John untied the belt imprisoning Sherlock’s wrists and rubbed his hands for him to get their circulation back. While he was working, Sherlock sat still and quiet where he had settled, almost on John’s lap. When John was done and was once more supporting him in a hug, Sherlock’s eyes flickered open and he raised his head to stare at John. His body was heavy and pliant and he blinked several times as if to try to focus his vision. “John…I...want you. Now. I need you.” He closed his eyes as a tremor shook his body. John could feel wet heat spreading where Sherlock rested against his thigh. And dear God, the surge of arousal that coursed through John in response to it, and Sherlock’s whispered plea swept almost every vestige of rational thought from John’s mind. He began to pant and shake under the force of his desire. Trying to fight it off, he sucked in a deep breath of air and gripped Sherlock’s face with both hands. “Open your eyes, Sherlock,” he urged.
Sherlock obeyed and tried to focus on John, but his gaze slid away once more. He whispered, almost to himself, “No clothes. Make a soft place, John. Lie with me. Here, where I can smell the blood of the Alphas you killed and know you’re strong…”
John exhaled sharply and went rigid. “Sherlock!” he choked hoarsely. He drew in a ragged breath to steady himself. “Not now. We must get you away from here. Please, will you do as I say?”
Sherlock struggled for alertness. “Yes, John,” he managed.
“Alright. I’m going to help you to under the shelter where I want you to stay while I get a bin-bag from the shop-front. Then, I’m sorry, but you must change your clothes. You smell fantastic, you really do, but we need to mask it as best we can for right now. I will give you my pants and shirt but I want you to put on a pair of the dead men’s trousers. I’m sorry. It’s the only way. Mine won’t fit you. It will be for just a short time, alright?”
Sherlock was uncaring of the trousers. “You are leaving, John? Where? Will I still be able to smell and sense you?”
John smiled. “Yes, love, it’s not far,” he pointed to the closest shop.
Sherlock nodded and began to rise to his feet. John settled him in the covered corner and jogged to where bags full of the day’s rubbish from the shops were stacked on the pavement. He pulled one from the stack and emptied its contents into a cardboard box. Turning, he jogged back to where the taller Alpha he’d shot lay slumped on the tracks. He rolled him and pulled his trousers off. His motions were clinical and precise; for John the situation was no different from the battle field. He had accomplished the mission and now his priority was the safe extraction of the innocent from the war zone. He would do whatever was required to ensure that happened.
Fill: The Reason is You, Part 9
Sherlock obeyed and tried to focus on John, but his gaze slid away once more. He whispered, almost to himself, “No clothes. Make a soft place, John. Lie with me. Here, where I can smell the blood of the Alphas you killed and know you’re strong…”
John exhaled sharply and went rigid. “Sherlock!” he choked hoarsely. He drew in a ragged breath to steady himself. “Not now. We must get you away from here. Please, will you do as I say?”
Sherlock struggled for alertness. “Yes, John,” he managed.
“Alright. I’m going to help you to under the shelter where I want you to stay while I get a bin-bag from the shop-front. Then, I’m sorry, but you must change your clothes. You smell fantastic, you really do, but we need to mask it as best we can for right now. I will give you my pants and shirt but I want you to put on a pair of the dead men’s trousers. I’m sorry. It’s the only way. Mine won’t fit you. It will be for just a short time, alright?”
Sherlock was uncaring of the trousers. “You are leaving, John? Where? Will I still be able to smell and sense you?”
John smiled. “Yes, love, it’s not far,” he pointed to the closest shop.
Sherlock nodded and began to rise to his feet. John settled him in the covered corner and jogged to where bags full of the day’s rubbish from the shops were stacked on the pavement. He pulled one from the stack and emptied its contents into a cardboard box. Turning, he jogged back to where the taller Alpha he’d shot lay slumped on the tracks. He rolled him and pulled his trousers off. His motions were clinical and precise; for John the situation was no different from the battle field. He had accomplished the mission and now his priority was the safe extraction of the innocent from the war zone. He would do whatever was required to ensure that happened.