sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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He was leaving in mere weeks, and his departure would provide a natural impetus to stop, but until then, what was the harm? Another night by the telly, another golden opportunity.

The times it was just the two of them were best. It was thrilling when someone else was in the room, truly, and the adrenaline made it more intense, but he still much preferred when he and Sherlock were alone. When he could leisurely stroke himself without due vigilance. So much more intimate. Sometimes he would shift slightly as he did so to lightly kiss his brother's forehead. He longed to run his hands all over Sherlock's sleep-warmed body, to return the favor, so to speak, but he limited himself to a gentle stroke of the back of his neck with his thumb, just below the unruly curls, in gratitude... whispering soothing words whenever Sherlock would momentarily stir, until he drifted back to sleep.

*****

Mycroft returned home each long holiday. Sherlock would come join him on the sofa, or even, occasionally, in Mycroft's room, on his bed. He noted the puzzled look which would flit across the younger Holmes's thinning face for the briefest of moments (far less baby fat now, handsome features emerging) just before he chose to rest his head in his older brother's lap and close his eyes. Mycroft was relieved. Though he was still unsure if Sherlock retained any level of awareness, his decision to seek him out was certainly proof that if he did, it was most certainly mutually pleasurable, consensual. He stroked his back slowly, following the path of his spine down to its base at the curve of his arse.

Mycroft considered, not for the first time, ...enhancing... the length of his sleep, but was concerned about being found out. His brother's observational skills were nowhere near his own, of course, but he was becoming more astute, and he had yet to find a drug that was completely without odor or flavour. Still, the longer he contemplated this, the more the risk seemed negligible and the reward great.

*****

Mycroft graduated, began a career in public service, and came home rarely.

Sherlock went away to boarding school, then University, and did not come home at all.

Awesome! Really interesting and well-written! :)

Thank you so very much!

The first time Sherlock didn't return for the holidays, Mycroft decided to pay him a surprise visit. Though he frequently worked alongside of some of the most brilliant minds in the nation, none of them could hold a candle to his younger brother. He knew of the difficulty, the impossibility, of forming true friendships, but what he and Sherlock had was a deeper understanding. He missed that easy camaraderie far more than any physical contact, and he was far past such youthful indiscretion, in any case. There were more appropriate outlets available to him, and he used them as needed.

Under the pretence of searching for a seat, Mycroft took the opportunity to covertly survey the tiny studio flat, although Sherlock was well aware of this and found his attempt at duplicity amusing. No events on the calendar, save academic deadlines. The bed, pushed against the wall, making it impossible to get out from the other side. Clearly, he had never given the slightest thought to sharing it. No new CDs, his taste not having been broadened by a significant other. The telly was facing Sherlock's modern designer chair rather than the sofa. A room thoroughly designed for one. The flat was not compulsively neat, nor was it the chaotic mess of someone unable to cope with life's demands. He chose the sofa.

"Does my living arrangement meet with your expectations?" Sherlock grinned.

"No one?"

"I have no interest. Though you really do need to check the lavatory before making such a definitive proclamation."

"Hardly necessary."

"Perhaps I simply prefer to spend my time at her larger, more comfortable place?"

Mycroft responded with a raised eyebrow.

"Or his," Sherlock added.

"I certainly did not come here to judge any aspect of your relationship. If you had actually had one. Of course, if you are looking to, fulfil your needs, there are many ways to do so outside of one." Mycroft had spoken far too quickly; he hadn't time to assess how that would have sounded. It wasn't meant to be suggestive. Although Sherlock paused for mere seconds before forming a response, Mycroft was all too aware of Sherlock's careful analysis of what he had just said. Why? Did it sound like he was offering something considerably more inappropriate than a vague allusion to escorts and one-night-stands? He didn't think he wanted... that... any longer, not as an adult, but perhaps on some level... and Sherlock was clearly reading him deeply. He focused on looking unaffected, nonchalant. It would not do to look as if he was reconsidering his own words as a possible thinly-veiled sexual invitation. Why should they have been interpreted as such? Merely a snarky joke between brothers.

"I would see to it they were, fulfilled," Sherlock responded, his voice deep, but strangely quiet, "if I had any such 'needs'."

This was unexpected. Mycroft felt a wave of sympathy.

"Sherlock, sometimes we want things that are seemingly incompatible with what others expect of us, and we convince ourselves that we shouldn't feel..."

"For God's sake, Mycroft, do you really think I'd give a damn what society thinks? The general consensus of a world filled with idiots? I'm not homophobic. Sex, any type of sex, does not alarm me. I am just not interested in it."

Mycroft considered pressing the issue, but he had already gotten far more personal than he had ever intended. This was dangerous territory and there was too much risk. He needed to leave. Needed to think without being observed.

"I see you are living reasonably well," he said. "Neater than usual."

"Cleaner than usual as well."

Mycroft nodded. He looked over at the small kitchen table, cluttered with mismatched glassware filled with varying amounts of solutions. "Bit difficult to store your experiments here. Why not use the laboratory?"

"I do, on occasion. I just prefer to work at odd hours. It suits me."

"I see. Well, perhaps next time I will give you more notice. Or perhaps you will choose to grace us all with your presence. Till then,"he gave a short bow and headed out of the flat.

At home, he concluded his actions had affected his brother (perhaps on a subconscious level) far more deeply than he had previously imagined. He phoned a colleague who posed as an inspector from the Department of Weights and Measures. The official had insisted that Dr. Michael Stamford dispose of the "defective" beakers and "outdated" centrifuge immediately, even though the instructor had insisted there was not a thing wrong with them. As soon as he left, leaving replacement equipment in his wake, Stamford sighed, and offered the old equipment up to the tall, thin man in the suit jacket who came in fairly regularly. They struck up a conversation about idiotic governmental regulations.

Next, Mycroft began to research the city's CCTV system in earnest.

"You have a vexing problem. It is not often you would deign to call upon me." Mycroft stood imperiously in the doorway of the Strangers Room. "Pray, have a seat," he gestured toward a chair. "How can I be of assistance?"

Sherlock made brief eye contact and then shifted his focus to the chair, though he continued to stand. "This is, not related to a case."

Mycroft frowned. "You seek a personal opinion? I'm afraid our tastes do not generally coincide, Brother Mine. Regarding our parents? Mummy's apparent fascination with line dancing is indeed unfortunate, however, I believe it is our father's attraction to cross-cultural studies that is truly to blame in this instance." Sherlock gave him a tight smile. "So long as they reside in The Buckle of the Bible Belt, I fear a certain degree of curiosity is... as inevitable as the protests against the proposed statue of Baphomet on the grounds of the State Capitol."

"I only seek your opinion as someone who has grown up within the same family constellation. Nuclear family. Extended."

"Why would someone who had no love for our cousins and despised family reunions concern himself with extended family? I should hardly think your sudden interest in genealogy is due to your adding branches to the family tree..."

"No for several reasons, all of which you are...painfully aware."

Mycroft hid a sudden stab of guilt behind a well-placed smirk. "....And interest in our ancestral background, that would indeed be a first for you." He sat down.

"Irrelevant. No. Worse. Family heraldry reinforces prejudice of all kinds. What I require," Sherlock scrutinized Mycroft's features carefully, while continuing to feign disinterest, "is data. Your impressions are as good as facts."

"On what? Was Mummy resentful she gave up a promising career as a mathematician to raise her sons? I think not, by the way. Did Aunt Margaret always want a boy? Do you long to know who cheated on their income tax? Who cheated on their spouse with..." Sherlock cut him off with a forceful glare and took a seat. Mycroft paused before continuing. "There's only one reason why someone so unconcerned with family scandal as to buy Uncle Rudy a lovely pair of size 14 heels for Christmas would be interested in dark, family secrets. It involves you."

"Correct."

"And if it involves you, the only reason you would have to... and you would only do this if you had to... ask me for clarification, would be if you have a degree of uncertainty, which would imply... " Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, placing his elbows on his knees, his face grave. "Youth or deletion, Sherlock?"

"How can one tell?"

"Youth would be relying on one of your senses without the others being equally developed...pieces of a memory. Visuals without sound. Audio only. Scent only."

"An incomplete picture."

"Precisely. Whereas deletion..."

"Would have a before and after. Gaps in between."

"Yes. And a coping technique, for... trauma... would be a vivid memory of an inconsequential object, such as a plant in the room, or the texture of a patch of carpet. Something you would have focused on in great detail to distract yourself from the situation."

Sherlock began to tent his fingers under his chin.

Mycroft waved his hand at Sherlock. "No need to examine that right now. I can only assure you that I am completely unaware of anyone in our extended family acting in an inappropriate manner. Since we are dealing with issues surrounding sexuality, older males are statistically the likeliest culprits. Our grandparents died young, Grandmere Vernet being the exception. Since Aunt Margaret left Uncle Fredrick before you were born (shortly after their third girl) and Uncle Rudy's relief once his cross-dressing was disclosed strongly suggests that that was the only secret he had been harbouring, I find the probability of it being an extended family member rather low. That would leave our father and myself, though our mother is always a possibility. I don't see anything that would implicate either of them, and the general pattern with two siblings would likely be to start with the first-born and use the threat of harming the second to ensure silence. As for me, I can assure you, I have never touched any... what shall I refer to them as... any of your *ahem* 'private parts'." Sherlock suppressed a subconscious urge to narrow his eyes in anger at the abrupt shift to a mocking tone, or to turn away from him in embarrassment, in order to maintain the steady eye contact required to assess the level of truth in his brother's words. "Nor have you ever laid so much as a finger on mine. Ever. Even in a non-sexual capacity." Mycroft wrinkled his nose as if in distaste. "I've never so much as changed your diaper or soaped you up in the bath."

Sherlock eyed him closely, nodded tersely. "Yes, I see."

"I apologize, I am not entirely sure how one expresses condolences in this situation."

"Unnecessary."

"Might I ask, what inspired this conversation?"

"No, you may not."

So great and fascinating!

Oh my God, this is so good and so tense.

Agreed. I really love this. The writer their voices perfect, too. I'd like some tips on how you got into that writing style, if you have time, author!nonnie. I'd like to emulate it. :) :)

Thank you my dear nonnies! You really made my day!
Anon who asked about my style ( do you mean the dialogue?) ...I certainly have time, and would love to talk to you, but not sure how much help I would be :) and I am incredibly flattered.
Might be a little bit before the next one, as I figure out where to go with the story.

"So, not what you expected, then?"

John wasn't particularly good at reading his boyfriend's face, ( Yes, boyfriend, dammit. If I can have girlfriends then I can have a boyfriend. Nothing adolescent about it, it just takes some getting used to, is all ) but this was obvious. Disappointment.

"No. Not quite. Something's off. He's not lying, but, it just doesn't fit."

"There's more than one way to lie, you know. Lying by omission is a big one. I'm a bit of an expert at that." John smiled, but sadness was still in his eyes. "Not to make it about me, you see, but I know that feeling rather well. When it isn't exactly right, but it isn't exactly *wrong* either. Don't let it fool you. Trust your instincts."

"Instincts are nothing without facts to back them up. I can not make bricks without clay. Give me data!"

He practically threw his coat on the hook. John was worried. Tea. Tea would help. Tea always helps. Bloody British Penicillin, he muttered to himself, but he was making a pot all the same.

Sherlock pounced on the couch, still clearly furious. He moved his hands aggressively as he spoke.

"It's difficult with him. He could fool me if he really wanted to, but I don't think he does. Eventually, everyone seems to want to be found out, and he is no exception."

"So, you didget somewhere?"

"In a manner of speaking. I know he didn't lie. But there is a greater truth. And..." And, this is why I need John Watson. Always the whetting stone to my mind, "... he tried to make me turn away. He tried to distract my train of thought. Purposefully. With Mycroft, it is always purposefully."

"I know you want hard evidence, but you might never get it."

"Never to move beyond mere suspicion. How infuriating! Crueler than the act itself."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far."

"He denied ever laying a finger on me. And that's 100% true. I know it!"

"Concealment within truth, Sherlock."

"Yes. But if what he said is true, and there's really no other conclusion I can come to, then it's simply not enough."

John brought the tea to the sofa. "I don't..." He cut himself short. Shook the words out of his head. He was not about to say "I don't understand" again. Not for a long, long time. "What do you mean by 'not enough'?"

"Whatever he did would not have been severe enough to have had, that effect on me." Sherlock turned away and muttered "I'm sorry, John."

John was stunned. Hearing those words coming from Sherlock Holmes was a rarity in and of itself, but in this context it was completely jarring.

"You have nothing whatsoever to be sorry about. Well, that's not entirely true. The fingernails on the countertop, for the cyanide..."

"Arsenic."

"Arsenic test. That is something you should be apologizing for. But not your emotional reactions. Never that."

[Oops I think I stuck 9 in the wrong place. I think it should go here. (Nesting gets confusing to me sometimes). And yay Johnlock! ]

"So, not what you expected, then?"

John wasn't particularly good at reading his boyfriend's face, ( Yes, boyfriend, dammit. If I can have girlfriends then I can have a boyfriend. Nothing adolescent about it, it just takes some getting used to, is all ) but this was obvious. Disappointment.

"No. Not quite. Something's off. He's not lying, but, it just doesn't fit."

"There's more than one way to lie, you know. Lying by omission is a big one. I'm a bit of an expert at that." John smiled, but sadness was still in his eyes. "Not to make it about me, you see, but I know that feeling rather well. When it isn't exactly right, but it isn't exactly *wrong* either. Don't let it fool you. Trust your instincts."

"Instincts are nothing without facts to back them up. I can not make bricks without clay. Give me data!"

He practically threw his coat on the hook. John was worried. Tea. Tea would help. Tea always helps. Bloody British Penicillin, he muttered to himself, but he was making a pot all the same.

Sherlock pounced on the couch, still clearly furious. He moved his hands aggressively as he spoke.

"It's difficult with him. He could fool me if he really wanted to, but I don't think he does. Eventually, everyone seems to want to be found out, and he is no exception."

"So, you did get somewhere?"

"In a manner of speaking. I know he didn't lie. But there is a greater truth. And..." And, this is why I need John Watson. Always the whetting stone to my mind, "... he tried to make me turn away. He tried to distract my train of thought. Purposefully. With Mycroft, it is always purposefully."

"I know you want hard evidence, but you might never get it."

"Never to move beyond mere suspicion. How infuriating! Crueler than the act itself."

"Well, I wouldn't go that far."

"He denied ever laying a finger on me. And that's 100% true. I know it!"

"Concealment within truth, Sherlock."

"Yes. But if what he said is true, and there's really no other conclusion I can come to, then it's simply not enough."

John brought the tea to the sofa. "I don't..." He cut himself short. Shook the words out of his head. He was not about to say "I don't understand" again. Not for a long, long time. "What do you mean by 'not enough'?"

"Whatever he did would not have been severe enough to have had, that effect on me." Sherlock turned away and muttered "I'm sorry, John."

John was stunned. Hearing those words coming from Sherlock Holmes was a rarity in and of itself, but in this context it was completely jarring.

"You have nothing whatsoever to be sorry about. Well, that's not entirely true. The fingernails on the countertop, for the cyanide..."

"Arsenic."

"Arsenic test. That is something you should be apologizing for. But not your emotional reactions. Never that."

It had happened shortly after what John liked to refer to as "Stag Do 2". Mary was out of the picture, raising Violet, enjoying the safe, quiet, mundane life she craved. John (the work of the adrenaline junkie within, he cynically thought) had always secretly suspected that something suitably melodramatic might tear them apart. Another husband in The States whom everyone thought dead, or a fatal adventure (where it was indeed death that parted them) as she took a bullet for Sherlock in some cosmic balancing of the scales. But, in the end, their marriage simply dissolved, just like so many others.

It wasn't that he didn't like her, or perhaps, even still love her. He wasn't quite sure what it was, really, but her desperation to keep him seemed to only make things worse. Maybe, at a certain point, she just suddenly realized she didn't need him to take her away from her old life; she could do that on her own. And as John had predicted, he never quite dealt with his anger toward her for not confiding in him. Not confiding in Sherlock.

John adored his daughter, but he and Harry had always been the glue that kept a rather miserable relationship together, one that had been destructive for all concerned, and he was not about to repeat that error in his own life. The separation was amicable. He wished her well, he really did. It seemed somehow healthier, letting it go.

On what would have been his third anniversary, he found himself brooding, which led to Sherlock suggesting a celebration of the freedom that was, rather than wallowing in despair for what might have been.

It had been an exceptionally good call.

Sorry..thread above is chapter 10

No sooner had they staggered drunkenly back to 221B then they were finding excuses to talk about subjects they'd never quite broached before. Sex, mainly. How John missed it, and couldn't understand how Sherlock didn't. Sherlock simply pointed out that missing something requires one to have actually had it. John had never asked if he was actually a virgin, and even through his alcohol-induced haze, Sherlock smirked and said something along the lines of it all depends on how one defines the terms, yes?

His rather limited experience had been born out of curiosity, not desire. John listened. John talked. In the end, John had a very good understanding of Sherlock's general lack of interest in things sexual, his somewhat limited drive, and his extremely limited (possibly non-existent) attraction to people based on sexual lure alone. He was also rather shocked to find that Sherlock was unaware of John's sexual history, or rather, claimed to be. Whether this was a legitimate blind spot for his friend or merely a clever way to hear John talk about it in his own words was not something his mind could attempt to puzzle out in this state.

"I never would have expected you to be celibate, Sherlock, I mean the whole emotion interferes with the work, I get that, I do, so, I guess I do get that, but, never? I mean, the thought of you taking anyone's word on anything, I would have thought you were the type to... well, to try a little bit of everything, to be honest. For, ummm, science?"

Sherlock managed a shy smile in return. That was good. That was good, because John wasn't quite sure if what he said had been a compliment or an insult. The smile itself was good, too. So. Yeah.

"And you are so bloody gorgeous and clever enough to talk your way into anyone's pants if you wanted to."

The smile faded quickly.

John continued. "I mean, you pulled Janine, and she was a fine one."

"For a case, John."

"Right. And you probably offered Molly a little something in return for her help with your... death thing, then?"

"No. She... had... just wanted to help me." He sounded as if it was still a bit bewildering, even after all this time.

"So, opportunity, but no interest. Don't tell me you weren't interested in Irene. I was in the room for the eye sex."

"Eye sex? Oh, of course. Eye sex. Yes, I was, intrigued, for a short time. I could have learned quite a lot, and she was fascinating, but I wasn't about to expose myself to her."

"James Bond would have."

"I'm definitely not James Bond."

"Hate-sex. The power of lust. You're missing out on some things, my friend. Have you never felt that? That thing that just makes you want to..." John reached out towards Sherlock, stopping mere inches away, miming the act of forcefully grabbing him and dragging him closer. "You know, beyond a conscious thought, beyond a rational decision. Pure. Want."

Sherlock considered it. In the moments of silence, John watched his face. Studied it, actually. Then Sherlock spoke.

"No. I've... wanted... but for me, everything starts here." He pointed to his forehead. It made him remember how, three years ago, sitting in these very same chairs, he had had some paper stuck to it... and he laughed.

"You have? The no-interest-in-hate-sex rules out quite a lot of people we know, actually." He smiled. "It was in Uni, right? Too bad it's not someone I know. You could stick their name on my forehead and let me guess." This time, John let out a clear, joyous, beautiful laugh.

"It is someone you know." Sherlock took a breath and fixed his gaze on John's eyes. "Intimately."

John was caught by the stare. He felt pinned to the wall by it. He was no idiot. It was all there in Sherlock's eyes. The fear, the hurt, the want, the remnants of a long buried hope. John shifted toward him, cupped Sherlock's face to steady him, as well as to steady his own hands, and kissed him.

OH wow, this is beautiful <3

[Talk of suicide in this one. Thank you so much for the feedback. I really appreciate it so very much.]

Sherlock stopped the relatively chaste kiss from progressing, adamant that if they were to do this, really do this, it couldn't be some drunken one-off night. John respected the request in deed, but not exactly in word.

"Sherlock Holmes, by this time tomorrow, I am going to have had already kissed you on every inch of exposed skin I could find, and then would have removed your clothing to make some more. Did that make sense?" he slurred. "I sure hope it does."

"John..."

"You are going to be up all night with your hand on your cock trying to clear your head of all the things I'm going to do to you tomorrow."

"John, we need to see where this goes when sober; don't do this."

"You're nervous? You're nervous if we did this I'm going to wake up tomorrow and wonder what the hell I was thinking? Or are you just not sure how much of this you really want? 'Cause, slow is fine. Very, very slow, and, and I'm sorry if what I was saying, if that sounded aggressive. I just want... well, I just want you. However you are good with, yeah?"

"John Watson, I want to catalogue every movement, every twitch, every sigh, every everything. I want to do it with a clear head and... functioning memory, and... without running the risk of stopping to..." his voice grew a bit unsteady, "vomit on the carpet." And to give you a chance to forget it all. Chances, not manipulation. But this is dangerous, with me, so you'll be there.

John laughed again. "I can't believe we actually took that case. We could barely function at all."

"I'm grateful it came up. I desperately needed the diversion."

That Sherlock had been attracted to him, all this time? How much of this time? Well, it had never occurred to him, but it made a hellovalot of sense now... the dance they'd been doing... closeness, distance... moving forward with real emotion, backing away with tricks and jokes. And with Mary... and the baby...factored in...

"You needed to give Mary a fair chance. I, decided to go into a fall back position." Fall back, don't dislodge that piece stuck in your chest or you'll bleed out... "The course of true love ne'er did run smooth."

"You have room in that brain attic for Shakespeare, but not enough for the Earth going round the Sun? And you called me a romantic." John sunk his head into his hands. "What the hell was I thinking? When you came back, showed up at that restaurant..."

"Bad idea."

"Colossally bad idea, Sherlock. Was that your epic plan?" Christ, yeah that'll kill the sexual tension in the air. Reminds me of just how much I wanted to strangle you.

"Not, exactly. I... improvised. I had intended to simply sit in my chair at Baker Street and await your return. Maybe ask for a pen. But, you were no longer there."

John was puzzled. Had it never occurred to him how he simply couldn't live there anymore, surrounded by Sherlock, knowing that he was gone? That he had failed him. His face grew tight.

"John, the opposite of love is not hate. It's indifference."

"I'm not near sober enough to exchange quotations with you. I'm not sure I even get the point of that one, to be honest. It's not just that you died, Sherlock. It's not just that you stayed away, and didn't say a word, though believe me, that's plenty enough. When I look back on it now, I like to think that you were accomplishing something great that my presence would have made impossible to achieve. And I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't have gone through hell just to be right by your side. Because that's where I belong. But back then? You let me think that you had killed yourself. Had thrown it all away. That I wasn't worth stopping you, that any of it wasn't worth stopping you. But, in spite of all the nights I felt like joining you in death, after a visit to that slab during the day, I somehow managed to find someone to rescue me. A bit sudden, maybe, but I jumped at it. You... you probably knew Mary and I wouldn't last...but you still..."

"Odds of probability, John. I, truly did want you to have your best chance at happiness. Without Magnussen. Without me. That plane was meant to take me out of your life. I wasn't coming back."

"I don't know if I truly believed it. I think I always expected you to find a way. So, you were willing to desert me, for my wife. That is probably the only selfless action which I can recall in our... entire association. I bet you even had a selfish reason for wanting me to be your flatmate."

Sherlock's eyes travelled up and to the left as he grinned. "Not entirely boring. Tidy. The limp could be a singular challenge."

"Figures. Go to bed, Sherlock. I'll...join you...in the morning. May I?" He leaned in towards Sherlock, as Sherlock moved towards him. The kiss was soft, warm, and completely confident. "To be continued..." said John, as he turned toward the stairs.

John always woke up earlier than Sherlock. He had never quite rid himself of military habits, and was seldom asleep past 6. Throwing a robe on, he began descending the stairs with purpose, pleased by the relative lack of hangover. His jovial mood rapidly deteriorated as he heard noises from below. Sherlock was awake. Which meant he had probably never slept... and the odds weren't in favour of it being due to breathless anticipation.

Sherlock was at the microscope.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"Mmmm."

"I'm surprised to see you awake this early."

"This late," Sherlock corrected.

"As you are probably well aware, it takes considerably more alcohol than that for me to forget the previous night." There was a fleeting moment of panic, as John realised Sherlock might very well have forgotten the previous night... could have deleted the whole thing. "So, before I start jumping to inaccurate conclusions without, as you say, sufficient data, why are you not in bed? With me."

Sherlock blinked quickly, repeatedly.

"John, I should consider myself a criminal if I kept you out of my bed any longer."

He abandoned his test tubes and paused only long enough to turn off a Bunsen burner before heading to his room, undoing his shirtsleeve buttons as he walked. He didn't so much as glance backward as he moved in a sort of steady glide. He continued to undo buttons, then tossed the shirt carelessly aside before opening his bedroom door. John had simply followed, as if that was all he was capable of at the moment. When he stood in Sherlock's doorway, still fully-clothed, and surveyed the naked man on the bed, he startled himself out of the trance. He looked down at himself, and rapidly undressed.

Sherlock seemed to enjoy being stared at. He placed his arms over his head and stretched out his body into an impossibly long, lean line. For a man composed of so many sharp angles, John was surprised to see a softness, even slight curves where muscle clung to bone. He looked extremely relaxed and comfortable. He wasn't erect. Sherlock tracked John's gaze.

"Oh. In time. Perfectly functional, I assure you. Just a bit lagging behind my brain." He ran his hand along his chest, sliding slowly down his stomach. "Requires a bit of guidance. Nothing to take personally. In the meantime, I suggest you look for secondary signs of interest. Like my lips wrapped around your cock." Sherlock hit the final consonant hard.

Being in bed with Sherlock Holmes was every bit the dramatic experience he had anticipated whilst lying awake in bed the night before, though in truth he had expected the man to be far more reticent. John allowed himself to be pressed down by an endless expanse of arms and legs and pinned, the recipient of hard kisses and long, swathing licks. Sherlock's lack of experience only showed for a brief moment, when he slowed down considerably to gradually allow himself to completely engulf John's cock. John looked down at those dark curls and wanted to grab them by the fistful, but remained immobilized, since Sherlock held both his hands, their fingers laced. The only movement John was capable of was the involuntary motion of hips rocking into that perfect mouth. John watched Sherlock grind into the sheets in time with John's upward thrusts.

Sherlock released his hands, wrapping them around John's thighs and shifting his knees upward to spread them apart, mouth teasing a trail downward, then lower still.

"Oh God, Sherlock, oh my God.... " The sensation was entirely new to John, and dammit if Sherlock didn't somehow know it, putting them back on equal footing. He was harder than he had ever been in his life, and wanted nothing more than to grab him and shove that playful tongue further into his body, but no, no. He couldn't just do that. He placed his hands gently at the back of his neck instead, stroking his shoulders lightly, trying to retain some degree of composure, trying to remember to breathe. Sherlock was fucking right. Breathing is boring. This. Ohhhh. This is...

Sherlock pulled away abruptly and shifted positions, leaning back.

"Take me, John," he said, as if speaking had required a great effort. "I need you to take me."

Wow! This is so great. Your writing is brilliant!

Thank you!
I hope you don't find the next chapter disappointing..it's short, but a bit of an emotional rollercoaster, and should be up later tonight.

Awesome! Looking forward to it :)

He should have known. The sudden shift, the loss of focus. But no, John had been lost in the moment.

Sherlock had been lost too, he supposed... in a sense. John had thought having to be relatively still while being opened up had been a boring prospect at best for Sherlock, and probably slightly uncomfortable (though a skilled physician, proctology was hardly his... area). In retrospect, he had been entirely too quiet. Oh, he had eventually groaned and mumbled instructions to get on with it already, and the impatience had seemed perfectly in character. To be fair (although John had absolutely no intention of being fair, especially to himself), he claimed it had only been a very short while before he came back... having reached some sort of conclusion. But he should have known, should have thought perhaps something was wrong, not just Sherlock wanting to be, well, serviced, like the petulant, lazy git he frequently was. Damn.

Maybe Sherlock was right, not to have said anything about it for so long. Maybe he never should have said anything at all. John almost would have preferred to have continued to think him a lazy git. Almost.

It took a whole week, and even then, when he apparently couldn't hide his reaction quickly enough, Sherlock hadn't intended to confess to it ever having happened before... that feeling he could scarcely describe. He hadn't been able to suppress the flinch as he leaned against John on the sofa while he was delicately twirling his hair, but John had asked and he had answered. As a doctor, his first thought had been an ongoing medical condition... an inner ear imbalance, perhaps... which left him feeling vaguely disoriented at the change in position.

A whole week of ignorance. Not that Sherlock had expected any different. I mean, he was trying to be disingenuous, and who in the world can see through Sherlock at times like that?

What? Did he expect him to have said "John, I need to go into my mind palace a bit during our first time together. Just trying to figure out if I've ever been held down and had a cock involuntarily shoved down my throat or up my arse. Be back in a jiff... just keep doing what you're doing, would you, while I see if it gets worse for me as you go along. Ta!" Or perhaps "OK, back now. Not as bad as I initially thought, but bears further investigation. Carry on, my good man! Now, where were we. Oh, yes... harder, John!"

He would have stopped. Bloody fucking Hell, of course he would have stopped. And Sherlock hadn't exactly wanted that to happen, had he?

[OK, here's where it gets kinda tricky, so I hope I'm blending the orientation-related issues with the abuse issues in a way that makes sense to both sexual and asexual people and survivors. Any and all specific feedback is helpful to me- and I never expect everyone to like it]

"I think, we need to back off a bit. So you can figure this out."

"Figure out what, exactly? Back off... how?"

"You need some time, Sherlock. This could change how you feel about things. Provide you with some, needed explanation."

"Explain what? Explain me? Aren't we all a product of our predispositions as well as our experiences?" Sherlock bolted out of bed and wrapped his dressing gown around him tightly. "John, for me, no relationships are about sex, so, in a sense, every relationship is about sex. Would it help or hurt, that extra layer of complication? Any friendship. Any relationship. Any chance meeting. I make a choice for it to be sexual or not. It is a conscious decision." His words continued to gain in speed and intensity as his voice dropped into deductive mode. "Apart from taboos, which are illogical for non-reproductive relationships... and apart from social convention, which is simply the opinion of the majority imposed on the minority... every type of relationship, be it personal or professional, has sexual undertones. It's difficult enough being in a romantic relationship with one person, let alone more than one, so I suppose I'm monogamous by default, not by any ridiculous moral code, but nothing about this past event, or events, affects my choices, my decision-making skills, my self." He continued after the briefest of pauses. "If I choose this , why should anything suddenly change? "

"Have you ever thought about what this side of the conversation is like? Listening to you? I mean, we are discussing us, Sherlock, not debating anthropological theories. This is... you are saying you got into a relationship, a sexual relationship, with me, not because you found me particularly handsome or fit (God knows those days are behind me), but because you thought 'sure, why the hell not?' And my having wanted to make my marriage work, regardless of my developing physical attraction to you, is ridiculous moral code, is it? And here you are, a victim of what might amount to years of sexual abuse, and you think that has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that you avoid sex? So it just comes down to 'I haven't had sex in a month, might be a good thing to do to keep the pipes working?' and that's how you define yourself and that's just fine, is it? Nothing to ponder here." John headed off to the kitchen.

"The pipes take care of themselves eventually, John," Sherlock muttered. "Might as well not wake up to it."

John turned back towards Sherlock, who was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Does it at least feel good? Sex with me?"

"Yes, of course it... the chemical reactions are what they are. Have you ever thought for even a moment that it's all you..." he seemed to gather more disdain the longer he continued to speak, "people out there seeking a rush that is the problem? All you oxytocin-dopamine-norepinephrine-serotonin-testosterone junkies seeking chemical satiation and calling it love?! Driving everyone else to figure out what the hell's wrong with them, when it's really all of you with the problem. Damn it, there's nothing wrong with me! I'm not broken, John! I'm just wired differently. I'm not defective. I'm..." He didn't bother to finish, he just headed back to bed and slammed the door.

So many years, discovering what I am. That I'm fine. That it all makes sense. That I'm not broken. But now, I am broken, as well. But not because of this.
Because of Mycroft.

Re: FILL 16/? Plausible Deniability (TW: underage, child abuse, incest, dark!mycroft)

(Anonymous) - 2014-02-11 21:45 (UTC) - Expand

Re: FILL: END Plausible Deniability (TW: underage, child abuse, incest, dark!mycroft)

(Anonymous) - 2014-02-11 22:42 (UTC) - Expand

Re: FILL: END Plausible Deniability (TW: underage, child abuse, incest, dark!mycroft)

(Anonymous) - 2014-02-12 02:03 (UTC) - Expand

Re: FILL: END Plausible Deniability (TW: underage, child abuse, incest, dark!mycroft)

iwantthatcoat.livejournal.com - 2014-02-12 04:57 (UTC) - Expand

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