, curled over John and kissed him with the remnants of his dissolving vision, then turned and went upstairs, turning off the lights as he went. John was silent behind him, and four paws pattered hesitantly at the rear.
"God, Gladstone's going to watch, isn't he?" John muttered once they'd reached the landing. Everything was dark now, although there was enough light coming in through the windows for them to navigate by.
"He does generally sleep next to me," Sherlock told him.
"As long as he's not going to try to join in. I may be bisexual, but I have to draw the line."
Sherlock grinned, even though John couldn't see it. "Noted."
In the bedroom, Gladstone immediately jumped on the bed and started circling, but Sherlock shooed him off before he could settle. That might turn out to be something of a problem.
He went through to the en suite, urinated, brushed his teeth, and gave himself a once-over with a wet flannel. In the medicine cabinet, he found an unopened sample of lotion some salesperson must have tossed in with another purchase.
When he returned, John had turned the light on and was sitting on the edge of the bed in his pants, looking through a pile of books on the floor. Gladstone was sitting at attention a couple of feet away, watching John sceptically. There was a rectangular plastic packet on the corner of the nightstand that hadn't been there before. Sherlock set the lotion next to it.
"'From Hemlock to Botox'?" John asked. "'The Poisoner's Handbook'? I'm starting to re-think that soju."
"I drank it too," Sherlock reminded him.
"Yes, but you've probably spent the past five years building up an immunity to iocane powder."
Sherlock took a moment to sift through his memory, but couldn't find a match.
"Another movie reference," John explained in response to Sherlock's quizzical look.
"A movie about poison?" Sherlock was mildly hopeful. The other movies John had referenced hadn't sounded very interesting.
"Only a small part. It's more of a love story."
"Dull," Sherlock said dismissively and flopped down on the bed behind John. He plucked at the waistband of John's underwear. "You've still got your pants on."
"Oi, look at you," John teased, slapping lightly at Sherlock's trouser-clad legs.
Sherlock undid his flies, lifted his hips and pulled off his trousers and pants together, kicking them away onto the floor.
John stared down at him, his eyes becoming very dark. Sherlock's penis had softened and lay sideways across his groin. John reached out and ran his hand down Sherlock's torso, from his neck over his chest and abdomen and finally over his genitals, just brushing the surface. Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled sharply with the renewed stirrings of arousal.
"Right," John said thickly. "Just... hold that thought. Exactly like that."
He went into the bathroom. Sherlock got up to turn off the light, then got back into bed. Gladstone came over, ready to jump up and take his usual spot across Sherlock's feet, but Sherlock told him to stay down. Gladstone sighed and went to curl up somewhere else. Maybe he should get a dog bed. It was all so domestic, it was downright surreal. When he'd had sex in the past, it had always been fast and illicit and dirty, rarely safe and sometimes not even entirely consensual. He'd never calmly invited someone into his home and his bed like this, with the prospect not only of having sex but of waking up together the next morning.
The bathroom door opened. It was suddenly very still.
"Leave the light on," Sherlock said. His voice didn't sound loud enough to reach across the room, but John understood, leaving the door just far enough ajar to allow a diffuse glow into the bedroom. He had taken his pants off, and as he walked back to the bed, his erect penis bobbed in front of him. An answering tingle zinged down through Sherlock's chest into his balls at the sight. John stopped at the foot of the bed.
"Gorgeous," he said, taking in the sight of Sherlock reclining against the headboard, the covers carelessly pooled around him.
Sherlock deliberately put his hand around his penis and pulled at it lazily while watching John, side-lit from the bathroom, encouraging the nascent arousal.
"I want you in my mouth," John said. Sherlock pumped a little faster. John's penis twitched sympathetically in the air where he stood.
"Come here then," Sherlock told him.
John crawled up the bed until he was perched over Sherlock on all fours, too far up to take him in his mouth though. Instead, he dipped down to catch Sherlock's mouth with his, playing with his lips and tongue for a while. Sherlock was so thoroughly distracted, he didn't notice John had picked up the condom until he sat back on Sherlock's thighs and ripped the packet open. He still didn't entirely realise what John was going to do until he started unrolling the condom over Sherlock. Sherlock was about to object - he'd really rather been looking forward to it the other way round - but they only had the one condom, and John wasn't going to risk getting semen in his mouth. Despite their clean bills of health and everything else John had said, they weren't actually in a committed relationship and John had said he was always, always careful. Right, yes.
John bent forward again to kiss Sherlock and run his hands over his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen, stroking and squeezing firmly. He followed with his mouth, pausing to give special attention to Sherlock's neck, his nipples, a spot that was apparently particularly sweet along his ribs, until without further preamble he encased Sherlock's stiff member in sudden heat. He withdrew to gather saliva, then sank down again, working the moisture around with his tongue until the condom was thoroughly slick and the slide in and out of his mouth was smooth. Then he nudged Sherlock's legs further apart and settled down between them, his left hand playing with Sherlock's balls and his right steadying the base of his cock while he sucked and licked.
It was incredible. Sherlock's entire world narrowed down to the space around John. It wasn't even the physical sensations alone. It was the fact that John was doing this, that he was watching his cock disappear in the half-light into John's mouth; that all of John's noteworthy attention was focused on him and on pleasuring him, and that he was clearly enjoying himself thoroughly in the process.
Sherlock needed to do something; it was impossible to lie there and not have anything to do with his hands or his mouth, so he reached up behind himself to grip the headboard to give an outlet to some of the tension building in him. John glanced up to see what he'd done, and scooted in closer so Sherlock could move up as well, giving him a better hold.
John had been at it a couple of minutes now, and Sherlock had reached a kind of plateau, feeling very good but nothing that would herald an imminent climax. He squirmed his hips, trying to get just a little more stimulation, a little more pressure, to ratchet up the sensation.
John pulled off and nodded at the lotion sample. "Open that for me, would you?"
Sherlock picked it up and broke the seal on the little bottle, unscrewed the lid and held it out to John. John held out his left hand, palm up. "Just on my fingers."
Sherlock squeezed out a thin squiggle.
"More, come on, these are going in your arse."
Sherlock squeezed the bottle until John's fingers were coated and dripping. He may have overdone it a bit in his enthusiasm.
John looked up at Sherlock, suddenly hesitant. "You have had-"
"Yes," Sherlock snapped and pulled his knees up in demonstration. In fact, he'd always bottomed - mainly as it took less effort. He didn't have to coordinate or think, he only had to relax his body, and then he was free to enjoy the effects on his mind of whatever drug he'd taken. He'd also had sex with Victor several times while not under the influence - all right, not much under the influence - and mainly found it sweaty and a lot of effort for a minor reward. He'd not seen the point in banging away at another body when he got the same outcome from lying on his back contemplating the ceiling, or bent over with his face buried in the crook of his arm to block out any annoying visual input.
John smiled and brought his hand down between Sherlock's legs, cupping it to preserve as much of the lotion as possible.
"This is going to be chilly at first, sorry." Which made it sound like a prostate exam, and John was right: it was cold but his finger went in smoothly.
"All right?" John asked.
It wasn't painful, but it also wasn't very interesting. "Yes," Sherlock said, because John only meant the painful part. It was - Well, Sherlock supposed, he shouldn't have expected sex with John to be any different. It was still just two bodies doing what bodies did.
John kissed Sherlock's thigh while he moved his finger slowly in and out. Sherlock felt the sensitive muscle there contracting and releasing reflexively, sending signals forward to his balls as well. John circled there for a while at Sherlock's entrance, gently probing and stretching and slowly becoming much, much more interesting.
While Sherlock had had partners - for lack of a better word for the dealers, fellow addicts, and deluded romantics he'd let fuck him - who took the time to prepare him, it was always for the purpose of getting their cock inside. No one had ever done it specifically because they thought Sherlock might like it, or simply because they enjoyed touching him. But John was apparently fascinated, his pink tongue protruding just a bit from between his teeth as he watched his finger breaching Sherlock's body, trying different angles and pressure points to find out what made Sherlock tense and what made him squirm and what made him hold his breath and reach for his cock.
"Go ahead, I want to see you touch yourself," John said. "I'm going to put another finger in too, okay?"
Sherlock nodded and picked up his cock. The condom was drying and slightly tacky. He retrieved the lotion and squeezed out another handful, nearly emptying the bottle.
"A little more for me too," John said, holding his hand up. Sherlock obliged, then tossed the bottle aside and closed his eyes and wrapped his hand around himself. He'd never masturbated with a condom on before. It was slightly odd, if interesting because unfamiliar.
John was working both fingers deeper inside Sherlock now, and Sherlock wondered briefly why, if he wasn't going to fuck him, and then there was a flash of intense pleasure, almost too sharp. Sherlock's back arched off the bed. John pulled his fingers back, but not out.
"Too much?"
"No, good, very good," Sherlock managed, pushing down onto John's fingers to get them back where they were. He squeezed and pulled on his cock at the same time, trying to get a rhythm going.
John pushed in again, a little more gently this time, until he found the spot again. Sherlock groaned and bore down onto John's hand.
"Yeah, just like that," John said. Sherlock felt him shifting and opened his eyes. John was sitting up now, his knees spread to cradle Sherlock's arse, one hand still working inside Sherlock and the other pumping his own cock.
Sherlock very nearly came right then. He clamped his hand down at the base of his cock and waited, hardly breathing, while John stilled his left hand inside Sherlock's arse and ramped up the strokes on himself with his right.
"I want you to fuck me," Sherlock said.
"I will, God, soon, but we don't have another condom tonight."
Sherlock frantically ran through all of his past experiments and the drawers and cupboards throughout the house stuffed full with the detritus and leftovers of five years of attempts to keep himself occupied - had he never done anything with condoms? It seemed an egregious oversight. Although he didn't think John would agree to use five-year-old condoms anyway. One of them could go to the store - or maybe there was someone who owed Sherlock a favour, whom he could text and have them -
"Fuck, Sherlock, can I move again? I'm so close."
Sherlock shook his head. He didn't want John to ever move. It was perfect like this, just perfect, he needed to stay like that until they got a condom so he could put that beautiful cock up Sherlock's arse, and even then he didn't want him to move because then it would be over and there was no telling what would happen in the morning. "Stay like this," Sherlock said, knowing it was futile. "Just stay."
John bent his head and squeezed his eyes shut and slowed his hand but didn't stop completely. "Fuuuuck," he exhaled.
Sherlock saw there was nothing he could do to stop it, short of knocking John to the floor and making for a very different end to the evening.
"John, come here, come here," he said quickly, tugging at John's arm until he stopped jerking off and opened his eyes. "Come here, together." Sherlock reached for John's cock.
"You are a certified genius." John withdrew his fingers from Sherlock's arse and wiped them hastily on the sheet. There was a brief flurry of limbs as they rearranged so that John was straddling Sherlock's hips and leaning forward to brace himself with his hands on either side of Sherlock's shoulders. "Go on then."
Sherlock wished he knew where the lotion was - there were probably a few drops left - but he wasn't about to go searching for it now. He smeared the rest of what was on his hand onto John, and John shifted around over him until Sherlock was able to get his hand around both of them.
"Oh yeah, that's nice," John practically purred as Sherlock started moving his hand. John dropped down onto one elbow so he could kiss Sherlock. "You're bloody amazing."
From Sherlock's vantage point, the sentiment was entirely mutual. "John," he said between kisses, repeating it like a mantra, "John." It was hard to maintain a good grip on both of them - and he could really have used some more lubrication - but he discovered that if he held his hand steady and thrust his hips up into it instead, it worked better. John caught on and tried to coordinate his own movements with Sherlock's. He'd been close before, surely it wouldn't take much-
"A little more, yeah, like that, just a little more," John panted, his hips jerking out of sync as he tried to maximise his friction.
Sherlock dropped his cock out of the hold so he could encircle John more firmly, and blindly fumbled with his free hand to find John's nipple - the left one - and pinched, fairly hard. At the same time he gave him the filthiest kiss he could muster, while willing everything he was getting from John to reflect back through it.
John gasped and ducked away from the kiss to muffle himself in Sherlock's neck, and then something wet was on Sherlock's stomach, and everything was slipperier. John was making little high-pitched sounds in his throat, and Sherlock kept stroking him, quick and firm, until his breathing changed and the tension started to leech out of his shoulders.
John flumped down, landing half on top of Sherlock. He tilted Sherlock's head with his hand on Sherlock's chin and kissed him slowly and thoroughly. Sherlock couldn't really appreciate it, though, as his cock was still screaming for attention. He picked it up again, aware that the slickness on it now was mostly from John, which wasn't entirely hygienic but he honestly couldn't be arsed. He jerked at himself, hard and fast, while John lifted himself up on one arm and stared down at him.
"Yeah, Sherlock, just like that, come on, I want to see you."
"John … John," Sherlock pleaded, not even knowing what he was asking for.
"I'm right here, look at me."
Sherlock looked up, and John was there, just like he'd said, and Sherlock fell in and his climax flooded through him and through him and the next thing he knew John's arms were around him holding him tight against his chest.
They stayed like that, Sherlock's heart still racing and a distant ache coalescing under his heart that made him want to wrap John up and put him somewhere safe, but that wouldn't be satisfying either because then John wouldn't be with him and it would be wholly impractical to bind him around his neck like a St Christopher medal. He was both frustrated and stupidly happy. He knew this was just evolution ensuring the survival of the species - even without offspring coming into play, a bonded pair was more likely to survive than a loner. He didn't want to feel this way, and at some level there was a festering resentment and more than a little fear that he could lose it all in the blink of an eye (most likely through some stupendous blunder on his part), but that didn't stop him, at that moment, from recognising that he could live with this, and that if he were quite honest, he wasn't sure how he could live without it again.
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End note: Bacha bazi is culturally institutionalised sexual slavery and child prostitution (particularly the homosexual exploitation of underage males) which apparently is still extant in Afghanistan today. I do not mean to imply that either Sherlock or John would take a personal interest in participating in it, merely that it is a subject they might discuss.
"The Poisoner's Handbook" by Deborah Blum is a non-fiction book in the true crime genre that investigates the beginnings of forensic toxicology in the early twentieth century. I thought it looked exactly like the kind of thing Sherlock would enjoy. "Poisons: From Hemlock to Botox to the Killer Bean of Calabar" by Peter Macinnes is a 'popular science' book about poisons.
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Date: 2013-11-01 02:11 pm (UTC)I've recently bought the movie with Martin Freeman, but I haven't found the time to watch it yet. Perhaps I'll wait a bit longer until we're closer to Christmas, so that it'll fit the mood. :)
Looking forward to the next chapters of this!
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Date: 2013-11-01 02:20 pm (UTC)I hope you enjoy the movie too!
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Date: 2013-11-03 09:51 pm (UTC)It’s lovely to see Sherlock actually begin to realise that a relationship is possible and that he does care for John in more ways than he could ever have expected.
”"It's better than attractive, John. It's interesting.”
*grin* He never gives up! And he keeps on thinking and analysing until it’s almost unbearably frustrating and then . . . he completely gives himself over to John and allows John to do the same, and it was all fine and more than fine.
It was also quite delicious seeing both of them having small thoughts about having a future together . . . I sincerely hope so!
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Date: 2013-11-04 05:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-11-18 08:36 am (UTC)Found this part really beautiful:
A future in which John lived here, with him, and they were on their way to bed – their bed - at the end of the evening.
John would use the bathroom first while Sherlock put on his pyjamas, and then Sherlock would take his turn while John got settled. And maybe Sherlock would wander back down to the living room if he still had something on that held his interest, or maybe he would slide into bed beside John; and then maybe they would make love, familiar and steady and still taking Sherlock's breath away. Or maybe they would turn the light off and Sherlock would tell John the things he'd discovered and thought about and wondered that day, and John would smile against his shoulder and tell him he was daft and mad and brilliant.
*happy sighs*
And Gladstone in the bedroom with them was funny! :D Loved Sherlock's reaction to John's scar and of course I giggled at the Princess Bride reference (and the earlier Inconceivable!). :D
Can't really do justice to this chapter but soooo enjoyed it!!! Thank you so much! I'll store this away to re-read when we get to the sad bits.
no subject
Date: 2013-11-18 10:25 am (UTC)The little deja-future thingie was one of my favorite parts of this chapter, too. :D
Thank you!