John’s finger carefully pushes in to the first knuckle. Then, when Sherlock says nothing, the second. Sherlock attempts not to vibrate out of his own skin.
‘Okay?’ John asks.
Sherlock lifts his head from between his shoulders enough to give a terse nod. He is not lying, exactly, because by any explanation John would be able to understand, Sherlock is “okay.” He is not in any pain, not in any strictly physical discomfort beyond the mechanics of it.
John slides his finger out until just the tip remains inserted, but Sherlock’s relief is short-lived. The finger returns to lightly palpate his prostate, causing the muscles of his pelvic floor to jump. Sherlock jolts, not having expected that quite so soon in the proceedings.
‘Shh, it’s alright, perfectly normal,’ John assures him, attempting to soothe Sherlock’s skittishness, but the words just serve to drive home to Sherlock how very Not Normal he feels.
Is it? he wants to ask, but won’t, of course, not with Magnussen hovering just out of sight like some great vulture, waiting for the scent of blood. Wouldn’t a normal male be at least the slightest bit stimulated by now? Sherlock wouldn’t know. After his own disappointing experiments, any continued study of others’ apparent ease of success had only felt like salt in the wound.
John takes his silence as permission to continue. Rubs his finger cautiously around the walls of Sherlock’s rectum before returning to his prostate with gentle, indirect pressure. Sherlock takes his lower lip between his teeth, brow furrowed, and stares fixedly at the floor. The sensation is not entirely pleasant, yet still vaguely so, all the same, and Sherlock can’t even begin to determine how he would conceptualize such a thing. John continues to probe at him with that single finger and eventually, Sherlock is able to acclimatize, as long as he considers it part of a mildly distasteful yet regretfully necessary medical procedure. As long as he keeps his mind firmly on his own body without making the mistake of visualizing the unflattering tableau he must present.
Finally, John’s finger slips free of Sherlock’s body and Sherlock inhales slowly, congratulating himself on retaining his equanimity. He’ll never make it to orgasm in five minutes, at this rate, but he will get through this.
After a moment, John’s fingers return. Two this time, cool with added lubricant, and Sherlock hopes John is being economical with it; Magnussen only granted them the one packet.
John circles the rugose skin of his anus, massaging, coaxing, and while not arousing in the least, Sherlock appreciates the clarity of intent behind the touch. Gradually, John insinuates the tips of his fingers and proceeds to work at the outer sphincter, without going deeper quite yet. Sherlock hisses in through his teeth, his hands fisting in the tweed of his Belstaff beneath him. John freezes.
‘It’s fine,’ Sherlock insists. ‘I’m fine, keep going.’ He makes a conscious effort to relax his shoulders from where they’ve begun creeping up around his ears.
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 3f
‘Okay?’ John asks.
Sherlock lifts his head from between his shoulders enough to give a terse nod. He is not lying, exactly, because by any explanation John would be able to understand, Sherlock is “okay.” He is not in any pain, not in any strictly physical discomfort beyond the mechanics of it.
John slides his finger out until just the tip remains inserted, but Sherlock’s relief is short-lived. The finger returns to lightly palpate his prostate, causing the muscles of his pelvic floor to jump. Sherlock jolts, not having expected that quite so soon in the proceedings.
‘Shh, it’s alright, perfectly normal,’ John assures him, attempting to soothe Sherlock’s skittishness, but the words just serve to drive home to Sherlock how very Not Normal he feels.
Is it? he wants to ask, but won’t, of course, not with Magnussen hovering just out of sight like some great vulture, waiting for the scent of blood. Wouldn’t a normal male be at least the slightest bit stimulated by now? Sherlock wouldn’t know. After his own disappointing experiments, any continued study of others’ apparent ease of success had only felt like salt in the wound.
John takes his silence as permission to continue. Rubs his finger cautiously around the walls of Sherlock’s rectum before returning to his prostate with gentle, indirect pressure. Sherlock takes his lower lip between his teeth, brow furrowed, and stares fixedly at the floor. The sensation is not entirely pleasant, yet still vaguely so, all the same, and Sherlock can’t even begin to determine how he would conceptualize such a thing. John continues to probe at him with that single finger and eventually, Sherlock is able to acclimatize, as long as he considers it part of a mildly distasteful yet regretfully necessary medical procedure. As long as he keeps his mind firmly on his own body without making the mistake of visualizing the unflattering tableau he must present.
Finally, John’s finger slips free of Sherlock’s body and Sherlock inhales slowly, congratulating himself on retaining his equanimity. He’ll never make it to orgasm in five minutes, at this rate, but he will get through this.
After a moment, John’s fingers return. Two this time, cool with added lubricant, and Sherlock hopes John is being economical with it; Magnussen only granted them the one packet.
John circles the rugose skin of his anus, massaging, coaxing, and while not arousing in the least, Sherlock appreciates the clarity of intent behind the touch. Gradually, John insinuates the tips of his fingers and proceeds to work at the outer sphincter, without going deeper quite yet. Sherlock hisses in through his teeth, his hands fisting in the tweed of his Belstaff beneath him. John freezes.
‘It’s fine,’ Sherlock insists. ‘I’m fine, keep going.’ He makes a conscious effort to relax his shoulders from where they’ve begun creeping up around his ears.