John clears his throat. ‘Right, then,’ he says, awkward and not without misgivings, but nods briefly (avoids eye contact) before wasting no more time in undoing his zip, again, and reaching inside.
(‘Just get it over with!’ John had growled at him, shirtless and hunched miserably over the washbasin, the two of them crammed into the loo because the lighting was better, and Sherlock had dithered over where best to get a grip on the medical tape without peeling the skin from John’s back in the process. ‘You do realize the antici—
Sherlock’s mind slams back into the present as the head of John’s prick touches his lower lip—warm, skin slightly humid, smells faintly of musk and John—and Sherlock nearly bites his own tongue in the struggle against his instinctive reaction to taste, which he is aware is a bit Not Good. John’s hand, wrapped around himself just below the head (foreskin not retracted, lack of arousal obvious), jerks his penis back, clearly alarmed.
‘Sorry,’ Sherlock mutters weakly, ‘I’m sorry.’ No retreating to his own Mind Palace, then; he can’t trust himself not to be startled by novel stimuli and to avoid seriously injuring John. ‘I just wasn’t expect—sorry.’
‘Jesus,’ John pants. ‘A bloody menace, you are,’ and then he is frowning with determination, ah, no more dithering for either of them. John catches Sherlock under the jaw with his right hand, wedges his thumb between Sherlock’s back molars and oh, that’s clever, is that clever? Better that Sherlock bites John’s thumb, if he’s startled again, than risk biting anything less...resilient. John exerts a little more pressure with his thumb, forcing Sherlock’s mouth wider, and pushes the first few centimeters of his soft prick inside.
Sherlock’s fingers spasm where he clutches his own knees, but he otherwise remains perfectly still. Keeps his tongue flattened as much as possible, tucked behind his bottom incisors, politely out of the way. Rethinks this, based on anecdotal evidence, and as John grimaces (no longer entirely flaccid; well, pure physiology will surely be enough to get John through this, if he simply closes his eyes and thinks of England, or Mary, shouldn’t take much, John’s become accustomed to regular intercourse since meeting Mary, then gone cold turkey after discovering her more unsavoury hobbies), Sherlock repositions his tongue over the sharp edge of his lower teeth.
John inhales sharply, his hips jerking forward another several centimeters, and Sherlock definitely would have bitten him that time, probably, if not for John’s thumb. As it is, Sherlock discovers a critical flaw with this position: namely, the inability to swallow his own saliva.
John compensates by withdrawing completely from Sherlock’s mouth, then, seemingly frustrated with himself (for being as jumpy as Sherlock? for dragging it out?) he plunges back inside, carefully but firmly. His foreskin has begun to retract, and the texture of the slick glans on Sherlock’s tongue is...interesting. John tastes the way he smells, warm and musky.
It is bearable. It’s fine, it’s all fine, and when John...finished, or Magnussen grew bored, or Mycroft finally (finally) got his fat arse here and Sherlock had his witnesses, Magnussen would no longer have leverage over anyone ever again, and he and John would leave this place and not ever speak of it. Assuming Sherlock would be allowed, or even able, to talk to John again, from wherever Mycroft had him detained, after he eliminated Magnussen. “Justifiable homicide,” Sherlock’s mind offers, but Sherlock knows there will be no justification for him, despite the fact he will be doing the whole of England a favour, and several other countries, beside.
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 3a
(‘Just get it over with!’ John had growled at him, shirtless and hunched miserably over the washbasin, the two of them crammed into the loo because the lighting was better, and Sherlock had dithered over where best to get a grip on the medical tape without peeling the skin from John’s back in the process. ‘You do realize the antici—
Sherlock’s mind slams back into the present as the head of John’s prick touches his lower lip—warm, skin slightly humid, smells faintly of musk and John—and Sherlock nearly bites his own tongue in the struggle against his instinctive reaction to taste, which he is aware is a bit Not Good. John’s hand, wrapped around himself just below the head (foreskin not retracted, lack of arousal obvious), jerks his penis back, clearly alarmed.
‘Sorry,’ Sherlock mutters weakly, ‘I’m sorry.’ No retreating to his own Mind Palace, then; he can’t trust himself not to be startled by novel stimuli and to avoid seriously injuring John. ‘I just wasn’t expect—sorry.’
‘Jesus,’ John pants. ‘A bloody menace, you are,’ and then he is frowning with determination, ah, no more dithering for either of them. John catches Sherlock under the jaw with his right hand, wedges his thumb between Sherlock’s back molars and oh, that’s clever, is that clever? Better that Sherlock bites John’s thumb, if he’s startled again, than risk biting anything less...resilient. John exerts a little more pressure with his thumb, forcing Sherlock’s mouth wider, and pushes the first few centimeters of his soft prick inside.
Sherlock’s fingers spasm where he clutches his own knees, but he otherwise remains perfectly still. Keeps his tongue flattened as much as possible, tucked behind his bottom incisors, politely out of the way. Rethinks this, based on anecdotal evidence, and as John grimaces (no longer entirely flaccid; well, pure physiology will surely be enough to get John through this, if he simply closes his eyes and thinks of England, or Mary, shouldn’t take much, John’s become accustomed to regular intercourse since meeting Mary, then gone cold turkey after discovering her more unsavoury hobbies), Sherlock repositions his tongue over the sharp edge of his lower teeth.
John inhales sharply, his hips jerking forward another several centimeters, and Sherlock definitely would have bitten him that time, probably, if not for John’s thumb. As it is, Sherlock discovers a critical flaw with this position: namely, the inability to swallow his own saliva.
John compensates by withdrawing completely from Sherlock’s mouth, then, seemingly frustrated with himself (for being as jumpy as Sherlock? for dragging it out?) he plunges back inside, carefully but firmly. His foreskin has begun to retract, and the texture of the slick glans on Sherlock’s tongue is...interesting. John tastes the way he smells, warm and musky.
It is bearable. It’s fine, it’s all fine, and when John...finished, or Magnussen grew bored, or Mycroft finally (finally) got his fat arse here and Sherlock had his witnesses, Magnussen would no longer have leverage over anyone ever again, and he and John would leave this place and not ever speak of it. Assuming Sherlock would be allowed, or even able, to talk to John again, from wherever Mycroft had him detained, after he eliminated Magnussen. “Justifiable homicide,” Sherlock’s mind offers, but Sherlock knows there will be no justification for him, despite the fact he will be doing the whole of England a favour, and several other countries, beside.