sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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Useful resources for Sherlock and LiveJournal.
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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.

‘Don’t try to lower yourself. Let me support your weight, you just bear down against it, all right? Do you hear me?’

Sherlock hears him (always hears John, even when he isn’t there), but what is he supposed to—‘Oh! Fuck!’ he snarls as the head of John’s cock sinks part way into him, stretching him painfully. His hand spasms around John’s shaft; they’ve hardly begun, and already the urge to tear John’s prick out of him is nearly overwhelming, his fight-or-flight drive fully engaged. ‘John.’

‘Shit, I know love, I know, I’m sorry, but you’re doing brilliantly, you can do this, just bear down, c’mon...’

Sherlock struggles to do as he’s told, and John slides into him another agonizing centimeter or so. His thighs shake, unable to hold him upright, but true to his word, John supports his weight. Concentrating on keeping his breathing deep and even, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut, slumps forward to press his forehead hard against John’s temple, which is damp with perspiration.

‘There you go, just like that,’ John murmurs to him, his lips catching on Sherlock’s curls. ‘Just a bit longer, Sherlock, and once I’m in far enough that there’s no risk of slipping out again, you’re going to let go of my prick and put your hand back around yours.’

Sherlock huffs, ruffling the hair at John’s temple, and bears down. John pushes in a bit deeper. Sherlock chokes back a whimper.

‘The pain’s made you go a bit soft, I know, but that’s perfectly normal, that’s why you’re going to start pulling yourself off again when I tell you to. You’re going to use those long, lovely fingers of yours and pay plenty of attention to the head of your cock, make sure you stay nice and sensitive, will you do that for me?’

Sherlock nods weakly, beyond words. He would...he could do that, yes. When John told him to, yes. He bears down, and the head of John’s prick slowly sinks the rest of the way into him.

‘Oh, you’re amazing,’ John whispers, ‘absolutely...amazing, fuck.’ Gooseflesh prickles down Sherlock’s flanks at the earnest awe in John’s voice. ‘Yes, you can take your hand back, you did so well. Now use it to make yourself feel good, okay?’ His lips skim over the corner of Sherlock’s jaw in a fleeting kiss, yes, definitely a kiss, and Sherlock exhales shakily.

‘Yes, John,’ he rasps around the lump in his throat.

‘You’ll want to keep bearing down, when you can, until I’m completely inside you,’ John whispers. Sherlock doesn’t think he can speak, but he tightens the arm clinging round John’s shoulders to show him he understands. He contracts his muscles, and John slips another inch deeper.

God, it feels as if he’s being split in two. No one else—he would never, ever do this for anyone but John, Sherlock is firmly decided on that point. The pain is intense, but in a sharp, localized way that makes it easier to compartmentalize. Nothing like, say, being brutalized in a Serbian dungeon.

Sherlock’s erection has flagged significantly, but John says this is normal, so he doesn’t let himself become overly concerned. Doubts he’s going to have much success with revival efforts at the moment, and instead tries to follow John’s instructions to maintain sensitivity, to “make himself feel good.” Sherlock reaches between the press of their bodies to touch himself cautiously, wary of how his genitals may react (or not) under this kind of stress.

He uses his first two fingers and thumb to gently work the sensitive prepuce up over the glans, to massage it there, then ease the fragile skin back, exposing the tip once more, before repeating the whole process. It’s...sufficiently distracting, if only mildly pleasurable, at least in Sherlock’s present frame of mind. Meantime, John pushes into him just a bit more and Sherlock winces, his fingers tightening around the crown of his penis momentarily, an instinctive attempt to redirect the stimulus overload. John immediately leans back in order to see Sherlock’s face.

‘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.

Sherlock is startled by his body’s immediate and visceral reaction, and the air punches from his lungs with a quiet ah of sound. His nails bite into the skin at the nape of John’s neck, where he is clutching so tightly it will surely leave bruises in the shape of his fingers.

‘Put your hand on your prick,’ John whispers against his ear, his breath hot and humid and threaded through with indisputable command. ‘Make yourself come for me.’

He squirms on John’s cock as the words twist something deep in his belly.

‘Yes,’ he hears himself gasping, without thought, ‘I...yes.’ He needs to be good for John, John is doing all he can for Sherlock in this situation, and it is time for Sherlock to finish this, to release them both from Magnussen’s perverse machinations.

John shifts his grip on Sherlock, reaching blindly behind him, and at the distinctive crinkle, Sherlock obediently holds out his right hand for John. Instead of the sachet itself, John’s hand, slick with excess lubricant, tangles with Sherlock’s. John’s fingers slot between his own, warm and slippery, and John squeezes his hand.

Sherlock hesitantly shifts to draw the tip of his nose down John’s cheek, gratitude and apology all at once, the most he will allow himself, and squeezes back. Pulling his hand away, he wraps a large palm around himself. His prick pulses eagerly at the stimulation.

‘Hold on tight,’ John reminds him, his breath hot across Sherlock’s own cheek, then he is unwinding his arms to slide strong hands down the flimsy barrier of Sherlock’s shirt, where he rubs soothingly at the small of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock tugs at his erection once, gingerly, then again. He’s begun to fill out again, the worst of the burning discomfort past, and painstakingly encourages himself back toward full hardness.

John’s finger dips to trace the edge of Sherlock’s anus where he is stretched around John’s prick. ‘No tearing,’ John breathes against Sherlock’s chin with something like relief. Sherlock pulls back enough to press his forehead to John’s, though he still refuses to open his eyes, and shakes his head in agreement. The pain has mostly faded to a dull ache, and there is nothing like the sharp sting of lacerated tissue.

‘Are you all right?’ John asks, just to be sure, and Sherlock nods. Bites his lower lip, brow furrowing, as he chases after the elusive sensation of that tipping point, the telltale tingling deep in his pelvis which will let him know orgasm has become not just possible, but inevitable. His hips begin to shift minutely, a rolling forward-and-back motion, of their own accord, and John’s hands snap up to still him, fingertips biting firmly into both flesh and bone. Sherlock wonders if these points of contact will bruise, too, then irrationally finds himself hoping they will, knows intimately his own lack of self-restraint and can already see himself pressing his own fingers into the marks when alone and relishing the sharp ache of broken capillaries beneath his skin.

This fill (and you) are magnificent.

Still loving every second

Ohmygosh. I can't deal with the greatness of this fill.

Why doesn't this have hundreds of comments!? This is some seriously fantastic writing. I actually had to get up and walk around a few times because you were making me feel so much. Really amazing stuff, and I can't wait for more.

This fic...I can't. You're killing me. The feels are so raw. My heart is aching for Sherlock. Please, please, please continue soon. I swear I'm checking this page three times a day.

This. Is. MAGNIFICENT. Please, please do continue.

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