After a brief hesitation, John continues. The touch is...tolerable, the combination of the tips of John’s two fingers just inside the rim of his anus, his thumb pressed to the external edge of the muscle, the incidental brush of ring-finger knuckle against Sherlock’s perineum. While Sherlock would have assumed the combination to be stomach-churningly invasive, instead he finds it...grounding, and it helps keep the worst of the panic at bay. Because it is John, doing what needs be done, even if he doesn’t entirely agree with it, but doing it all the same because Sherlock told him to. That, at least, is a comfortably familiar dynamic between them.
John braces his left hand on Sherlock’s hip, and it’s more stimulating than any touch has been until this point. From extremely scattered, not particularly reliable past experiences, Sherlock has ascertained he can enjoy and is exceptionally sensitive to non-sexually-explicit, affectionate touch, as long as it is from an acceptable individual, with acceptable (non-sexual) motives. John’s hand curled around his hip is a sensation which Sherlock is able to quantify as definitively Good, and as such, it has the skin all along Sherlock’s left side tingling, from knee to ribcage.
Distracted by the hand on his flank, Sherlock doesn’t tense up as quickly as he might have done when John slides the fingers of his right into him completely, all the way to the third knuckle. A strangled noise is driven from deep within Sherlock’s chest, incompletely smothered, and John’s left thumb caresses the blade of Sherlock’s ilium, rubs soothing circles along the edge of the bone with firm pressure and it’s perfect, John is perfect, and Sherlock can almost forget about the invasive fingers, can almost pretend, with his eyes squeezed shut, that they’re knelt on the floor of the sitting room at Baker Street, fresh off a fantastic case and John couldn’t wait, wanted this, wanted him, and John understood it wouldn’t be a regular thing, and was fine with it, (It’s all fine), Sherlock had given it to him because he’d wanted to, because he—
The clink of glass on glass (tumbler on table) slams Sherlock back into the reality of the situation. He gasps sharply through his nose, clamping down on John’s fingers reflexively, and the implacableness of them being there, embedded, threatens to send Sherlock into a panic attack. His vision greys worryingly, struck as he is by a feeling of disconnect from his own body. With delayed humiliation he realizes he is nearly half-hard.
‘Sherlock?’ John murmurs over his shoulder, concern evident in his voice. ‘Sherlock,’ he repeats, more firmly, ‘answer me.’
‘What?’ Sherlock bites out, his voice higher and tighter than normal and he hates it, he hates the way his transport always chooses the worst moment to betray him. John may be an idiot when it comes to most things, but not the workings of the body, and while that about him usually fascinates Sherlock, right now he hates that, too, because it just gives his execrable transport one more co-conspirator against him. Sherlock is trembling, his arms barely managing to keep him upright, his heart racing. John is hardly incompetent enough to miss all this, yet Sherlock wishes futilely that he will ignore it, will just...let it be.
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 3g
John braces his left hand on Sherlock’s hip, and it’s more stimulating than any touch has been until this point. From extremely scattered, not particularly reliable past experiences, Sherlock has ascertained he can enjoy and is exceptionally sensitive to non-sexually-explicit, affectionate touch, as long as it is from an acceptable individual, with acceptable (non-sexual) motives. John’s hand curled around his hip is a sensation which Sherlock is able to quantify as definitively Good, and as such, it has the skin all along Sherlock’s left side tingling, from knee to ribcage.
Distracted by the hand on his flank, Sherlock doesn’t tense up as quickly as he might have done when John slides the fingers of his right into him completely, all the way to the third knuckle. A strangled noise is driven from deep within Sherlock’s chest, incompletely smothered, and John’s left thumb caresses the blade of Sherlock’s ilium, rubs soothing circles along the edge of the bone with firm pressure and it’s perfect, John is perfect, and Sherlock can almost forget about the invasive fingers, can almost pretend, with his eyes squeezed shut, that they’re knelt on the floor of the sitting room at Baker Street, fresh off a fantastic case and John couldn’t wait, wanted this, wanted him, and John understood it wouldn’t be a regular thing, and was fine with it, (It’s all fine), Sherlock had given it to him because he’d wanted to, because he—
The clink of glass on glass (tumbler on table) slams Sherlock back into the reality of the situation. He gasps sharply through his nose, clamping down on John’s fingers reflexively, and the implacableness of them being there, embedded, threatens to send Sherlock into a panic attack. His vision greys worryingly, struck as he is by a feeling of disconnect from his own body. With delayed humiliation he realizes he is nearly half-hard.
‘Sherlock?’ John murmurs over his shoulder, concern evident in his voice. ‘Sherlock,’ he repeats, more firmly, ‘answer me.’
‘What?’ Sherlock bites out, his voice higher and tighter than normal and he hates it, he hates the way his transport always chooses the worst moment to betray him. John may be an idiot when it comes to most things, but not the workings of the body, and while that about him usually fascinates Sherlock, right now he hates that, too, because it just gives his execrable transport one more co-conspirator against him. Sherlock is trembling, his arms barely managing to keep him upright, his heart racing. John is hardly incompetent enough to miss all this, yet Sherlock wishes futilely that he will ignore it, will just...let it be.