This Man's Heart - Chapter 20
Nov. 1st, 2011 05:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellie_hellTitle: This Man's Heart - Chapter 20
Rating: R
Warnings: None.
Pairing: Sherlock/John.
Word count: 3824
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man and an ex-army doctor disfigured at war live in a small village, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. When they first meet, they have no idea their lives are about to change forever and, over the months, they will form an unusual friendship, discover more about each other and themselves, and maybe fall a little in love along the way.
Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Back to the first chapter
Previous chapter
Chapter 20
The next day, John woke up again, and as soon as he opened his eyes, Sherlock instantly knew John felt better. There was a glimmer there that hadn’t been there before, and although his skin was slightly warmer than skin ought to be, that might have been the heavy coat’s fault. Sherlock had spent the night in the bed, sitting beside John and keeping watch over his breathing, and he smiled brightly when John looked up at him. John smiled back, and Sherlock sighed with relief when he didn’t see any trace of the gloom that had clouded John’s eyes in the past days.
“You’re here, you’re actually here” John whispered.
“Of course I’m here, where else would I be?” Sherlock answered.
“I kept waking up and seeing you. I thought I was dreaming; I always dream of you.”
“Did you sleep enough? Are you hungry?” Sherlock asked, concerned, and John smiled fondly.
“I slept enough for the upcoming month, but I am a little hungry.”
“I’ll get you some food. I’m sure your sister will want to talk to you now that you’re better,” he said while getting off the bed and straightening his clothes.
“I don’t want to see her yet. Tomorrow,” John said, and Sherlock nodded before leaving the room.
There was still a servant waiting outside, and he was in deep conversation with Harry. When Sherlock closed the door, both turned to look at the source of the noise.
“How is he?” Harry asked.
“He’s better. He slept almost non-stop since we last talked, but he just woke up and he’s hungry.”
“That’s good, that’s very good. Can I see him?”
“Not yet,” Sherlock answered, “he wants you to wait until tomorrow.”
For a moment, she seemed as though she was about to object, to demand to see John, but she swallowed and the moment was gone. Instead, she smiled awkwardly and left to request John’s food. Sherlock quickly got back into the room where John was now sitting in the middle of the bed, his back resting against a small mountain of pillows.
Eventually, a servant knocked on the door, and Sherlock picked up the tray. Other than tea and two plates of a delicious smelling chicken dish, there was also John’s mask. Sherlock had no desire to remind John of his mask; he rather enjoyed seeing John’s face, it made him feel as though they were sharing a secret. He put the mask on the bedside table before handing John the tray.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” John asked.
“I’m good; I ate yesterday,” Sherlock answered.
“Sherlock! You have to eat! I am not taking one bite until you do.”
“Are you always so authoritarian, or is it just when you’re ill?” Sherlock asked fondly as he crawled into bed beside John.
They ate in comfortable silence, their arms often touching while they manipulated their utensils. When Sherlock stopped eating for too long, John shot him a menacing glare until he sighed and took a bite. Once their two plates were empty, they drank their tea and Sherlock returned the empty tray to the servant waiting outside. Now that John was doing better, Sherlock felt the servant’s constant presence by the door was no longer necessary, so he told him to leave; if John ever needed anything, Sherlock was perfectly capable of going downstairs.
Back in the bedroom, Sherlock hurried to the bed and sat beside John who snuggled up against his chest. Sherlock draped an arm around him, enjoying the feeling of the warm, naked skin under his fingertips. He would have been content just to sit there and run his fingers on John’s bicep, but there were a hundred unanswered questions between them, and many things they needed to discuss.
“What happened?” Sherlock eventually asked, still gently stroking John’s arm.
He didn’t get an answer right away, but he knew John had heard, and he understood that he was trying to find the right words, the words that would properly convey everything he had endured during the six months they had spent apart. Sherlock knew this wasn’t an easy task; he still couldn’t really describe the tumult of unpleasant emotions that his life without John had been.
“At first, I was angry,” John began, and Sherlock tightened his hold.
“When you saw my face and couldn’t look, when you closed your eyes and looked away, I was so angry I wanted to tear your face off so you would see what it was like for me. I was furious for so long, and Harry was fuelling it; she told me our friendship had been a lie, that you had seduced me for my money, that you wanted nothing to do with me.”
Sherlock’s first reflex was to close his eyes; John’s words brought back waves of the shame and disgust he had felt after the events at the manor. However, he fought to keep them open; he never wanted John to think he was disgusted with him ever again.
“Then, there wasn’t any anger left, just sadness. I fell ill, but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me; I just kept getting weaker and weaker. Eventually, I was too feeble to be sad, I didn’t care about your reaction; I just wanted to see you again, so I sent the books, hoping you would come back, but you didn’t—”
“I couldn’t,” Sherlock interrupted, “I had hurt you, I didn’t want to do it again.”
“One day, Harry came home and announced that you were getting married. I started getting even worse, and I didn’t care anymore. Harry was extremely worried; I think she forgot to drink. I had never seen her like that, she just begged me to fight for my life, said I was all she had left, but I didn’t care about that either.”
“She was waiting for me when I arrived, said it had taken me long enough, and that she had been about to come and get me,” Sherlock said.
“I suppose she was desperate by that point,” John replied, and he stayed silent for a long time, basking in the feeling of Sherlock’s arm around him, enjoying the warmth and closeness that had haunted his dreams for the last months. Eventually, he had to ask the question that was burning his tongue.
“Were you really engaged?”
“The day I arrived here was supposed to be my wedding day,” Sherlock answered, and he couldn’t hide the disgust in his voice.
“Why?” John asked, frowning; he couldn’t understand the motives behind that obviously bad decision.
“When I realized how hurt you were because of me, when it hit me that I would have to spend the rest of my life without you and deal with the guilt I felt, I wanted to die. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, but I couldn’t go to you lest I hurt you again. The only times I felt peaceful were when my brain was buzzing with boredom. I became numb; it felt wonderful. By getting married, I was gaining access to an endless boredom source.”
John was horrified.
“But there was a woman involved! You may have broken her heart!”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Sherlock said defensively, kissing John’s hair, “I was only thinking of you,” he added, and as much as John wanted to be cross with him, to make him understand how badly he had behaved, he couldn’t muster the strength; there had been enough anger in his heart recently.
“You are most definitely the worst husband in the entire world,” John said, and Sherlock agreed with a low humming sound, his face still buried in John’s hair.
That’s how it had all started back in December in the library, with Sherlock smelling John’s hair. The realisation hit them both at the same time, and John’s ears turned bright red when he thought about what had followed. His life wasn’t in danger anymore, and the months they had spent apart had done nothing to quell the desire they had felt for each other that afternoon. For a while, they remained silent, lost in thoughts of each other, until John spoke again.
“I really need a bath; I feel filthy, and I’m sure I smell like fever.”
“No you don’t,” Sherlock lied, and John laughed.
Sherlock didn’t need much convincing; he quickly went downstairs and asked a servant to draw John a bath. While he did so, Sherlock worked on locating flannels, soap, and towels, and he made sure everything was at arm’s reach from the tub. Once the tub was full of hot water, the servant returned downstairs and Sherlock went to the bedroom to help John out of bed. He was still weak and a little shaky, so Sherlock slid an arm around his waist to support some of his weight.
Together, they reached the bathroom where, leaning against Sherlock’s offered arm, John shakily unbuttoned and removed his trousers so he was standing in only his knee-length drawers. Sherlock blushed and averted his eyes while still offering the support of his arm, and John, also blushing a fiery shade of red, slid them down his legs until he could toe them off. When he was fully naked, he entered the tub where he leaned against the side and closed his eyes, shaking with the effort it had taken to get there.
“You need some clean clothes, can you refrain from drowning while I fetch some?” Sherlock asked, and John nodded, eyes still closed as he grabbed a flannel and the bar of soap.
Sherlock returned to John’s bedroom, and he started rummaging through the cabinet, looking for something comfortable John could wear. It felt strange to be touching John’s clothes while he wasn’t wearing them, somehow it seemed like a very intimate act. Finally, Sherlock found what he thought was the most comfortable option: an uncommonly soft white nightshirt and a pair of underwear similar to those he had been wearing before, also white.
With the garments carefully folded in his arms, he went back to the bathroom where John was finishing to scrub his legs, his torso bent in such a way that when Sherlock’s gaze inadvertently slid downward, he couldn’t see anything. Realizing what he had just done, Sherlock blushed and averted his eyes to study the floral pattern in the closed drapes. A splashing sound caught his attention, and he looked around to see that John had his head under water.
“I haven’t washed my hair in a very, very long time,” John explained as he resurfaced and grabbed the bar of soap.
Sherlock unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and took the soap from John’s hands before rubbing it delicately all over John’s scalp. It was more a massage than a grooming act, and John was thoroughly enjoying it; his eyes were closed, and soft moans sometimes escaped his parted lips, sending a rush of blood directly to Sherlock’s groin. In order not to get distracted, Sherlock focused on the movement of his fingers until every single inch of John’s scalp had been scrubbed repeatedly. When it was time for John to get out of the tub, Sherlock once again offered his arm for support, and he unfolded the biggest linen bath towel he had found, wrapping it around John’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” John said as Sherlock vigorously rubbed his arms to accelerate the drying process and keep him warm.
Once John wasn’t soaking wet anymore, he shakily put on the underwear and nightshirt Sherlock had picked out for him. They slowly made their way to the bedroom where John let himself fall into bed, pulling Sherlock along with him. Their legs ended up tangled, with Sherlock looming over John and looking down at his mischievous grin. Sherlock arched an eyebrow questioningly.
“You take such good care of me,” John said.
“I want you to get better,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.
“I am better. But you know, I’m a doctor, and I know a few things that could considerably accelerate my recovering.”
Sherlock was listening attentively; he had been so scared to lose John that even if he was looking well, he was prepared to acquiesce to any of his reasonable demands (and perhaps a few unreasonable ones too).
“What is it?” he asked eagerly.
John didn’t say anything, but his grin grew wider and one of his hands snaked up to rest on Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock looked at John with wide eyes, trying to find evidence of what he hoped John meant. When he didn’t see any sign of rejection, he lowered his head and tentatively pressed his lips to John’s forehead. John closed his eyes and sighed, content. Taking this as a sign of encouragement, Sherlock kissed John’s right cheek, and then his left one, his lips barely brushing against John’s. John’s breath hitched, but it soon evened out as he relaxed under Sherlock’s gentle touch.
Next, Sherlock moved to John’s neck; he clearly remembered the effect it had had on him the last time, and he was eager to see whether it would be similar. He nuzzled John’s neck, inhaling deeply and comparing the scents to the ones he had catalogued a few months ago. There was a lot more soap, but the smell of John could still be detected underneath. In order to ascertain whether there had been a change of taste, he pressed his open mouth to John’s neck and sucked very lightly before letting his tongue out. He hummed appreciatively; John tasted just as good as last time. John shivered as Sherlock’s tongue slide over his sensitive neck, and when Sherlock licked over his Adam’s apple, he let out an extraordinarily loud moan.
“Be quiet,” Sherlock whispered, “your sister seems to like me better now, but she’ll shoot me if she finds us in this position.”
“There’s a lock on the door,” John said invitingly, and Sherlock jumped off the bed with the grace of a feline. He opened the door a few inches to make sure Harry hadn’t sent the servant back, but the corridor was empty, and after locking the door, he ran back to the enormous bed and threw himself onto it to resume their former position.
Immediately, he reattached his lips to John’s neck and alternated between kisses, flicks of tongue, and soft grazes of teeth. John was squirming under him, twisting his head into the pillow to expose more skin, and Sherlock obliged him by continuing his thorough exploration of every parcel of skin his mouth could reach. When he felt he had completed the analysis of John’s neck and throat, Sherlock moved to the collarbones, letting his teeth trail gently over the prominent bones. John arched his back and the moan that escaped his lips was even louder than before.
“Seriously John, be quiet. I’m just getting started, and even if you sister can’t barge in on us, it doesn’t mean I want her to hear and interrupt in some way or other,” he said between kisses.
“I’ll try – oh, Sherlock, yes don’t stop – to stay quiet,” John panted.
Sherlock lifted his head to flash him a predatory before he resumed his scrutiny, this time attacking the parcel of skin exposed by the nightshirt’s unbuttoned collar. A small patch of golden brown hair was visible, and Sherlock rubbed his cheek against it before letting his mouth loose on the new territory. The myriad of new tastes, scents, and textures was intoxicating; he had only discovered a fragment of John’s body, and already he had more landscapes than Sainte-Cécile.
Sherlock was so caught up in his observations that he barely noticed John sliding his suspenders down his shoulders, but he did notice when John started unbuttoning his shirt, his fingertips lightly brushing his chest in the process. Just those small touches were enough to increase Sherlock’s heartbeat, and when all the buttons were undone, he hurriedly took it off to offer John’s inquisitive hands more skin to caress. When John finally put his hands on Sherlock’s hips and started stroking the exposed skin, he decided to follow his lead, and he slid a hand under John’s nightshirt to ruck it up as far as it would go.
“This nightshirt needs to come off, John,” Sherlock whispered directly into his ear before kneeling back and giving John enough room to remove the garment and throw it away from the bed.
He had seen John’s chest before, but it looked different now that his life wasn’t in danger anymore, and he took a moment to truly look at it and appreciate it. As John resumed his caresses on Sherlock’s slim torso, Sherlock leaned down again, and he kissed the hollow of John’s throat before making his way downward. He liked the way John’s sparse chest hair tickled his cheek when he rubbed his face against it, but not as much as he liked the low groan John made when he blew on a nipple. Inspired by the way the small bud reacted, he flicked his tongue over it, and the sound John made was exceptionally indecent. Sherlock felt his cock twitch for attention, but he ignored it; he had all night.
He sucked, licked, and bit softly until John was so loud that anyone passing the closed door in the corridor would have known exactly what they were doing. When he stopped, John clawed at his back and whimpered, which made Sherlock chuckle as he continued to move downward, using his lips, tongue, and teeth while registering what made John squirm, pant, groan, or moan. When he reached John’s undergarment, Sherlock was faced with John’s obvious arousal, and suddenly he felt several degrees warmer. Tentatively, he rubbed his cheek against the bulge in John’s drawers, and he felt John burying his fingers in his curls.
“Sherlock! Stop, stop, please stop!” John cried.
Sherlock obliged, and fearing he had done something wrong, he looked up and saw that John’s head was thrown back, his mouth opened, and his eyes squeezed shut; he was either in pain, or experiencing sheer pleasure. Sherlock hoped it was the latter.
“If you don’t want…this…to be over, please ignore this particular area,” John said, panting.
Pleased that he had been the one to reduce John to such a state, Sherlock smiled as he moved up again. Looking down at John’s flushed face and parted lips, he realized they hadn’t kissed, not since the library. That was unacceptable. John noticed him staring at his mouth, and he chuckled.
“Finally! You spent so much time exploring my torso, I was wondering why my mouth was being neglected,” he said.
“Maybe because I enjoyed the beautiful sounds you made with it,” Sherlock suggested before he leaned down to gently suck on John’s Adam’s apple, which made him gasp and moan, as predicted.
Sherlock swallowed the sound with his mouth, and at first it felt a little awkward, but then they both shifted and suddenly the angle was right, and so was everything else. It was exactly as it had been six months ago in the library, but infinitely better. There wasn’t any fear that this was their last meeting, and even if Sherlock kept unconsciously bracing himself for Harry’s interruption, it never came, and the realization that she wouldn’t barge in through the door was exquisite.
John’s lips were a little chafed from the dehydration he had put his body through, but they were warm and eager, and when the tip of his tongue touched Sherlock’s lower lip, it was his turn to moan, and he felt John smile against his lips. Tentatively, Sherlock’s tongue approached John’s, and both met in the middle where they softly stroked each other. Sherlock was so engrossed in the kiss he didn’t feel John’s hand sliding down his back and into his drawers until he was stroking one firm buttock. Sherlock broke the kiss when his mouth opened in surprise, and he moaned against his will. It didn’t make sense; his buttocks were stimulated every day (chair, bed, rock, grass, sand…) and never had anything felt that pleasurable before. Luckily, or sitting down would have been extremely awkward. John laughed at Sherlock’s reaction, and he used his other hand to trace Sherlock’s lips.
“Your mouth is shaped like a heart when you make that face,” he stated, smiling.
Sherlock’s only response was to kiss John again while pushing back to seek more contact with the hand in his undergarment. John obliged, still surprised by how plush and well-defined Sherlock’s bum was. The fact that he was the one to discover that well-kept secret, that he was the one allowed to touch Sherlock in that way, fuelled his arousal, and the kiss that had been hesitant at first became more heated as John’s desire grew even stronger. Sherlock followed John’s lead, and soon they were devouring each other’s mouths with intent and passion.
John, in an attempt to be even closer, used the hand stroking Sherlock’s ass to close the gap between them, and time stopped when their bodies aligned. John’s erection was pressed against Sherlock’s hip, and he could clearly feel Sherlock’s arousal against his thigh. Both men moaned, but they didn’t break the kiss. Following his instincts, Sherlock shifted a little upward until their crotches were parallel, and suddenly it felt even better. Sherlock started thrusting slowly against John who was guiding the movement with his hand, and they both pressed harder, seeking more friction.
At first, it was easy to keep a slow rhythm, to ignore the voice saying harder, faster in their heads, and to bask in the delightful burning sensation in their thighs, the throbbing in their groins, and their accelerated matching heartbeats. However, the more they thrust, the more their need grew. The pillow in which Sherlock had buried his face was muffling his loud moans, and John was biting Sherlock’s neck in order not to be too vocal.
“Sherlock,” John panted, “I’m sure this would feel even better without clothes,” he added, but he made no attempt to resolve the situation.
Sherlock was instantly sold on the idea; he wanted to feel more of John’s skin against his, wanted to know whether John’s cock was as hot as his own felt, but he kept thinking one more thrust, just one more, and he couldn’t bring himself to break the contact. The pleasure was almost unbearable, his senses were on fire this is the last one, and he needed more, always more. If he could’ve crawled into John – wonderful, beautiful, moaning his name John – he would have. He could feel his balls tightening one more thrust and I’ll pause, and he knew he would not last much longer, neither would John if the tight grip he had on his buttocks was any indication.
A terribly annoying voice in the back of Sherlock’s head was shouting practicalities, telling him that he didn’t have a change of clothes, true, I just need a little more, that he would be uncomfortable later if he found release while wearing his drawers so good, and that it would only take a few seconds to take them off. The voice was getting too loud to ignore five thrusts, that’s all I need, five thrusts and I stop, and, gritting his teeth, he slowed their frantic rutting to thrust hard – very hard and excruciatingly slowly – five more times before pulling his hips away from John. He was panting, the fight against the pleasure center of his brain had been a difficult one to win, and John’s hips were thrusting up into the air, seeking friction and release.
“Clothes off,” Sherlock panted, and a few seconds later, they were both completely naked.
They took a moment to look at their cocks that were inches away from each other, the slight curves of their erect members making them look as though they were trying to meet and touch. Sherlock knew that once they made contact again, it would be over very soon. His cock had never been so hard, nor had it ever leaked that profusely, and his balls had never felt so full. Yet he wanted to prolong the moment. He thought about the Vivaldi piece he had played for John in the library, he thought about the gusts of wind, the anticipation, and nature holding its breath before snow started to fall. He felt exactly like that, suspended in a drumroll leading to…what? He didn’t know, but he was eager to find out.
Gritting his teeth and burying his face into the pillow once more, Sherlock lowered his hips until their groins touched, and oh if he had known it would feel like this, he would have undressed them both from the start. In fact, he didn’t feel like getting dressed ever again if it meant he could stay in bed with John for the rest of his life. Together, they started moving, sliding hot and silky smooth skin against each other. It should have been painful to push, rub, and thrust so hard, but it wasn’t; it felt breathtakingly magnificent.
It didn’t take long before John’s moans were too loud to be stifled by Sherlock’s neck, and he clawed at his back so hard there would most likely be marks. Soon, John’s cock was pulsing against Sherlock’s and with one last moan, he found release, splattering both their stomachs. It was warm, it was John, and it was sex, that’s all it took to bring Sherlock over the edge, making an even bigger mess on their stomachs.
His arms gave out, and he shifted down a little so he was only half sprawled on top of John. For a long time, neither spoke as they tried to catch their breath; their hearts were still pounding hard, and they were giddy with endorphins. John was the first to speak.
“That was amazing,” he said, and he could feel Sherlock’s low rumble of a laugh deep in his chest.
“Eleventh treasure?” Sherlock asked, and it was John’s turn to laugh.
“You’re the eleventh treasure,” John replied fondly, “now go get a wet flannel or we’ll end up stuck together.
Sherlock obliged, and he cleaned them both up. John’s now flaccid cock fascinated him, and he would have liked to smell, taste, and touch, but John’s eyelids were starting to droop, and he was yawning contentedly; his exploration would have to wait. Instead, he curled up against John who ran a hand through his hair and started delicately stroking his curls. Sherlock closed his eyes too, but he didn’t want to sleep; he replayed the last hours repeatedly in his mind, and he listened to John’s breathing for long hours into the night.
Next chapter.
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Rating: R
Warnings: None.
Pairing: Sherlock/John.
Word count: 3824
Summary: In the latter part of the 19th century, a peculiar solitary man and an ex-army doctor disfigured at war live in a small village, surrounded by breathtaking landscapes. When they first meet, they have no idea their lives are about to change forever and, over the months, they will form an unusual friendship, discover more about each other and themselves, and maybe fall a little in love along the way.
Disclaimer: See first chapter.
Back to the first chapter
Previous chapter
Chapter 20
The next day, John woke up again, and as soon as he opened his eyes, Sherlock instantly knew John felt better. There was a glimmer there that hadn’t been there before, and although his skin was slightly warmer than skin ought to be, that might have been the heavy coat’s fault. Sherlock had spent the night in the bed, sitting beside John and keeping watch over his breathing, and he smiled brightly when John looked up at him. John smiled back, and Sherlock sighed with relief when he didn’t see any trace of the gloom that had clouded John’s eyes in the past days.
“You’re here, you’re actually here” John whispered.
“Of course I’m here, where else would I be?” Sherlock answered.
“I kept waking up and seeing you. I thought I was dreaming; I always dream of you.”
“Did you sleep enough? Are you hungry?” Sherlock asked, concerned, and John smiled fondly.
“I slept enough for the upcoming month, but I am a little hungry.”
“I’ll get you some food. I’m sure your sister will want to talk to you now that you’re better,” he said while getting off the bed and straightening his clothes.
“I don’t want to see her yet. Tomorrow,” John said, and Sherlock nodded before leaving the room.
There was still a servant waiting outside, and he was in deep conversation with Harry. When Sherlock closed the door, both turned to look at the source of the noise.
“How is he?” Harry asked.
“He’s better. He slept almost non-stop since we last talked, but he just woke up and he’s hungry.”
“That’s good, that’s very good. Can I see him?”
“Not yet,” Sherlock answered, “he wants you to wait until tomorrow.”
For a moment, she seemed as though she was about to object, to demand to see John, but she swallowed and the moment was gone. Instead, she smiled awkwardly and left to request John’s food. Sherlock quickly got back into the room where John was now sitting in the middle of the bed, his back resting against a small mountain of pillows.
Eventually, a servant knocked on the door, and Sherlock picked up the tray. Other than tea and two plates of a delicious smelling chicken dish, there was also John’s mask. Sherlock had no desire to remind John of his mask; he rather enjoyed seeing John’s face, it made him feel as though they were sharing a secret. He put the mask on the bedside table before handing John the tray.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” John asked.
“I’m good; I ate yesterday,” Sherlock answered.
“Sherlock! You have to eat! I am not taking one bite until you do.”
“Are you always so authoritarian, or is it just when you’re ill?” Sherlock asked fondly as he crawled into bed beside John.
They ate in comfortable silence, their arms often touching while they manipulated their utensils. When Sherlock stopped eating for too long, John shot him a menacing glare until he sighed and took a bite. Once their two plates were empty, they drank their tea and Sherlock returned the empty tray to the servant waiting outside. Now that John was doing better, Sherlock felt the servant’s constant presence by the door was no longer necessary, so he told him to leave; if John ever needed anything, Sherlock was perfectly capable of going downstairs.
Back in the bedroom, Sherlock hurried to the bed and sat beside John who snuggled up against his chest. Sherlock draped an arm around him, enjoying the feeling of the warm, naked skin under his fingertips. He would have been content just to sit there and run his fingers on John’s bicep, but there were a hundred unanswered questions between them, and many things they needed to discuss.
“What happened?” Sherlock eventually asked, still gently stroking John’s arm.
He didn’t get an answer right away, but he knew John had heard, and he understood that he was trying to find the right words, the words that would properly convey everything he had endured during the six months they had spent apart. Sherlock knew this wasn’t an easy task; he still couldn’t really describe the tumult of unpleasant emotions that his life without John had been.
“At first, I was angry,” John began, and Sherlock tightened his hold.
“When you saw my face and couldn’t look, when you closed your eyes and looked away, I was so angry I wanted to tear your face off so you would see what it was like for me. I was furious for so long, and Harry was fuelling it; she told me our friendship had been a lie, that you had seduced me for my money, that you wanted nothing to do with me.”
Sherlock’s first reflex was to close his eyes; John’s words brought back waves of the shame and disgust he had felt after the events at the manor. However, he fought to keep them open; he never wanted John to think he was disgusted with him ever again.
“Then, there wasn’t any anger left, just sadness. I fell ill, but there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with me; I just kept getting weaker and weaker. Eventually, I was too feeble to be sad, I didn’t care about your reaction; I just wanted to see you again, so I sent the books, hoping you would come back, but you didn’t—”
“I couldn’t,” Sherlock interrupted, “I had hurt you, I didn’t want to do it again.”
“One day, Harry came home and announced that you were getting married. I started getting even worse, and I didn’t care anymore. Harry was extremely worried; I think she forgot to drink. I had never seen her like that, she just begged me to fight for my life, said I was all she had left, but I didn’t care about that either.”
“She was waiting for me when I arrived, said it had taken me long enough, and that she had been about to come and get me,” Sherlock said.
“I suppose she was desperate by that point,” John replied, and he stayed silent for a long time, basking in the feeling of Sherlock’s arm around him, enjoying the warmth and closeness that had haunted his dreams for the last months. Eventually, he had to ask the question that was burning his tongue.
“Were you really engaged?”
“The day I arrived here was supposed to be my wedding day,” Sherlock answered, and he couldn’t hide the disgust in his voice.
“Why?” John asked, frowning; he couldn’t understand the motives behind that obviously bad decision.
“When I realized how hurt you were because of me, when it hit me that I would have to spend the rest of my life without you and deal with the guilt I felt, I wanted to die. I couldn’t stop thinking about you, but I couldn’t go to you lest I hurt you again. The only times I felt peaceful were when my brain was buzzing with boredom. I became numb; it felt wonderful. By getting married, I was gaining access to an endless boredom source.”
John was horrified.
“But there was a woman involved! You may have broken her heart!”
“I wasn’t thinking about that,” Sherlock said defensively, kissing John’s hair, “I was only thinking of you,” he added, and as much as John wanted to be cross with him, to make him understand how badly he had behaved, he couldn’t muster the strength; there had been enough anger in his heart recently.
“You are most definitely the worst husband in the entire world,” John said, and Sherlock agreed with a low humming sound, his face still buried in John’s hair.
That’s how it had all started back in December in the library, with Sherlock smelling John’s hair. The realisation hit them both at the same time, and John’s ears turned bright red when he thought about what had followed. His life wasn’t in danger anymore, and the months they had spent apart had done nothing to quell the desire they had felt for each other that afternoon. For a while, they remained silent, lost in thoughts of each other, until John spoke again.
“I really need a bath; I feel filthy, and I’m sure I smell like fever.”
“No you don’t,” Sherlock lied, and John laughed.
Sherlock didn’t need much convincing; he quickly went downstairs and asked a servant to draw John a bath. While he did so, Sherlock worked on locating flannels, soap, and towels, and he made sure everything was at arm’s reach from the tub. Once the tub was full of hot water, the servant returned downstairs and Sherlock went to the bedroom to help John out of bed. He was still weak and a little shaky, so Sherlock slid an arm around his waist to support some of his weight.
Together, they reached the bathroom where, leaning against Sherlock’s offered arm, John shakily unbuttoned and removed his trousers so he was standing in only his knee-length drawers. Sherlock blushed and averted his eyes while still offering the support of his arm, and John, also blushing a fiery shade of red, slid them down his legs until he could toe them off. When he was fully naked, he entered the tub where he leaned against the side and closed his eyes, shaking with the effort it had taken to get there.
“You need some clean clothes, can you refrain from drowning while I fetch some?” Sherlock asked, and John nodded, eyes still closed as he grabbed a flannel and the bar of soap.
Sherlock returned to John’s bedroom, and he started rummaging through the cabinet, looking for something comfortable John could wear. It felt strange to be touching John’s clothes while he wasn’t wearing them, somehow it seemed like a very intimate act. Finally, Sherlock found what he thought was the most comfortable option: an uncommonly soft white nightshirt and a pair of underwear similar to those he had been wearing before, also white.
With the garments carefully folded in his arms, he went back to the bathroom where John was finishing to scrub his legs, his torso bent in such a way that when Sherlock’s gaze inadvertently slid downward, he couldn’t see anything. Realizing what he had just done, Sherlock blushed and averted his eyes to study the floral pattern in the closed drapes. A splashing sound caught his attention, and he looked around to see that John had his head under water.
“I haven’t washed my hair in a very, very long time,” John explained as he resurfaced and grabbed the bar of soap.
Sherlock unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, and took the soap from John’s hands before rubbing it delicately all over John’s scalp. It was more a massage than a grooming act, and John was thoroughly enjoying it; his eyes were closed, and soft moans sometimes escaped his parted lips, sending a rush of blood directly to Sherlock’s groin. In order not to get distracted, Sherlock focused on the movement of his fingers until every single inch of John’s scalp had been scrubbed repeatedly. When it was time for John to get out of the tub, Sherlock once again offered his arm for support, and he unfolded the biggest linen bath towel he had found, wrapping it around John’s shoulders.
“Thank you,” John said as Sherlock vigorously rubbed his arms to accelerate the drying process and keep him warm.
Once John wasn’t soaking wet anymore, he shakily put on the underwear and nightshirt Sherlock had picked out for him. They slowly made their way to the bedroom where John let himself fall into bed, pulling Sherlock along with him. Their legs ended up tangled, with Sherlock looming over John and looking down at his mischievous grin. Sherlock arched an eyebrow questioningly.
“You take such good care of me,” John said.
“I want you to get better,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.
“I am better. But you know, I’m a doctor, and I know a few things that could considerably accelerate my recovering.”
Sherlock was listening attentively; he had been so scared to lose John that even if he was looking well, he was prepared to acquiesce to any of his reasonable demands (and perhaps a few unreasonable ones too).
“What is it?” he asked eagerly.
John didn’t say anything, but his grin grew wider and one of his hands snaked up to rest on Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock looked at John with wide eyes, trying to find evidence of what he hoped John meant. When he didn’t see any sign of rejection, he lowered his head and tentatively pressed his lips to John’s forehead. John closed his eyes and sighed, content. Taking this as a sign of encouragement, Sherlock kissed John’s right cheek, and then his left one, his lips barely brushing against John’s. John’s breath hitched, but it soon evened out as he relaxed under Sherlock’s gentle touch.
Next, Sherlock moved to John’s neck; he clearly remembered the effect it had had on him the last time, and he was eager to see whether it would be similar. He nuzzled John’s neck, inhaling deeply and comparing the scents to the ones he had catalogued a few months ago. There was a lot more soap, but the smell of John could still be detected underneath. In order to ascertain whether there had been a change of taste, he pressed his open mouth to John’s neck and sucked very lightly before letting his tongue out. He hummed appreciatively; John tasted just as good as last time. John shivered as Sherlock’s tongue slide over his sensitive neck, and when Sherlock licked over his Adam’s apple, he let out an extraordinarily loud moan.
“Be quiet,” Sherlock whispered, “your sister seems to like me better now, but she’ll shoot me if she finds us in this position.”
“There’s a lock on the door,” John said invitingly, and Sherlock jumped off the bed with the grace of a feline. He opened the door a few inches to make sure Harry hadn’t sent the servant back, but the corridor was empty, and after locking the door, he ran back to the enormous bed and threw himself onto it to resume their former position.
Immediately, he reattached his lips to John’s neck and alternated between kisses, flicks of tongue, and soft grazes of teeth. John was squirming under him, twisting his head into the pillow to expose more skin, and Sherlock obliged him by continuing his thorough exploration of every parcel of skin his mouth could reach. When he felt he had completed the analysis of John’s neck and throat, Sherlock moved to the collarbones, letting his teeth trail gently over the prominent bones. John arched his back and the moan that escaped his lips was even louder than before.
“Seriously John, be quiet. I’m just getting started, and even if you sister can’t barge in on us, it doesn’t mean I want her to hear and interrupt in some way or other,” he said between kisses.
“I’ll try – oh, Sherlock, yes don’t stop – to stay quiet,” John panted.
Sherlock lifted his head to flash him a predatory before he resumed his scrutiny, this time attacking the parcel of skin exposed by the nightshirt’s unbuttoned collar. A small patch of golden brown hair was visible, and Sherlock rubbed his cheek against it before letting his mouth loose on the new territory. The myriad of new tastes, scents, and textures was intoxicating; he had only discovered a fragment of John’s body, and already he had more landscapes than Sainte-Cécile.
Sherlock was so caught up in his observations that he barely noticed John sliding his suspenders down his shoulders, but he did notice when John started unbuttoning his shirt, his fingertips lightly brushing his chest in the process. Just those small touches were enough to increase Sherlock’s heartbeat, and when all the buttons were undone, he hurriedly took it off to offer John’s inquisitive hands more skin to caress. When John finally put his hands on Sherlock’s hips and started stroking the exposed skin, he decided to follow his lead, and he slid a hand under John’s nightshirt to ruck it up as far as it would go.
“This nightshirt needs to come off, John,” Sherlock whispered directly into his ear before kneeling back and giving John enough room to remove the garment and throw it away from the bed.
He had seen John’s chest before, but it looked different now that his life wasn’t in danger anymore, and he took a moment to truly look at it and appreciate it. As John resumed his caresses on Sherlock’s slim torso, Sherlock leaned down again, and he kissed the hollow of John’s throat before making his way downward. He liked the way John’s sparse chest hair tickled his cheek when he rubbed his face against it, but not as much as he liked the low groan John made when he blew on a nipple. Inspired by the way the small bud reacted, he flicked his tongue over it, and the sound John made was exceptionally indecent. Sherlock felt his cock twitch for attention, but he ignored it; he had all night.
He sucked, licked, and bit softly until John was so loud that anyone passing the closed door in the corridor would have known exactly what they were doing. When he stopped, John clawed at his back and whimpered, which made Sherlock chuckle as he continued to move downward, using his lips, tongue, and teeth while registering what made John squirm, pant, groan, or moan. When he reached John’s undergarment, Sherlock was faced with John’s obvious arousal, and suddenly he felt several degrees warmer. Tentatively, he rubbed his cheek against the bulge in John’s drawers, and he felt John burying his fingers in his curls.
“Sherlock! Stop, stop, please stop!” John cried.
Sherlock obliged, and fearing he had done something wrong, he looked up and saw that John’s head was thrown back, his mouth opened, and his eyes squeezed shut; he was either in pain, or experiencing sheer pleasure. Sherlock hoped it was the latter.
“If you don’t want…this…to be over, please ignore this particular area,” John said, panting.
Pleased that he had been the one to reduce John to such a state, Sherlock smiled as he moved up again. Looking down at John’s flushed face and parted lips, he realized they hadn’t kissed, not since the library. That was unacceptable. John noticed him staring at his mouth, and he chuckled.
“Finally! You spent so much time exploring my torso, I was wondering why my mouth was being neglected,” he said.
“Maybe because I enjoyed the beautiful sounds you made with it,” Sherlock suggested before he leaned down to gently suck on John’s Adam’s apple, which made him gasp and moan, as predicted.
Sherlock swallowed the sound with his mouth, and at first it felt a little awkward, but then they both shifted and suddenly the angle was right, and so was everything else. It was exactly as it had been six months ago in the library, but infinitely better. There wasn’t any fear that this was their last meeting, and even if Sherlock kept unconsciously bracing himself for Harry’s interruption, it never came, and the realization that she wouldn’t barge in through the door was exquisite.
John’s lips were a little chafed from the dehydration he had put his body through, but they were warm and eager, and when the tip of his tongue touched Sherlock’s lower lip, it was his turn to moan, and he felt John smile against his lips. Tentatively, Sherlock’s tongue approached John’s, and both met in the middle where they softly stroked each other. Sherlock was so engrossed in the kiss he didn’t feel John’s hand sliding down his back and into his drawers until he was stroking one firm buttock. Sherlock broke the kiss when his mouth opened in surprise, and he moaned against his will. It didn’t make sense; his buttocks were stimulated every day (chair, bed, rock, grass, sand…) and never had anything felt that pleasurable before. Luckily, or sitting down would have been extremely awkward. John laughed at Sherlock’s reaction, and he used his other hand to trace Sherlock’s lips.
“Your mouth is shaped like a heart when you make that face,” he stated, smiling.
Sherlock’s only response was to kiss John again while pushing back to seek more contact with the hand in his undergarment. John obliged, still surprised by how plush and well-defined Sherlock’s bum was. The fact that he was the one to discover that well-kept secret, that he was the one allowed to touch Sherlock in that way, fuelled his arousal, and the kiss that had been hesitant at first became more heated as John’s desire grew even stronger. Sherlock followed John’s lead, and soon they were devouring each other’s mouths with intent and passion.
John, in an attempt to be even closer, used the hand stroking Sherlock’s ass to close the gap between them, and time stopped when their bodies aligned. John’s erection was pressed against Sherlock’s hip, and he could clearly feel Sherlock’s arousal against his thigh. Both men moaned, but they didn’t break the kiss. Following his instincts, Sherlock shifted a little upward until their crotches were parallel, and suddenly it felt even better. Sherlock started thrusting slowly against John who was guiding the movement with his hand, and they both pressed harder, seeking more friction.
At first, it was easy to keep a slow rhythm, to ignore the voice saying harder, faster in their heads, and to bask in the delightful burning sensation in their thighs, the throbbing in their groins, and their accelerated matching heartbeats. However, the more they thrust, the more their need grew. The pillow in which Sherlock had buried his face was muffling his loud moans, and John was biting Sherlock’s neck in order not to be too vocal.
“Sherlock,” John panted, “I’m sure this would feel even better without clothes,” he added, but he made no attempt to resolve the situation.
Sherlock was instantly sold on the idea; he wanted to feel more of John’s skin against his, wanted to know whether John’s cock was as hot as his own felt, but he kept thinking one more thrust, just one more, and he couldn’t bring himself to break the contact. The pleasure was almost unbearable, his senses were on fire this is the last one, and he needed more, always more. If he could’ve crawled into John – wonderful, beautiful, moaning his name John – he would have. He could feel his balls tightening one more thrust and I’ll pause, and he knew he would not last much longer, neither would John if the tight grip he had on his buttocks was any indication.
A terribly annoying voice in the back of Sherlock’s head was shouting practicalities, telling him that he didn’t have a change of clothes, true, I just need a little more, that he would be uncomfortable later if he found release while wearing his drawers so good, and that it would only take a few seconds to take them off. The voice was getting too loud to ignore five thrusts, that’s all I need, five thrusts and I stop, and, gritting his teeth, he slowed their frantic rutting to thrust hard – very hard and excruciatingly slowly – five more times before pulling his hips away from John. He was panting, the fight against the pleasure center of his brain had been a difficult one to win, and John’s hips were thrusting up into the air, seeking friction and release.
“Clothes off,” Sherlock panted, and a few seconds later, they were both completely naked.
They took a moment to look at their cocks that were inches away from each other, the slight curves of their erect members making them look as though they were trying to meet and touch. Sherlock knew that once they made contact again, it would be over very soon. His cock had never been so hard, nor had it ever leaked that profusely, and his balls had never felt so full. Yet he wanted to prolong the moment. He thought about the Vivaldi piece he had played for John in the library, he thought about the gusts of wind, the anticipation, and nature holding its breath before snow started to fall. He felt exactly like that, suspended in a drumroll leading to…what? He didn’t know, but he was eager to find out.
Gritting his teeth and burying his face into the pillow once more, Sherlock lowered his hips until their groins touched, and oh if he had known it would feel like this, he would have undressed them both from the start. In fact, he didn’t feel like getting dressed ever again if it meant he could stay in bed with John for the rest of his life. Together, they started moving, sliding hot and silky smooth skin against each other. It should have been painful to push, rub, and thrust so hard, but it wasn’t; it felt breathtakingly magnificent.
It didn’t take long before John’s moans were too loud to be stifled by Sherlock’s neck, and he clawed at his back so hard there would most likely be marks. Soon, John’s cock was pulsing against Sherlock’s and with one last moan, he found release, splattering both their stomachs. It was warm, it was John, and it was sex, that’s all it took to bring Sherlock over the edge, making an even bigger mess on their stomachs.
His arms gave out, and he shifted down a little so he was only half sprawled on top of John. For a long time, neither spoke as they tried to catch their breath; their hearts were still pounding hard, and they were giddy with endorphins. John was the first to speak.
“That was amazing,” he said, and he could feel Sherlock’s low rumble of a laugh deep in his chest.
“Eleventh treasure?” Sherlock asked, and it was John’s turn to laugh.
“You’re the eleventh treasure,” John replied fondly, “now go get a wet flannel or we’ll end up stuck together.
Sherlock obliged, and he cleaned them both up. John’s now flaccid cock fascinated him, and he would have liked to smell, taste, and touch, but John’s eyelids were starting to droop, and he was yawning contentedly; his exploration would have to wait. Instead, he curled up against John who ran a hand through his hair and started delicately stroking his curls. Sherlock closed his eyes too, but he didn’t want to sleep; he replayed the last hours repeatedly in his mind, and he listened to John’s breathing for long hours into the night.
Next chapter.
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