sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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MEME LINKS
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Links to previous prompting parts

OTHER LINKS AND AFFILIATES

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Useful resources for Sherlock and LiveJournal.
Sherlock screencaps.

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Sherlock’s initiative is rewarded by John teasing his knuckles over that very spot as he uses his thumb to smear a globule of lubricant across Sherlock’s hole. John plies the muscle with alternating pressure, light and firm, and every so often the tip of his thumb dips inside, and there is no pattern to it Sherlock can discern, but he belatedly supposes that is rather the point.

‘Are you still stroking yourself?’ John wants to know. Which seems a ridiculous question, surely he knows the answer, can see the lack of movement in Sherlock’s shoulder as he simply holds himself, distracted by the—

John’s left hand slaps down hard onto his upturned buttock, and Sherlock involuntarily clenches around John’s thumb, startling a grunt from himself. His prick throbs in his hand. A swipe of his finger confirms that he is beginning to leak, foreskin partially retracted.

Sherlock tugs himself absently from root to tip, his hips jerking once as he briefly concentrates his attention on the frenulum. ‘Yes, John,’ he pants.

John’s left hand goes to his tailbone, massaging unhurried circles there, just above Sherlock’s arsehole. Easing the stretch as he removes his thumb, replaces it with two fingers.

‘Oh, god,’ Sherlock whispers, bucking into his own fist, but John’s hand doesn’t quite follow, and when Sherlock settles back to center himself over his knees again, the movement has him fucking himself on John’s fingers. ‘Oh, god...’

Shut up, shut up, he tells himself furiously, but John hooks his fingers, drags them slowly from Sherlock’s body until the tips catch at his rim, then slides them back into Sherlock. Grinds the knuckle of his third finger into Sherlock’s perineum, and Sherlock feels himself twitch and tighten around John’s fingers.

‘You all right, Sherlock?’

‘Y-yes.’

‘What are you doing with your hand?’ John asks, pointedly.

Sherlock strokes himself obediently, twists his wrist on the upstroke, huffs a breath though his nose as he struggles to remain silent. Another stroke, and this time his hips follow along helplessly, pumping into his hand; when his hips retreat, John’s fingers are there, plunging slow and deep. The sensation is...not objectionable, and Sherlock only hesitates a moment before doing it again, then again, establishing a stilted rhythm between John’s fingers and his own fist.

‘Good, brilliant, you’re doing so well,’ John praises him and, oh, the thrill of John’s earnest approval is a hundred times more disarming, like this. Sherlock feels his whole body flush with embarrassed pleasure.

John’s left hand trails along Sherlock’s skin, smooths over the curve of his buttock, and Sherlock shudders at the sense memory of the sting of his palm. His grip around himself tightens in response, the glide of his hand smooth and easy, now, as he realizes with detached curiosity that he’s leaking freely. Interesting, but not nearly as interesting as the strength of John’s hand when he digs his fingers into the muscle of Sherlock’s arse, as he catches his thumb in the cleft and uses it to spread Sherlock wider, exposing him. A whimper works its way up Sherlock’s throat as his prostate throbs.

John uses his leverage to ensure Sherlock maintains the rhythm of his hips: tiny, languid, rolling motions, forward and back. It’s...good. Sherlock’s knees strain against the fabric of his trousers.

‘Just like that,’ John murmurs. ‘Just like that, fantastic. Do you think you’re ready for another finger?’

Oh, god, Sherlock thinks. I don’t know, Sherlock thinks. But John is proud of him, he is doing so well John says, and Sherlock is fairly certain his body is going to cooperate. Orgasm still seems a good way off at this point, but definitely feels possible. Sherlock has passed the most difficult hurdle, at least. Maybe.

‘Yes,’ Sherlock says.

‘Good, all right, just relax,’ John urges. He pulls both his hands from Sherlock’s body. There is the crinkle of the foil lubricant sachet, then John’s left hand is sweeping down the length of Sherlock’s thigh to his knee, where he prods at him until Sherlock lifts the knee, allowing John to maneuver it free of trousers and pants. ‘Spread your legs a bit more, there you go.’

Sherlock lets John rearrange him as he will, gasping into the dampening wool of his coat. His limbs feel shaky, and not entirely reliable in continuing to hold his weight. Sherlock’s mind turns over once, without John’s precisely devastating touch, but before he can manage more than that, John is there, holding himself above Sherlock again as he massages three fingers into the rim of Sherlock’s arsehole.

Sherlock inhales sharply, momentarily tenses but John, good John, brilliant John, perfect John knows how to distract him before the anxiety can crawl its way up his throat to choke him, and fists his free hand in Sherlock’s curls, tugging with strong, steady pressure. Sherlock cries out through gritted teeth, his mind briefly blanks altogether, and when he regains his bearings, John’s thumb is rubbing soothing circles against the base of his skull, and he is carefully fucking Sherlock with three fingers.

John’s fingers are shorter than Sherlock’s own, but thicker (and Sherlock has never before been quite ambitious enough to go for three). There is an uncomfortable fullness, a slight burning, and Sherlock feels his hard-won arousal waver.

‘John,’ he breathes, uneasy.

‘Shh, I know, Sherlock, relax for me, you can do this,’ John tells him, which does make Sherlock feel a bit better, since it must be true. John is nothing if not honest to a fault. This honesty only ever extends to what people want to hear about themselves, of course, with the notable exception of Sherlock, but that is even better, Sherlock likes it, being John’s exception. He can do this, if John says he can. Idiots do this sort of thing every day, don’t they, and keep going back for more? Sherlock closes his teeth down hard on a knuckle.

John takes up a slow, twist-in-twist-out motion, and the thumb of his other hand returns to digging those maddening little circles into Sherlock’s tailbone and it’s almost enough to make it bearable, but not quite. The slide of John’s fingers is not as smooth as before, and John has to use a bit more careful force than previously, in working Sherlock open. Sherlock struggles to remain silent, wants to be good for John, wants to get this over with, but while Sherlock knows crime and chemistry and 243 types of ash, John knows bodies and Sherlock and, demonstrably, sex.

‘Shit,’ John swears under his breath as his hands still. ‘I can’t...There’s not nearly enough slick to do this properly. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘I have a very high pain tolerance,’ Sherlock offers, but apparently bringing up pain tolerance in a sexually coercive context is Not Good, because John immediately removes his fingers, stops touching Sherlock altogether. He is silent for so long, Sherlock wonders if John has reached his limit. If he will try arguing with Magnussen again. A bit pointless, unless John manages to engage Magnussen for the next ten(?) minutes at a stretch, to give Mycroft time to arrive and Sherlock his opportunity to finally put a stop to this travesty; however, this is unlikely enough as to be impossible, seeing as Magnussen has already expressed his impatience once. With a man like Magnussen, once is all the warning Sherlock expects to receive.

‘One sachet of this stuff,’ John spits in Magnussen’s direction like an accusation. ‘Really?’

‘One is all you were given,’ Magnussen agrees, once he seems to decide John’s comment is not rhetorical. ‘I thought soldiers were supposed to be resourceful!’ He chuckles to himself.

‘You said it yourself, his body’s not used to this sort of thing,’ John growls. ‘I’m going to do it—I am doing it,’ he is quick to clarify, likely in response to something in Magnussen’s face, ‘I’m doing it, goddamn you, but your sick curiosity won’t be satisfied if he’s in too much pain to even maintain an erection!’

Anger. John is angry, for his sake. For them being forced into this in the first place, as well. (In that case, he should be angry at Sherlock. Sherlock is the one who brought him here. All because he had wanted John along for another adventure, something to take John’s mind off the galling helplessness he felt, confronted with Mary’s duplicity and the tenuous state of their future as a couple, as a family. Instead, Sherlock had merely maneuvered John into position to be made helpless in yet another way.)

‘Hmm. Perhaps you have a valid point, John,’ Magnussen eventually concedes. ‘Well, Sherlock?’

Sherlock takes his hand from himself, presses his fist to his upper thigh, hard, pushing his knuckles into the bone of his femur. He is well aware that if he asks anything of Magnussen now, it will come at a price. (Magnussen only makes a deal once he’s established a person’s weaknesses.)

‘Sherlock,’ John says behind him, warningly.

Sherlock wants to think that if he was at all interested in making this easier on himself, he would ignore Magnussen’s goading. That saying ‘yes’ would be purely for John’s benefit, because it would be much harder on John, causing Sherlock pain, than it would be for Sherlock to endure that pain in the name of spite. But he doesn’t want to have to remember pain at John’s hands, not of this kind; because as much as he might wish, otherwise, Sherlock is under no delusions that he will not remember every moment of this. John will have no choice but to remember, and allowing himself to delete today’s events when John cannot feels unconscionably cowardly.

Sherlock carefully pushes himself upright, until he is on his hands and knees once more.

‘Another sachet, pl—‘ He coughs once, attempting to dispel the unnaturally husky quality to his voice. ‘Please.’ His brain feels like it is coming back on line, and he reaches for that sense of clarity, as he waits to hear Magnussen’s terms. Tries to wrestle back some of his usual self-possession, for John’s sake. ‘You’ve clearly seen the size of what John is, ah, working with,’ he adds (blathers), gesturing vaguely behind himself without managing to look at either of the room’s other two occupants, ‘so it should come as no surprise that it’s highly unlikely to fit “as-is.”’

Magnussen puts on a show of deliberating the request, drumming his fingers thoughtfully against the top of the sofa. Sherlock clenches his jaw. He will not beg.

Finally, Magnussen shrugs, palms turned up and spread wide, as if to indicate it is all the same to him. ‘As you wish.’ He stands from the sofa, hands slipping into the pockets of his trousers. ‘On one condition. Turn around and face John so he can see you, as he said. He is only trying to help you, Sherlock, and it seems you need as much help as you can get.’

Magnussen steps around the glass coffee table to approach the two of them. His feet come to a stop directly in Sherlock’s field of vision.

‘Besides.’ Another of the foil packets lands in front of Sherlock (in Magnussen’s pocket this whole time; waiting for just such an opportunity from the start). Sherlock doesn’t need to lift his gaze from the floor to recognise the audible smirk in Magnussen’s tone. ‘I wouldn’t want your little soldier friend to go too easy on you. You seem to best enjoy a firm hand.’

My internets... let me give you them. This is perfection. More, please!

Holy cow. This is dark and intense and phenonmenally well-written. I've been waiting for a "Magnussen makes them do it" fic since HLV aired, and this far exceeds my wildest hopes.

I love the psychological side to it; that we get to see inside Sherlock's head. His inner conflict and vulnerability are heartbreakingly beautiful, as are John's anger and firm insistence on trying to make it bearable for him. Magnussen's characterization is great as well.

Dying to read the next instalment.

This may be the ultimate fuck-or-die fic. Wow.

John's 'firm hand' may just be the death of me... (Mycroft agrees: 'robalmo Captains')

Oh man this is so good! I'm really looking forward to the next part!

Amazing.

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