‘Shut up, Sherlock, because I’m not through,’ John warns him. With a shake of his head, John huffs a humourless laugh. ‘I’ve stood back and followed your lead on dozens of insane cases--because that’s what you do, that’s what you know, and you’re brilliant at it, and I have always, always respected that, even when I didn’t agree with your methods. I’ve never fought you on it, not unless you were being a thick-headed idiot and putting yourself at risk of serious harm. But this...’ John sucks in a breath that sounds pained. ‘This is something you don’t know. And I don’t agree with it, you’re definitely putting yourself at risk of serious harm, but you will have to stop fighting me on this because there is no way in hell I am letting Magnussen put his hands on you.
‘So for once in your life, Sherlock, I am asking you to listen to me when I tell you to stand down and trust me to get you through this. You’re going to stop thinking about anything but putting your hand on your cock and doing exactly as I say, when I say it. “Yes” or “no” answers only. Understood?’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock replies, and it feels as if it comes from the very soles of his feet. Dazed, he shifts his balance on his left forearm, reaches for his prick and gingerly wraps his hand around it. Flushes with shame as he does so. ‘Yes,’ he repeats, unsure if he has said the word, or merely thought it.
No more thinking. He needs to disengage his brain, John says so, and they are only at this point because for every step forward they take, Sherlock’s brain wrestles him two steps back, so the prudent thing to do here is defer to John’s much greater experience.
‘Good,’ John says, and releases Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock curls in on himself just a bit, presses his feverish face against the wool of his Belstaff. His penis twitches in his hand.
‘Hold on,’ John admonishes, ‘not like that. Give me your hand.’
Gentle pressure on his wrist, and John pulls Sherlock’s hand away from his lap, lays a cool stripe of lubricant down the center of his palm.
‘Go on, now,’ John orders. ‘Get that back around your prick, get yourself nice and slick, because you’re going to keep at it until I tell you otherwise.’
Good Christ.
Sherlock does as he’s told. Wraps his own long fingers around his stiffening prick and gives it a few desultory pulls as he waits for John to tell him what to do next.
John’s hands tug at Sherlock’s trousers and pants, lowering them from his thighs to his knees. ‘Budge up,’ John mutters as he taps the inside of Sherlock’s leg with the back of a hand, coaxing his thighs further apart. The knuckles against Sherlock’s inner thigh migrate higher, higher, until they brush against his scrotum, sending a rush of exhilarated terror through him, and he holds his breath.
‘Sherlock. Yes or no.’
He releases his breath noisily, relieved, then irritated at himself for the relief. He knows John will not take any liberties Sherlock himself does not allow, he knows this, why was he behaving like this?
‘No,’ he answers, as steadily as he is able, which isn’t very. ‘But.’ John said yes or no answers only, didn’t he? Perhaps he had better not.
‘But what, Sherlock?’
‘The puh—perineum,’ he mumbles into his coat, mortified by his own brazenness. ‘Yes.’
‘Good, that’s good, Sherlock,’ John assures him. ‘Thank you for telling me.’
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 4e
‘So for once in your life, Sherlock, I am asking you to listen to me when I tell you to stand down and trust me to get you through this. You’re going to stop thinking about anything but putting your hand on your cock and doing exactly as I say, when I say it. “Yes” or “no” answers only. Understood?’
‘Yes,’ Sherlock replies, and it feels as if it comes from the very soles of his feet. Dazed, he shifts his balance on his left forearm, reaches for his prick and gingerly wraps his hand around it. Flushes with shame as he does so. ‘Yes,’ he repeats, unsure if he has said the word, or merely thought it.
No more thinking. He needs to disengage his brain, John says so, and they are only at this point because for every step forward they take, Sherlock’s brain wrestles him two steps back, so the prudent thing to do here is defer to John’s much greater experience.
‘Good,’ John says, and releases Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock curls in on himself just a bit, presses his feverish face against the wool of his Belstaff. His penis twitches in his hand.
‘Hold on,’ John admonishes, ‘not like that. Give me your hand.’
Gentle pressure on his wrist, and John pulls Sherlock’s hand away from his lap, lays a cool stripe of lubricant down the center of his palm.
‘Go on, now,’ John orders. ‘Get that back around your prick, get yourself nice and slick, because you’re going to keep at it until I tell you otherwise.’
Good Christ.
Sherlock does as he’s told. Wraps his own long fingers around his stiffening prick and gives it a few desultory pulls as he waits for John to tell him what to do next.
John’s hands tug at Sherlock’s trousers and pants, lowering them from his thighs to his knees. ‘Budge up,’ John mutters as he taps the inside of Sherlock’s leg with the back of a hand, coaxing his thighs further apart. The knuckles against Sherlock’s inner thigh migrate higher, higher, until they brush against his scrotum, sending a rush of exhilarated terror through him, and he holds his breath.
‘Sherlock. Yes or no.’
He releases his breath noisily, relieved, then irritated at himself for the relief. He knows John will not take any liberties Sherlock himself does not allow, he knows this, why was he behaving like this?
‘No,’ he answers, as steadily as he is able, which isn’t very. ‘But.’ John said yes or no answers only, didn’t he? Perhaps he had better not.
‘But what, Sherlock?’
‘The puh—perineum,’ he mumbles into his coat, mortified by his own brazenness. ‘Yes.’
‘Good, that’s good, Sherlock,’ John assures him. ‘Thank you for telling me.’