Chapter Text
Without another word, John takes Sherlock by the hand and leads him across the sitting room, down the hall to the bedroom, the draught of cool air in the hallway raising gooseflesh on his bare skin with each step.
In his preoccupied mental state, John had neglected to shut off the lights when he left the bathroom earlier. Now, the amber-tinted light filters softly through the frosted glass of the door, giving the bedroom a dreamy, shadowed aura as he turns to face Sherlock, his fingers still tangled with Sherlock’s much longer ones.
“Now, you were saying something about that wet shirt?” John says, a note of gentle teasing in his voice.
Sherlock hesitates for just the briefest moment before releasing John’s fingers in order to grasp at the hem of his shirt with both hands, pulling it up and over his head in one graceful motion before tossing it carelessly to the floor. He looks down at John, draws in a slightly shaky breath.
“Better?” he asks, and John doesn’t miss the hint of bravado, a false front that doesn’t do a thing to disguise his visible nervousness.
“Not just better,” John breathes, quiet, hushed with awe. “Sherlock. You’re perfect.”
He means it, with every fibre of his being. Sherlock’s body is surpassingly, stunningly lovely by every objective standard, and although before the the day they met John had never once thought to apply that adjective to a man -- attractive, yes, or handsome, or even hot, but never lovely -- it’s the absolute truth.
Sherlock is beautiful, uniquely so, gangly limbs and manic energy balanced by an innate, improbable grace -- a lithe, sinuous appeal that is surprisingly sensuous yet always primally, fundamentally male, never feminine in any aspect. Sherlock is absolutely, undeniably, gorgeously masculine in every manner and form, from his strong dark brows to the set of his shoulders, the flat planes of this torso, the narrow set of his slim hips.
And even though John knows that love and desire and associated hormones are the driving forces behind these overwrought mental rhapsodies, it doesn’t change the fact that for him, these feelings are absolute fundamental truth.
Sherlock’s bare flesh is not entirely new to him, of course. John has seen him without clothing before, of course he has, doctored him on too many occasions to count, thrown him bodily into the shower on a remarkably regular basis, after misadventures involving blood and mud and much worse, but this--this is different, so very different, the air between them charged with arousal and erotic intent as Sherlock holds himself still, alert and watchful, silver-green eyes a bit uncertain but not fearful as he allows John to look at him for as long as he wants.
And John wants, he does. He wants more in this moment than he could ever put into words, wants endlessly, as his eyes roam across miles of ivory pale flesh, taking in every dip and curve, every detail of Sherlock’s physical being.
His torso is long and lean, shoulders broad, the flat plains chest layered with just enough muscle to keep him on the right side of too thin. A stripe of pale white scar peeks over the curve of his right deltoid; John reaches up, tracing the line made by a cruel whip with a feather light touch of a thumb. The sight triggers a brief silver stab of pain in John’s heart, blade-sharp sorrow at the thought of the similar sibling scars just out of sight, crisscrossing Sherlock’s muscular back, a silent testament to the horror he’s endured, both those John knows of -- and those as yet untold.
Don’t, he tells himself firmly. Now isn’t the time for dwelling on what cannot be changed. John bites his lip, shuts the unpleasant thoughts away, and tries to focus on the here and now as he continues his visual survey down Sherlock’s body. The expanse of skin below his sharp collarbones is marked with a surprising number of brown freckles; most are flat, but one or two of them have raised edges, needing monitoring in future --
(-- Not now, doctor, he tells himself curtly, and shuts away the stray thought.)
His gaze slipping lower, John takes in the firm, barely rounded curves of Sherlock’s pectorals, the spare dusting of dark hair between them, the layer of defined muscle only slightly softening the outline of his ribcage. His nipples are slightly oval, dark pink and hardened.
And between them, just slightly to the right of his sternum, lies the neat, circular scar where a psychopath’s bullet had come within hairsbreadth of ending Sherlock’s life.
John stares at it for a long time. He cannot tear his eyes away, it seems, his mouth going dry and his throat tightening at that perfectly round divot of tough white tissue. It’s so much more than a scar, he sees that now -- it’s testament to the hell they’ve walked through to get here, a perfect symbol of the desperate, tragic unfairness of what Sherlock’s beautifully scarred body has had to endure in order to bring them to this place.
In a single moment everything tilts, goes off balance; the sheer weight of it all, the responsibility of caring for Sherlock properly, of righting the terrible wrongs done to him -- it suddenly feels like more than John can possibly bear. It’s all too much, it’s overwhelming, and everything he’s pushed away comes roaring back. Every fear and doubt and bitter regret suddenly feels far too dangerous, too close to the surface. A wave of emotional vertigo crashes over him, a tsunami of aching grief and sorrow that threatens to undo him completely; all this and more must be written all over his face right now, judging by the way Sherlock’s brows knit together as he looks down at him with undisguised concern.
“John?” he asks, voice soft and full of concerned, his tone gentler than anything John once thought possible. “You look like--what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Sherlock,” John breathes, forcing the two syllables out from a tight, constricted throat, past suddenly parched lips. “I’m, just, I’m -- ” his voice cracks on the last syllable; his vision goes blurry and grey at the edges and he must actually sway on his feet, a little, because the next thing he knows long arms are wrapping around him, pulling him in close, until their bare chests are pressed together. Sherlock’s warmth surrounds him, his heartbeat under his ear, John’s now-soft penis pressing against Sherlock’s thigh, and all of this somehow this strikes John as more purely, nakedly intimate than anything else that has happened so far.
This passing thought, out of everything, is what threatens to crack him in two, undo him completely, and he lets out a single harsh, choked off sob.
“No, I’m okay,” John rasps, but it’s a lie, a stupidly obvious lie, his voice thick and choked with unshed tears. “I am. I am. I’m -- ” His exhale is choked, ragged. “No,” he finally admits, as much to himself as to Sherlock. “I’m not okay, am I? But it’s not -- I’m not panicking. This looks like a panic attack, doesn’t it? It’s not. I’m not panicking.”
“I know,” Sherlock murmurs, low and soothing, stroking his back, roughened fingertips tracing up and down the length of John’s spine. “I know. It’s all right.”
To think he once believed this man didn’t feel things like that; John feels a flash of hot shame for how he had underestimated Sherlock so terribly for so long, and that surge of feeling is followed by another of those small, unexpected but shattering epiphanies, a moment of sharp clarity that changes the very landscape of his heart.
You want him to let you in? Then maybe for once you need to let him in.
“I so much want to be everything you need,” John says into the warm skin of Sherlock’s bare shoulder, the truth spilling out of him before he can give in to the urge to take it back, shut it down, shove it away. “I want to fix it all, make everything better, make everything right. I want this to be perfect for you, more than anything, and I’m afraid of screwing it up, of frightening you or upsetting you, and I don’t know what the hell I’m even doing, and -- and -- ” he draws a deep, shuddering breath, tries to get his careening emotions under control. “Fuck, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to -- ”
Sherlock shushes into his hair, rubs gentle circles into his back.
John closes his eyes and presses his forehead into Sherlock’s chest. He’s somehow surprised by the wetness flowing from his eyes, spilling over onto his cheeks, wetting Sherlock’s skin as John gives himself over to the embrace, allows Sherlock to give him comfort in this moment of unexpected confusion and anxiety.
He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s slender waist; they hold each other tightly for a long time, entwined in each other, swaying almost imperceptibly as John weeps, silently, against Sherlock’s warm soft skin.
“You’ve shouldered so much of my burden,” Sherlock murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of ear, voice just barely above a whisper. “So much, and so bravely.”
“Not all the time,” John rasps. “Sometimes I shout and stomp away, or do or say things I regret -- ”
“I don’t care,” Sherlock cuts him off, quiet but emphatic, enunciating every syllable. “I don’t give a damn if you're not perfect. I don’t want perfect. I never have. I just want you.”
Something in John’s chest loosens at Sherlock’s words; the feeling is like letting out a breath he hadn’t even known he’d been holding.
“Me, too,” he sighs against warm skin as he tightens his arms around Sherlock’s waist in response. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s collarbone, then nestles his head against the curve of his long neck, marveling how perfectly they fit together like this, like two matched pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Sherlock rubs John’s shoulders, kisses his hair.
“Well, then,” he murmurs, his warm baritone of his voice vibrating against John’s rib cage. “Glad that’s sorted.”
John is quiet for a moment, as his roiling emotions settle a bit. Finally he takes a deep breath, shakes his head, laughs a bit self consciously as he swipes at wet eyes with the back of his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says, somewhat abashed. “I don’t know what came over me; I really don’t.”
“It’s okay,” Sherlock replies, pressing another kiss onto the top of his head. “It truly is. Fear simply means you’re wise enough to know the scope of what you’re getting yourself into. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
John can’t help but laugh.
“Did you just call me...wise?” he asks, his tone teasing.
Sherlock tilts his head, gives John one of his genuine smiles, the one that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. “I believe I just did.”
“Unbelievable,” John says, stretching upwards to press his mouth to those smiling lips. Sherlock’s hand comes up and cups the back of his head as he kisses him back, thoroughly, and though the kiss begins in tenderness and caring, it soon grows passionate, hungry and seeking, as all their kisses seem to inevitably do.
“So,” Sherlock says breathlessly after they break apart for air. “Do you still...um...” he trails off, self-conscious, then quirks an eyebrow just a tick and grins a bit at his own awkwardness. “You know. Want to?”
John laughs, a little shakily. “God, yes.” He looks up at Sherlock, assessing. “Do you?”
“I do,” Sherlock says. “God, yes. Absolutely.”
“Maybe we should be a bit more...I mean...horizontal?” John offers.
Sherlock nods, huffs a tiny chuckle as he pulls John into him, walks them backwards, shuffling them clumsily to the unmade bed until the backs of his knees touch the mattress then tumbling both of them into it, landing gracelessly on his back as John ends up sprawled inelegantly on top of him. With a grunt John rights himself, throwing a leg over Sherlock’s hips, leveraging himself up onto his knees and elbows.
He brushes a stray dark curl away from Sherlock’s forehead as the mood shifts into something more fraught, more serious. Sherlock’s white rounded teeth worry at his pink lower lip, as he runs fingers up and then down against the side of John’s forearm, tracing the outline of his flexed brachioradialis muscle.
“Is this all right?” John asks.
Sherlock’s eyes gaze up at him, dark grey and somber in the low light. He nods in wordless assent.
John turns his palm upwards, catches Sherlock’s hand in his, tangles their fingers together, splaying them out against the cream coloured sheets.
“Can I kiss you again?” he murmurs.
“You can always kiss me,” Sherlock murmurs in reply.
So John does.
Sherlock tilts his head upwards to meet the kiss, his plush lips parting in irresistible invitation, his tongue slipping out to meet and tangle with John’s as the kiss grows more heated. His free hand comes up to cradle the side of John’s head as the urgency and need between them begins to rise yet again.
After a few delightful minutes of snogging John breaks away slightly, then takes Sherlock’s wet, pouty lower lip in between between his teeth and tugs gently, then soothing the nip with a tiny swipe of his tongue before sliding his mouth to the underside of his jaw, stubble prickly-warm against his mouth as he tastes him there.
“Can I kiss you here?” John murmurs against hot, sandpaper rough skin.
Sherlock nods and tips his head up and to the side, allowing John better access as he moves lower, presses a line of kisses down the right side of that impossibly long throat. He savours the feel of his pulse jumping underneath his lips, bends his head to lick and nibble eagerly at damp curve at the juncture of neck and shoulder as Sherlock‘s fingers spasmodically clutch at the back of his head, his lean frame shivering underneath the weight of John’s body as his hips stutter and push upward, instinctively seeking contact and pressure and friction.
John bends his head, dips a wet tongue into the hollow of a prominent collarbone, gives a small sigh of gratification at the sharp, primal taste of the skin there, salt and soap, ocean and musk.
“And here?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” Sherlock exhales, the word a bare susurration of breath escaping his lips.
He’s completely hard again, his erection pushing insistently against John’s lower belly with each flex of his hips. John’s own recently-satisfied cock is still mostly soft, but this slow, reverent worship of Sherlock’s body is, in and of itself, deeply erotic to John, making his prick twitch and thicken and fill despite his usual decidedly middle-aged refractory period. His own recent (and rather spectacular) orgasm keeps his own arousal at a low simmer, prevents it from boiling over; instead, his desire is a languorous heat low in his belly, sensual but not demanding, giving John the the luxury of focusing purely on Sherlock, attending to his every shiver and gasp and sigh, reading the signs of his body, giving to him without needing to take, making sure he feels entirely safe, cared for, loved.
Everything about this moment, about Sherlock shivering and sighing underneath him, vulnerable and damaged, brave and trusting and so utterly, completely his -- it triggers every single one of John’s primal instincts, every nerve ending alight with a fierce possessive devotion he never knew existed in this world, a shimmering, transcendent feeling he now knows he can never again live without.
“You’re so beautiful,” John breathes into his skin, all emotional filters demolished as he trails feather light kisses down the swell of his right pectoral. “Look at you, my God, so beautiful. You feel so good -- you taste so good -- ”
Sherlock’s strong fingers weave through his hair, wrap around the sides of his skull, urge him on wordlessly, pulling him in close and keeping John’s mouth in contact as his body arches and writhes underneath him. Understanding the unspoken message that his lips and mouth are safe and welcomed, John laves the perimeter of a dark pink areolae, is rewarded by the feel of responsive flesh tightening under the flat sweep of his tongue as Sherlock gasps in pleasure. John does it again, and again, tracing swirling patterns into the pebbled flesh with the pointed tip of his tongue, then swirling around the hard nub of nipple once, twice, a third time, before pulling it into his mouth and suckling greedily. He is rewarded by Sherlock’s ragged, gulping breaths as he grinds his pelvis hard against John’s in lascivious response.
The sounds of Sherlock’s pleasure urging him on, John settles in for a long leisurely stay, alternating attentive suction with gentle flicks of his tongue, then pulling back to blow a stream cooling air over the wet rosy tip before pulling it back into his mouth to worry it gently with his teeth before then repeating the process over again on the other side.
As Sherlock responds so beautifully to his ministrations, squirming and sighing underneath him, John finds himself distantly surprised how very, very enjoyable he finds this careful, reverent oral worship of Sherlock’s nipples. John has always had a very pronounced oral fixation and had been fairly partial to female breasts, liked the feel and weight of them, and had once or twice wondered in passing if he’d miss them if he ever decided to be with a man (Sherlock, let’s be honest, it was always Sherlock) permanently -- but he’d never been as aroused by any female breast as much as he is right now by the wonders of Sherlock’s body, the contrast of soft skin over hard muscle, the way creamy pale and smooth meets tightly pebbled and dusky pink, the exquisite sensitivity of them, how the barest caress of his tongue makes Sherlock shiver and gasp in response.
He could spend hours here, days here, in adoration of this beautiful man -- but Sherlock seems restless, almost in distress, his shivers turning to full body shudders, his breathing gone harsh and ragged.
“John,” he breathes out in between gasping breaths. “John, John, John.”
John presses a final kiss just to the right of Sherlock’s sternum, just above that hateful round scar, and raises his head. “Yes, love. Tell me.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer in words, instead thrusting his hips upward, grinding his still-clothed erection hard against John’s chest and shoving hard on his shoulder in an unmistakable (and frankly rather crude, but John will forgive, considering) nonverbal request.
John can’t help but chuckle just a little. “You want me to keep going, then?”
Sherlock draws a long, ragged breath, exhales.
“If you don’t,” he says, “I swear I will die.”
John gives a soft chuckle.
“Can’t have that,” he murmurs, amused, and begins to kiss his way down Sherlock’s belly, tracing the vertical dip of the linea alba bisecting his abdominals with his tongue, licking a circle around the tight involuted knot of his navel, gently worrying on the tiny bit of flesh right below with his teeth.
Sherlock’s prick is straining against layers of fabric, pressing into John’s sternum as John rubs the tip of his nose against the faint shadow of dark hair just below his navel, inhaling the slightly muskier scent there, then following with his tongue, tasting him, salty and slightly earthy on his tongue, following the trail with his tongue to where it disappears under the waist of his pyjama bottoms.
Sherlock’s hips thrust off the bed in stuttering, uncontrolled movements as he gasps and cries out; John raises his head, decides to take a chance before Sherlock’s flailing inadvertently whacks him in the side of his face with a lethally sharp iliac crest. He places his hands gently on the sharp ridge of hips, steadying him, fingers bracketing his lower flanks and thumbs pressing just slightly into the hollows on the inner aspect of his pelvic bone.
He’s a bit surprised when Sherlock immediately settles, seemingly grounded by the soothing yet firm pressure of John’s hands.
“Okay?” John asks.
Sherlock arches into his touch. “Mmm,” he breathes, nodding his assent.
John presses soft kisses to his trembling lower abdomen, then moves lower, nosing at the crease between his right leg and groin, pressing his face into the fabric of his pyjama bottoms, inhaling deeply, the scent of his clean musky maleness stronger here, mixing with the floral notes of detergent and soap, and the intimacy of it all, of smelling him like this, sends shivers of arousal down john’s spine, making his belly tense and tighten and and his cock spring back to full attention.
“Fuck, God, Sherlock,” he murmurs, the words half-muffled, “you make me crazy, you feel so good, you smell so fucking good.”
Sherlock doesn’t speak, but his breathing is shallow and rapid, and the hand on John’s shoulder moves to his hair, unsubtly pushes his head towards towards the prominent bulge in his pyjamas. John obeys the unspoken request gladly, pressing his face into his groin, rubbing first his cheek against the ridge of his stiff cock, and then his mouth, feeling the heat of it even through two layers of clothing. He carefully slides his mouth upwards, finding the head of Sherlock’s stiff cock, trapped in his pants and pressed upward, nearly flat against his pubic bone. He mouths and licks at it through the cloth, greedy and wanting, tasting a hint of bitter salt at the small damp patch of fabric as Sherlock writhes in silent pleasure underneath him.
And he has gone completely quiet, John belatedly realises; despite the hardness of his cock and the flexing of his hips, Sherlock hasn’t made a single sound for at least several minutes now, and the sudden awareness and understanding of what underpins the silence makes John’s heart ache more than a little.
John pauses in his careful ministrations, raises his head to look up at Sherlock’s face, his thumbs still rubbing gentle circles into the concave hollows of his hipbones.
Left arm thrown haphazardly over his face, Sherlock whines softly in his throat, frustration unmistakable as he shoves inelegantly at John’s shoulder with his right hand.
“I want to keep going,” John says. “I really, truly do. I want to undress you and kiss you all over, love, but I need to hear you say yes. Please? It’s important to me.”
Sherlock makes a low, distinctly annoyed sound. “Oh for the love of -- ” he rasps, irritation and need co-mingling in his tone, a mixture that is so uniquely him it makes John turn his head and smile into his elbow in fond amusement.
“John. Stop that, this isn’t funny.”
“Sorry, love. Of course it’s not funny. I’m sorry.” John kisses his lower belly in contrition. “Just tell me yes, and I’ll keep going.”
“Oh good God,” Sherlock groans. “Will you just -- yes. Okay? Please. Yes.”
John nods, presses his lips to the warm soft flesh of Sherlock’s lower belly one more time.
“In that case, then,” he says, half to himself, pivoting on one knee, climbing off Sherlock’s supine frame, kneeling at his side and hooking his fingers into the waist of both his pyjamas and briefs.
“Raise up a bit,” he murmurs.
Sherlock complies, lifting his arse off the bed as John eases the fabric carefully down his hips, manoeuvering carefully as he eases the elastic over his very prominent erection, watching in undisguised fascination as Sherlock’s very hard penis (smaller than John’s, slightly, but perfectly formed, the shaft veiny and dusky pink and the foreskin already retracted to reveal the purpling, wet head) springs free from the confinement of snug briefs.
John wiggles the pants and bottoms down and off Sherlock’s long slim legs, tossing them over the edge of the bed before carefully settling himself back in between his pale, wide spread thighs. He runs his hands lightly up down the lean, muscled length of his legs, from hips to knees, gazing with reverence at the lovely body beneath his fingertips.
Sherlock’s eager prick is so hard it’s nearly horizontal with his belly, rising from a charmingly, unexpectedly wild thatch of dark reddish hair. His scrotum is lightly furred as well, the thin skin stretched shiny tight over large, full, heavy testicles.
The wet head of Sherlock’s cock bobs gently against his concave lower abdomen with every trembling breath he takes, the movement of it transfixingly, hypnotically erotic to John’s eyes.
He is so beautiful, so unspeakably lovely in this moment, in his trust and vulnerability, his endless faith in John such a powerful repudiation of trauma and fear, and it makes John’s head swim and his breath hitch in his chest.
“Oh love,” John breathes, and bends his head to press his mouth to the warm crease where groin and thigh meet, nose pressing into coarse fragrant hair, breathing in the earthy, spicy musk of his body. “Oh lovely,” he repeats, not even fully aware he’s saying it, “Oh lovely, oh love.”
Sherlock’s only answer is ragged, almost plaintive whine and a single, convulsive twitch of his hips.
“Sherlock,” John murmurs, then licks at the crease with his tongue, the concentrated taste of him intoxicating, exploding in his brain. “Sweetheart. Can I -- ”
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes out, a universe of emotion and need contained in one ragged syllable.
John doesn’t hesitate, shifting himself slightly to engulf that lovely prick with his mouth, savouring the delicious friction of hot satiny skin across his lips as he takes him in fully. He misjudges slightly from years out of practice, though, and the head of Sherlock’s cock presses just a little too hard against the back of his mouth, making John cough and sputter from lack of practice.
“Sorry, I’m sorry,” Sherlock stutters. “Are you all right?”
John coughs again, then, clears his throat.
“I’m fine,” he assures Sherlock.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t hurt me. I promise. I’ve done this lots of times before.”
That brings Sherlock out of his daze enough that he picks up his head, looks down at John with a slightly lifted eyebrow.
“Lots of times?” he asks, voice slightly rough and breathless, but he still manages to somehow sound almost...condescendingly amused.
John’s eyebrows rise in incredulity as he gives Sherlock his best are you kidding me right now look.
“Well.” John tilts his head. “Yes. Problem?”
“Of course not. But...lots? Really?”
“Yes, lots,” John replies, carefully patient. “But do you think we could we possibly have this conversation at another time?”
“I just had no idea,” Sherlock says, sounding genuinely impressed.
“I’m just full of surprises,” John mock-growls, though he’s truly more amused than annoyed; he decides to end the conversation and show Sherlock exactly how much he can surprise him by swallowing his cock down to the root, mouth and lips working in tandem to make Sherlock gasp and arch upwards, hips stuttering, unable to stop himself from thrusting upwards at the intensity of the sensation.
Humming in satisfaction, John takes hold of Sherlock’s hips -- not trapping him nor restraining but anchoring him, keeping his hips still as John bobs his head, experimental, moving up to mouth and lick at the crown then sliding back down until his nose is pressed into rough fragrant hair, remembering the finer points of past blow jobs both received and given as he moves. He recalls now how much he likes the incomparable feel and taste of a cock hard and heavy in his mouth as his tongue caresses the vein on the underside of Sherlock’s shaft with each slide of his mouth then circles the head, tasting bitter salt as he flicks carefully at the slit.
Within moments John has reacquainted himself with the basics of fellatio, settling into a slow, steady rhythm, gentle, nothing fancy or complicated, a straightforward ebbing and flowing tide meant to carry him to his climax without teasing or frustrating him.
Underneath him Sherlock is still silent, save for his labored, panting breaths, his pelvis canting upward to meet each movement of John’s head. John attends to his task intently, savoring the taste of him, the heat and weight and slide of his cock a satisfying fullness in his mouth. He focuses every bit of his attention to this task, a pure single minded devotion to this simple act of giving Sherlock pleasure, giving him the bodily satisfaction he so very much deserves, giving him back a simple animal pleasure that has been tainted and sullied by coercion, by violation.
For long minutes the sounds of suction against wet flesh and the ragged breaths of straining exertion fill the otherwise silent room.
John works him patiently, slow long purposeful sucks, sliding down to the base then back up to the tip, tonguing his frenulum and licking slow whorls around the tip. Sherlock’s entire body shudders with each flex of his hips, his damp skin radiating heat, his abdominal muscles tremble and shake with exertion as he strains towards his elusive goal, as John’s jaw aches with effort.
“John,” Sherlock rasps, voice roughened and near pleading, as shockingly strong fingers weave into John’s hair, tugging him up, pulling him away from his task.
John acquiesces, releasing Sherlock’s cock with a loud wet slurp and scooting himself carefully up his body, keeping his weight on his knees and elbows as he trails gentle kisses up Sherlock’s neck, along the edge of his jaw, against his hot, sweat-damp temple.
“Talk to me, love,” he murmurs, tender and a little concerned. “Tell me what you need.”
Sherlock’s head is thrown back as he gasps for breath, damp curls plastered against his forehead, the mottled blotchy flush of arousal visible on his heaving chest.
“John. I can’t.” His deep gravelly voice is wound with tension, bordering on panicky. “I can’t.”
“It’s okay. Shh, it’s okay, you don’t have to. It’s fine.”
“No, I -- I want to. God, oh God -- ” on the edge of incoherence, Sherlock rolls his head from side to side, his breathing shallow and uneven. “I need to. John. Please. I need to. Please, it hurts, it aches, I need to -- ”
John tenderly brushes sweaty matted curls out of Sherlock’s eyes. “Shh. it’s all right. Lovely man. It’s all right.” He kisses Sherlock’s fever-hot forehead. “Can you show me?” he murmurs. “Can you show me where it hurts?”
Sherlock takes hold of John’s hand, brings it down between their bodies and shoves it inelegantly between his legs in desperate wordless need.
“Here?” John murmurs, gently cupping his heavy, swollen bollocks, thumb gently caressing the delicate, stretched-tight skin of his scrotum. He massages them with care, pushing them gently up against his body before releasing them to rest heavy in his palm.
Sherlock lets out a plaintive, raggedy whine, his eyes screwed tightly shut as his hips rise off the bed, seemingly of their own accord.
“Of course it aches,” John tells him, his voice low and wrecked with renewed arousal as he kisses his sternum, his belly. “You’re just full to bursting, aren’t you? Poor sweet thing.”
“John,” Sherlock moans, wrecked and pleading. “John, please.”
John rests his cheek against quivering skin of Sherlock’s belly, cupping and rolling his hot, heavy bollocks, listening to his tight, ragged breathing, considering how to best remedy his need.
“I have an idea,” he says after a bit of thought, climbing off Sherlock. He grabs a pillow and folds it in two, shoves it under his head as he lies back in the hopelessly tangled sheets.
“Get on top of me,” he instructs, direct and to the point, tugging on Sherlock’s hip. Sherlock obeys, somewhat clumsily, his heavy cock and full bollocks bumping against John’s chest as John guides him into position, Sherlock’s bony knees astride his torso, resting just under his armpits.
As he looks up at into his eyes, John can’t help but adore the way Sherlock looks right now: naked and sweaty, wild-haired and double-chinned, completely vulnerable, all self-awareness and reflexive defense mechanisms completely fallen to the wayside.
John knows he has never loved him more than in this moment.
He levers himself up, presses kisses to the hard pale stretch of Sherlock’s upper thigh.
“You’re so good,” John tells him, breathes the words into his salt-damp flesh as he brings his hands up to slide up the outside of his thighs, caressing his bare hips. “You’re so good, so safe. I won’t ever hurt you, I promise, not ever. Do you believe that?”
Sherlock nods. “I do,” he breathes, utterly trusting.
“Grab hold of the headboard,” John tells him, and slides down the bed just a little more.
“I want you to fuck my mouth,” John says, soft but direct, the filthy words tumbling out of him unchecked his usual filter of reticent self-consciousness derailed by his bone-deep instinct to give Sherlock what he so desperately needs. “I want you to fuck my mouth however you want to, and just give yourself up to it, let yourself feel good.” He mouths and the tender skin of his inner thigh, licks delicately at the softly-furred crease of his groin. “Can you do that, love?”
“All right,” Sherlock whispers, the barest breath of air forming the words.
John cups one hand around the sharp curve of his hip, fingertips pressing into the delicious springy flesh of his arse. He wraps the fingers of his other around the base of Sherlock’s straining cock, guiding it to his lips, pausing for a moment to lick the single shiny, briny-bitter drop of precome from the slit before taking him into his mouth, making his slim frame shudder with silent pleasure.
John gently guides Sherlock on with the hand on his hip, encouraging him to move, to thrust as John keeps his mouth slack and wet, his jaw relaxed. After a few moments of stuttered, abortive movement, Sherlock begins to find his rhythm, hand gripping the wooden headboard for dear life as he thrusts, cock sliding in and out of John’s wet slack mouth -- but he’s still overly careful, overly constrained, unwilling to let go enough to reach climax.
John reaches out to take Sherlock’s free hand, guides it to his head in unmistakable intent as he pulls Sherlock’s body closer in encouragement, relaxing his throat to take him in fully as his cock pushes deep into his mouth, pressing against his soft palate, testing his gag reflex.
Sherlock makes a tiny, barely audible groan as he takes hold of John’s hair and begins to fuck his mouth in earnest, his thrusts growing steadier, more insistent as sensation and instinct begin to override his conscious thought. John can’t help but moan a little at the sensation of it, at the way his lips stretch around Sherlock’s girth as saliva gathers and pools and drips from the edges of his mouth, the hot smooth flesh of his cock filling his mouth so completely.
Despite his watering eyes, John is compelled to watch the mesmerising sight of Sherlock above him, his lean frame curled forward in an apostrophe of tension, eyes tightly shut and his plush pink mouth rounded into a silent O of pleasure as his cock slides in and out of John’s eager mouth. He feels the visceral pull of arousal at the sheer pornography of the sight, the heat and weight of it almost a physical presence low in his pelvis, making his own cock throb and clamour for friction in spite of recent exertions. John releases his hold on Sherlock’s right hip, slipping his hand in between his own legs, wrapping fingers around the base of his now-aching cock and squeezing, stroking himself in counterpoint to the motion of Sherlock’s pistoning hips as he seeks his elusive, long-denied release.
Some minutes later Sherlock gives a short, bitten off, panicked gasp, his thighs trembling, his hips stuttering out of their hard-won rhythm.
“John,” he cries out softly, barely more than whimper, and he sounds distressed, almost in pain. “John. I--”
John abandons his ministrations on himself to focus solely on Sherlock, bringing both hands up to grasp his rear in encouragement, cupping and squeezing the lush curves of his arse, pulling him close, moaning his encouragement as the flat of his tongue caresses the base of his cock with each thrust.
Sherlock inhales sharply through his mouth as his pelvis curls forward, his abdominal muscles flexing, his entire body tensing as he tips over into orgasm, giving a single ragged exhale as he floods John’s mouth with hot viscous fluid, thick and slightly astringent. He comes and comes, harder and longer than John has ever before witnessed, a tidal wave of denied release spurting over and over again against the back of John’s throat. John swallows and swallows, still holding tightly to Sherlock’s hips, guiding him through his shattering orgasm as his entire body shudders uncontrollably, the pleasure burning through him, a sight exquisitely terrifying and beautiful to behold.
As the overwhelming wave finally begins to ebb, Sherlock releases his long-held breath with an explosive gasp, panting harshly as his long bony frame sags heavily against John’s body. John releases him from his mouth, swipes the back of his hand across his wet lips before sliding his hands from his arse up to his his back. He guides him onto his side gently, easing him down onto the bed before he falls down, rubbing gentle circles into his skin and murmuring nonsense words of comfort into his ear as he recovers.
Tiny shivering aftershocks are still rippling through Sherlock’s body as he wraps a long arm around John’s waist, curling himself tightly into his side.
“Oh God,” he rasps. “Oh my God. John. Oh my God.”
John turns onto his side, presses a kiss to Sherlock’s hot cheek, tastes the unexpected salt and wet there.
“Hey. Shhh. It’s okay. Oh baby. Shhh.” John croons the nonsense syllables as he brushes his lips up and across his closed eyes, kissing away silent tears without comment, until the tremors under Sherlock’s skin begin to ease and his breathing grows even and calm.
After several minutes of stroking and cuddling, Sherlock stirs in his arms, resettles, gives a croaky, rough sigh, then shivers a little. John can feel his damp skin growing clammy in the cool air; without breaking contact, John sits up a little to grab the mashed-down coverlet, pulling it over their entwined bodies.
“All right?” John asks quietly, smoothing the blanket over Sherlock’s side.
Sherlock gives a quiet hum of agreement, then chuckles, low in his throat.
“No, I’m not all right,” he murmurs. His voice is gravelly and thick, but to his relief John can hear warmth there, a honeyed note of sated amusement. “Good Lord, I’ll never be all right again, I don’t think. At least, I hope not.”
“That’s a good thing?”
“That’s a wonderful thing,” Sherlock replies, earnestly. He tilts his head up, seeking, and John obliges, eagerly, meeting his swollen, chapped, tired lips with his own. It’s not even really kissing, precisely, but rather a lazy sort of nipping and nibbling at each others mouths, comforting and reconnecting with each other, an instinctive expression of closeness and bonding that John can’t ever recall indulging in before this very moment.
After several long perfect minutes of mindless sated nuzzling Sherlock stills against John’s mouth, as if a question has suddenly occurred to him.
“What about you?” Sherlock murmurs, and John realises his still semi-erect cock is pushing against Sherlock’s thigh.
“I’m perfect for right now,” he replies with total honesty.
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely,” John pecks at Sherlock’s still-wet bottom lip. “I just want to be here with you, right now. There’s plenty of time to fool around later.”
Sherlock goes still, externally quiet yet still vibrating, somehow, in the way that John knows means he’s turning over something very important in his mind.
“Later,” Sherlock finally echoes, sounding… not quite skeptical but uncertain, somehow.
“Yes,” John replies. “We have all kinds of later, now. Don’t we?”
“We do,” Sherlock says slowly, as if making a profound discovery. “We do. We absolutely do.”
“Yes,” John murmurs, kissing him again. Sherlock kisses him back, mouth soft and responsive, but John tell his brain is still whirring and clicking, still working through some delicate proceeding.
“Sherlock,” John murmurs, when the moment stretches out just a bit too long. “Talk to me.”
“I just…” Sherlock trails off, sighs a bit, tries again. “This is wonderful. It is. But there isn’t...there’s still...It’s just that one orgasm doesn’t make everything magically better, you realise.”
The way he says it is not dismissive, nor sad, but rather matter of fact.
“I know,” John replies. “I do. But I also know...” he pauses, considers how to best put his complicated thoughts into words. “This isn’t the end of the hard part. I know that. But I think we’ve survived the worst of it, made it through the roughest waters. It’s not the end, but it’s the end of the beginning. And maybe…maybe it’s overly optimistic, but I think maybe this is the beginning of everything else.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer right away, but John can almost hear him weighing his words carefully in his mind.
“The beginning of everything else,” he finally echoes, his eyes a clear aquamarine even in the low light, as his fingers come up to touch John’s face, trace the line of his jaw, tuck a strand of hair behind his ear in a gesture of pure heartbreaking tenderness. “I think...yes. I like that.”
“Me too,” John answers, his eyes suddenly stinging hot all over again. Unable to look directly at Sherlock a moment longer without dissolving into tears, John turns his head, presses a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder, tastes the concentrated salt of the drying sweat on his skin.
“I love you,” John whispers, fierce and pure in his devotion.
Sherlock presses his lips into the side of John’s head, just above his ear.
“I love you, too,” he breathes softly into John’s hair.
Nothing left to say, the two of them lie together quietly, half drowsing as they cling to one another, the afternoon slipping inexorably into night.
As the shadows lengthen into twilight Sherlock stirs a little, shifting his weight a bit. His stomach gurgles, faint but loud enough for John to hear, and the noise jolts him into awareness that he’s starving as well. He exhales and props himself up on one elbow.
“Hungry?” John asks.
“A bit,” Sherlock replies, eyes still closed, hand wrapped around John’s waist, fingers pressing into the bit of flesh there. “But can we...can we just, stay here a bit longer? This is nice.”
“Of course, love,” John murmurs, allowing Sherlock to tug him back down into bed and curls himself against his longer frame, ignoring the minor hunger in his belly and the dry stickiness of his mouth, willing to abide any discomfort in order to give Sherlock everything he ever needs. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock whispers, tightening his arm around John’s waist, pulling him even closer.
Out of nowhere a sudden rush of breathtaking, crystal clear certainty washes over John.
We’re really going to be all right, he thinks, and this new awareness sparks a burst of bubbly almost-giddy joy inside him, the kind of joy he hadn’t allowed himself until this very moment of clarity, a wash of golden fizzy happiness like bubbles in champagne.
Oh, God, thank God, we’re going to get to keep this. We’re going to make it through all right.
On the heels of that thought comes another: John knows a few minutes from now they will spar goodnaturedly over who gets the loo first, and then they will head up the street, maybe go to that Turkish place Sherlock keeps mentioning, and there they will drink a bit too much raki and press their socked feet together under the table and grin stupidly at each other, obviously and profoundly in love and admitting it openly to each other for the very first time. Part of him -- a large part -- wants to leap out of bed and get started on that happy ending, begin fulfilling the promise of the rest of their lives as soon as possible.
“We will,” Sherlock says quietly, in answer to John’s unspoken thoughts, thoughts he must have somehow conveyed in some twitch of body language. “In a little bit, John, we will, but...let’s do this first, okay?”
“Yeah,” John murmurs in agreement, his voice a low affectionate hum as he pulls Sherlock even closer. “Lets.”
So they do this first.
John and Sherlock hold each other, naked and twined together between the tangled sheets as night falls slowly, breathing each other’s breath as they bear silent witness to these first few moments, these first lines of a new chapter in a book full of promise, full of hope, full of the rest of their lives.