sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXIV

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Prompting Part XXXIV

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Without warning, John fucks into him hard, holds himself there for a slow, filthy, circling of his hips. Sherlock inhales sharply as it jolts through him like a live current, and his limbs act of their own accord, legs contracting vice-like around John, head tipping back. Sherlock grinds himself down on John’s lap as hard as he is able in an instinctive, mindless effort to prolong the sensation, none the less gluttonous for it, for having never before experienced anything quite its like.

(Sherlock has always been the hedonist, but never in this. Too complicated, too messy—literally and figuratively—the mere idea bringing to mind uncomfortable words like “evisceration” and “self-immolation.” Never worth it, had been Sherlock’s firm opinion, but, well... John had unexpectedly done away with a fair number of the “nevers” in Sherlock’s life.)

Sherlock pumps his cock ruthlessly--two, three, four times—and he chokes on a sob of pure relief as he feels himself spill over that edge, his orgasm coalescing dark and viscid and shivery, like a rising tide. Teeth sunk into his bottom lip, he grounds himself as firmly as possible in his body to let it sweep over him, exhausted and exultant.

‘John,’ Sherlock whinges. ‘Don’t stop, I’m...oh god, I’m...’

Every muscle in his body locks up, as if in seizure. Sherlock begins to come with several deep, wrenching spasms, one after the other, shaking and helpless, like a revelation. Oh, god, he hadn’t...he’d known, theoretically, but he hadn’t expected... The newly intimate awareness of his own body’s internal musculature as he feels himself clamp down around John’s cock, thick and unyielding inside him, driving the chemical dump of...of endorphins and dopamine and oxy...oxy-something to heights of intensity Sherlock wouldn’t have thought possible, Christ.

Sherlock shudders in John’s arms, fists a hand in his own hair as his spine arches up off the floor with the power of his convulsions and John continues movement where Sherlock is unable, doesn’t falter, doesn’t stop fucking up into Sherlock, fucking him through the bone-grinding tremors as he shakes and shakes and splinters to pieces. But John holds him in his arms, holds tightly (so tightly) to all the scattered pieces of Sherlock, holds them safe until, with a final devastating pulse of hot semen over his own fist, Sherlock is able to sense the boundaries of mind and body again.

He is gasping for breath, wrecked and alarmed at the strength of his own reaction, and someone is laughing as Sherlock struggles to piece himself back together, struggles because he’s having trouble remembering what edges fit where. Someone else (John, he will always recognize John, even if he himself is deaf or blind or out of his skull with neurotransmitters firing as if in response to a hit of medical-grade heroin) is swearing a blue streak under his breath—‘JesusfuckingChrist, mother of fuck!’—and pushing at him frantically, trying to dislodge him from John’s lap. Which Sherlock won’t have, he’s still riddled with cracks and needs a moment (an hour, a lifetime, an eternity) to seal them over again, so he brings both hands up to grip John’s forearms fiercely and steels his thighs around John’s hips and holds on with everything he has, even as he endeavours to come down.

John’s fingers dig deep, deliciously painful bruises into the muscle of Sherlock’s arse as John suddenly jerks against him, keening lowly, and Sherlock feels the way John’s prick, impossibly, becomes perceptibly thicker and harder, the way the organ twitches, throbs, then judders as John comes deeply inside him with wrung-out curse, and one, two, three more pulses. And something in that: something in knowing that his own orgasm has compelled John to follow suit, though Sherlock is sure John (strong moral principle) intended nothing of the sort, allows him to shore himself up enough to clutch John in kind, until the aftershocks have faded, and oversensitivity and John’s inevitable mortification has taken hold.

Sherlock could tell John now—what he has always wanted to say, but never has. What he hadn’t been able to say, but only hint at, even in making his vow at John’s wedding reception, whilst so many other people were there. He could thank John for existing, in a world otherwise empty and lonely and bleak; could thank him for giving Sherlock a reason to keep breathing, simply by grace of the fact that John has been there to breathe beside him. He could thank John for giving him an After worth having, thereby allowing him to separate himself from everything colorless and disappointing and painful that became Before, upon meeting John Watson.

(You. It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.)

Just a fraction of a moment, he considers it (Evisceration, Sherlock reminds himself, wearily), because he realizes then that the pounding in his ears is in fact the thump of rotors—helicopter, is all he can wring from his brain at the moment—real and unmistakable, and just outside.

‘Oh ho, that was close!” Magnussen chuckles, sounding so very pleased with himself. “Quite close. I wasn’t certain you would make it there, in the end, Sherlock. And John.’ Magnussen tsks, and his laughter this time has a much more darkly amused edge to it.

John abruptly takes his hands from Sherlock and rises to his knees so Sherlock can pull in his legs. Sherlock winces as John’s softened prick withdraws from him—‘sorry, fuck, I’m sorry’ John babbles, a hand pressing down on Sherlock’s chest to keep him there—and John shifts with obvious discomfort before he is finally able to collapse onto his arse with an agonized grunt, straightening stiff legs, rubbing at them to encourage circulation to return.

Magnussen stands. ‘Quickly, quickly now, big brother has finally arrived. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting!’ Magnussen turns and strides from the room, toward the glass doors leading outside.

Sherlock passes a hand over his eyes for a single, self-indulgent moment as he collects himself. (Into battle.) He rolls to his feet with shaky, uncooperative limbs, hurriedly snatches up and yanks on his clothing: pants, trousers, jams his feet into his shoes. There is semen drying on his abdomen and chest, and Sherlock reaches down hesitantly with the half-formed idea of wiping it away with his hand, but realizes doing so will only spread the mess. His scarf, maybe...but then that would be two items of clothing lost to the events of this afternoon, and he doesn’t—afterwards, he might not get a chance to—

‘Sherlock,’ John says, gaining his addled attention. John, tucked away and buttoned up proper once more, pushes himself laboriously to his feet. He approaches with his own scarf, and Sherlock watches numbly as John wipes his torso clean, folds Sherlock’s mess to the inside and shoves it into his jacket pocket. Jaw clenched (angry, worried) John helps him with steady hands to button the urine-soaked Dolce shirt (destined for the bin), his suit jacket and Belstaff. Finished, John’s hand hovers awkwardly over Sherlock’s lapel, hovers, but doesn’t make contact.

‘Are you...’ John clears his throat, finally looks up at Sherlock and catches his eye. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ Sherlock tells him, not because it’s necessarily true (Sherlock will have to wait to evaluate the truth of it, himself, until later, once he is alone and has a chance to process), but because it’s what they both need to hear. If his hands shake, almost imperceptibly, as he jams them into the pockets of his greatcoat, neither of them mention it.

John stares at him intently, brow creased (guilty, upset), and Sherlock recalls his promise to John.

‘I will be fine,’ he amends. ‘I—thank you, John.’

‘”Thank you?”’ John repeats, incredulously. ‘Sherlock what I just did...don’t you fucking thank me!’

It’s Sherlock’s turn to avoid eye contact, and he does so whilst fussing with his gloves, turning toward the glass doors.

So amazing...is it amazing? Why is it amazing?
Yeah.

‘Yes, thank you,’ he insists, speaking quickly and raising his voice preemptively against John’s undrawn breath, against the increasing whinge of rotor blades, ‘because it could have been much, much worse, and you were careful and you were, you were patient with me, more than I deserved, and you did something distasteful, so Magnussen wouldn’t do something even more so. Of course, thank you.’ Gloves finished with, Sherlock loops his scarf around his neck briskly.

‘Just transport,’ he reminds John, or maybe himself, with the hint of a self-deprecating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Though Sherlock’s not certain either of them really believe that, not with the unspoken tension that has existed between them since Sherlock’s return, and which has only increased since John’s marriage. That very tension which stretches between them now, made brittle and aching sweetly beneath Sherlock’s sternum in the wake of John’s touch, in the wake of John’s words whispered into his skin and John’s ejaculate slowly seeping from between his legs.

The circumstances certainly aren’t what Sherlock would have chosen (not least of all because of that pointless guilt in which John will insist indulging), but, as Mycroft had taken great pleasure in snidely informing Sherlock on several occasions during their youth, beggars did not have the luxury of being choosers.

Sherlock abruptly jerks his head in the direction of the patio doors. ‘We should get out there.’ Sherlock has his witnesses, and his dear John has his gun tucked thoughtlessly at the small of his back, where it will be within easy reach, out of sight until too late. Sherlock will finish this, and Appledore’s “vaults” will be destroyed.

John reaches out and grasps Sherlock’s sleeve. ‘Sherlock. You can’t possibly... We need to talk about this,’ John insists, adamant. He shoots a glare toward Magnussen, outside. ‘Not now, obviously, but this is seriously—’

‘Later,’ he assures John blithely, intending nothing of the sort. Once he kills Magnussen, Sherlock is aware there very well may be no “later.” Not for him, anyway, but there will be one for John, and that is what’s important. That is what the point of all this has been.

Sherlock gently shakes John off and makes for the open door. He can feel John’s stare, John’s displeasure, burning into the center of his back like a tangible touch but, crisis passed, their natural dynamic has been regained, and John remains silent. Sherlock steps through the doorway.

Magnussen peers over his shoulder with a cheerfully mocking grin, raises his voice to be heard above the roar of the helicopter.

‘Here we go, Mr. Holmes!’

~ ~ ~

OP, I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and thanks so much for the fantastic prompt that got me writing again for the first time in five years. :D

I was also thinking I'd like to put this up on my (brand new) AO3 account, but I know it's a bit rough, and as an American my attempts at "proper" spellings and turns of phrase are kind of all over the place, so if anyone is interested in being a beta and "Brit-pick" for me, please email me at soliandxpyne@gmail.com, thanks!

I will be hunting for this on your ao3. Thank you!

Not the OP, but this was utterly fantastic in every possible way. I'm a big fan of fuck or die and 'bad guys made them do it', and this has to be one of the best and most vivid I've ever read.

Please post a link here when it's on AO3 so I can bookmark, and please don't let five more years go by without utilizing your talent, because you have quite a bit!

I love how in love they are and I love how neither of them sees that and I especially love how much this hurts them. <3

PS I too look forward to seeing this on AO3!

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