‘Okay?’ he demands, his voice strained, the creases around his eyes worried. It suddenly strikes Sherlock just how formidable John’s control over himself must be: to be able to sit back on his heels so awkwardly for Sherlock’s comfort, leveraging most of Sherlock’s weight in his arms, while he inches his way into Sherlock’s body at a glacial pace.
John Watson, you are a marvel, he thinks, staggered, and I never get your limits. Daren’t say it aloud, though, because even in his head the words sound damningly like a confession.
‘Yes,’ Sherlock answers truthfully, but it feels like a lie; he is so incalculably in love with John at that moment, he cannot bear it, and he can never say. Living with John has ingrained in him (among many other things he used to give no consideration whatsoever) that there were certain truths some people did not want to be told, and this was a burden of information which definitely fell within that category.
Something in John’s face crumples. ‘Oh, Sherlock,’ he murmurs.
Sherlock immediately slams his eyes shut, averts with face, shaking his head in denial of whatever John believes he saw there. Too much, Sherlock thinks, ruefully. He’d known this would happen.
‘Keep going,’ Sherlock orders, furious with himself. ‘The rest of the way. Finish it.’ He bears down against John, more than ready to be done with this portion of the proceedings, but John only allows him another painful inch. Sherlock hates him. Hates himself.
‘I asked you not to lie to me,’ John tells him, hands flexing against Sherlock’s arse as he leans in, leans up and pushes his nose against Sherlock’s cheek. ‘It was the one thing I wanted you to promise me, going into this.’
Sherlock gives a bitter, tremulous laugh. ‘Wrong. You, of everyone, should know I never make promises I have no hope of keeping.’
‘Then you promised to listen to me,’ John points out, implacably, ‘and trust me. So trust me.’
Sherlock takes a deep breath with the intention of arguing as to what he actually promised, opens his mouth to do so, but then John drags Sherlock fully onto his lap. John’s cock penetrates him to the root, and the breath becomes a strangled gasp.
‘Shh, shh, I’ve got you,’ John assures him, his arms coming up to wrap tightly around Sherlock as he shakes and shudders and attempts not to pass out from a combination of pain and the sickening jangling of nerves insisting that something is wrong. ‘Sherlock, I’ve got you.’ John presses his lips firmly to Sherlock’s temple.
‘John,’ he croaks, helplessly.
John’s lips move to the moisture at the corner of Sherlock’s eye; to his cheekbone, to the corner of his mouth, where they linger.
‘Just relax, Sherlock. Let me do this for you.’ One hand skims up Sherlock’s spine to cup the back of his skull so gently, so carefully, while the other arm tightens, draws Sherlock snuggly against the fragrant, comforting warmth of John’s body. ‘No thinking. We’re almost there.’
Oh god. Almost, Sherlock tells himself, latching onto the word desperately. John is fully inside him and they are almost done, his brother is surely almost here, they can almost go home. He struggles to adjust to John’s girth, to internalize and set aside the pain.
‘John, please,’ he groans, he just needs a distraction until his body acclimatizes, something to take him out of his own head, and John has proved remarkably adept thus far. ‘I can’t—‘
Sherlock can’t articulate what he needs, but he trusts John, he does, even in this, and his faith is rewarded when John tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and tips his head back, giving John the space to scrape his teeth along the edge of Sherlock’s jaw to his ear, where he sucks the lobe into his mouth.
FILL: Take What We're Given (Just Because You've Forgotten Doesn't Mean You're Forgiven) Part 5e
John Watson, you are a marvel, he thinks, staggered, and I never get your limits. Daren’t say it aloud, though, because even in his head the words sound damningly like a confession.
‘Yes,’ Sherlock answers truthfully, but it feels like a lie; he is so incalculably in love with John at that moment, he cannot bear it, and he can never say. Living with John has ingrained in him (among many other things he used to give no consideration whatsoever) that there were certain truths some people did not want to be told, and this was a burden of information which definitely fell within that category.
Something in John’s face crumples. ‘Oh, Sherlock,’ he murmurs.
Sherlock immediately slams his eyes shut, averts with face, shaking his head in denial of whatever John believes he saw there. Too much, Sherlock thinks, ruefully. He’d known this would happen.
‘Keep going,’ Sherlock orders, furious with himself. ‘The rest of the way. Finish it.’ He bears down against John, more than ready to be done with this portion of the proceedings, but John only allows him another painful inch. Sherlock hates him. Hates himself.
‘I asked you not to lie to me,’ John tells him, hands flexing against Sherlock’s arse as he leans in, leans up and pushes his nose against Sherlock’s cheek. ‘It was the one thing I wanted you to promise me, going into this.’
Sherlock gives a bitter, tremulous laugh. ‘Wrong. You, of everyone, should know I never make promises I have no hope of keeping.’
‘Then you promised to listen to me,’ John points out, implacably, ‘and trust me. So trust me.’
Sherlock takes a deep breath with the intention of arguing as to what he actually promised, opens his mouth to do so, but then John drags Sherlock fully onto his lap. John’s cock penetrates him to the root, and the breath becomes a strangled gasp.
‘Shh, shh, I’ve got you,’ John assures him, his arms coming up to wrap tightly around Sherlock as he shakes and shudders and attempts not to pass out from a combination of pain and the sickening jangling of nerves insisting that something is wrong. ‘Sherlock, I’ve got you.’ John presses his lips firmly to Sherlock’s temple.
‘John,’ he croaks, helplessly.
John’s lips move to the moisture at the corner of Sherlock’s eye; to his cheekbone, to the corner of his mouth, where they linger.
‘Just relax, Sherlock. Let me do this for you.’ One hand skims up Sherlock’s spine to cup the back of his skull so gently, so carefully, while the other arm tightens, draws Sherlock snuggly against the fragrant, comforting warmth of John’s body. ‘No thinking. We’re almost there.’
Oh god. Almost, Sherlock tells himself, latching onto the word desperately. John is fully inside him and they are almost done, his brother is surely almost here, they can almost go home. He struggles to adjust to John’s girth, to internalize and set aside the pain.
‘John, please,’ he groans, he just needs a distraction until his body acclimatizes, something to take him out of his own head, and John has proved remarkably adept thus far. ‘I can’t—‘
Sherlock can’t articulate what he needs, but he trusts John, he does, even in this, and his faith is rewarded when John tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s curls and tips his head back, giving John the space to scrape his teeth along the edge of Sherlock’s jaw to his ear, where he sucks the lobe into his mouth.