Sherlock doesn’t know what on earth possesses him, except for the fact that John is a doctor, and doctors care about these kinds of things (tedious), and John was so angry about the drugs that he finds himself lifting his head and blurting the words without conscious thought. Low and rapid, like a shameful secret.
‘I’m clean. They did blood tests in hospital, probably all of them, after the second surgery. Mycroft undoubtedly insisted.’
John glances up at him, seemingly just as startled by the comment as Sherlock, and meets his eyes for the first time since Sherlock dropped to his knees for him. What Sherlock sees there confuses him, because there’s no reason at all John should look like he’s the one who has willingly cracked open his own ribs and exposed his heart to the flail.
‘I insisted,’ John corrects him. ‘You never took the best care of yourself when we were living together, but in the few months I’d moved out—Jesus, Sherlock. Do you think I didn’t double and triple check all your labs, myself, while you were in there?’ John asks, as if Sherlock is the idiot here. A shadow passes over his face. ‘Had, ah, a few of my own tests run, since there was bugger all to do while I sat guard for weeks to make sure you didn’t pull another runner. Would have been stupid not to. I mean, if my own wife lied to me about being an assassin for hire under a false identity, who almost killed my best friend, there’s no telling what else she’s lied about, is there?’
Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes a few times, soundlessly. He hadn’t entertained even the slightest possibility of such a thing (having John...who would ever, ever dream of being unfaithful?), which in retrospect seems terribly remiss of him. There’s always something.
John’s eyes fall to Sherlock’s mouth, and his tongue darts out to touch the center of his own bottom lip, briefly. Something in Sherlock’s chest wrenches painfully.
Sherlock has never enjoyed kissing, does nothing for him, except impart a mild disgust at the feel of another wet tongue against his own, someone else’s saliva in his mouth, and the unavoidable sense of his own failure to understand what ninety-nine percent of the population can possibly find of worth in the act. He’s not particularly practiced, at any rate, recent dalliance with Janine aside (had striven to keep those encounters as infrequent and closed-mouthed as possible), and wouldn’t want to disappoint John. Disappoint himself. Better to cut off at the knees any well-intentioned but ultimately doomed attempts from John to offer comfort or reassurance in such a manner, so Sherlock quickly tightens his arms around John’s shoulders, pushing himself up enough to give John room to penetrate him.
Don’t think about it, Sherlock reminds himself sternly. He can feel Magnussen’s eyes crawling over him, but refuses to acknowledge the man’s presence. Keeps his eyes trained over John’s shoulder.
‘Do it, then,’ he grits through his teeth. ‘All this dawdling is intolerable.’
With a forceful exhale against his clavicle, John relents, swiping a generous amount of lubricant over Sherlock’s twitching hole.
‘Give me your hand,’ he says, jostling Sherlock’s right arm free of his shoulders and directing Sherlock to reach behind himself. ‘Grab hold of my prick and keep it in place while I help you ease down onto it, all right?’
Sherlock’s fingers curl apprehensively around John and he can’t help the curiosity that has him giving a single, awkward, underhanded stroke, feeling out the dimensions of it, the texture, the smooth slide of foreskin along the shaft. John is going to be working this inside his arse any second now, Sherlock acknowledges, nearly faint with disbelief at the unreality of their situation.
John grunts, his hips giving an aborted jerk into Sherlock’s grasp, butting up against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse where John holds him open, a hand wrapped high around the back of either thigh. ‘Jeeezus,’ John gasps, ‘Sherlock.’
Catching his bottom lip between his teeth, Sherlock presses the tip of John’s prick to his anus.
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 5c
‘I’m clean. They did blood tests in hospital, probably all of them, after the second surgery. Mycroft undoubtedly insisted.’
John glances up at him, seemingly just as startled by the comment as Sherlock, and meets his eyes for the first time since Sherlock dropped to his knees for him. What Sherlock sees there confuses him, because there’s no reason at all John should look like he’s the one who has willingly cracked open his own ribs and exposed his heart to the flail.
‘I insisted,’ John corrects him. ‘You never took the best care of yourself when we were living together, but in the few months I’d moved out—Jesus, Sherlock. Do you think I didn’t double and triple check all your labs, myself, while you were in there?’ John asks, as if Sherlock is the idiot here. A shadow passes over his face. ‘Had, ah, a few of my own tests run, since there was bugger all to do while I sat guard for weeks to make sure you didn’t pull another runner. Would have been stupid not to. I mean, if my own wife lied to me about being an assassin for hire under a false identity, who almost killed my best friend, there’s no telling what else she’s lied about, is there?’
Sherlock’s mouth opens and closes a few times, soundlessly. He hadn’t entertained even the slightest possibility of such a thing (having John...who would ever, ever dream of being unfaithful?), which in retrospect seems terribly remiss of him. There’s always something.
John’s eyes fall to Sherlock’s mouth, and his tongue darts out to touch the center of his own bottom lip, briefly. Something in Sherlock’s chest wrenches painfully.
Sherlock has never enjoyed kissing, does nothing for him, except impart a mild disgust at the feel of another wet tongue against his own, someone else’s saliva in his mouth, and the unavoidable sense of his own failure to understand what ninety-nine percent of the population can possibly find of worth in the act. He’s not particularly practiced, at any rate, recent dalliance with Janine aside (had striven to keep those encounters as infrequent and closed-mouthed as possible), and wouldn’t want to disappoint John. Disappoint himself. Better to cut off at the knees any well-intentioned but ultimately doomed attempts from John to offer comfort or reassurance in such a manner, so Sherlock quickly tightens his arms around John’s shoulders, pushing himself up enough to give John room to penetrate him.
Don’t think about it, Sherlock reminds himself sternly. He can feel Magnussen’s eyes crawling over him, but refuses to acknowledge the man’s presence. Keeps his eyes trained over John’s shoulder.
‘Do it, then,’ he grits through his teeth. ‘All this dawdling is intolerable.’
With a forceful exhale against his clavicle, John relents, swiping a generous amount of lubricant over Sherlock’s twitching hole.
‘Give me your hand,’ he says, jostling Sherlock’s right arm free of his shoulders and directing Sherlock to reach behind himself. ‘Grab hold of my prick and keep it in place while I help you ease down onto it, all right?’
Sherlock’s fingers curl apprehensively around John and he can’t help the curiosity that has him giving a single, awkward, underhanded stroke, feeling out the dimensions of it, the texture, the smooth slide of foreskin along the shaft. John is going to be working this inside his arse any second now, Sherlock acknowledges, nearly faint with disbelief at the unreality of their situation.
John grunts, his hips giving an aborted jerk into Sherlock’s grasp, butting up against the cleft of Sherlock’s arse where John holds him open, a hand wrapped high around the back of either thigh. ‘Jeeezus,’ John gasps, ‘Sherlock.’
Catching his bottom lip between his teeth, Sherlock presses the tip of John’s prick to his anus.