sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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John never questioned Sherlock's motives. Whatever he did was always for some complicated reason, just beyond the grasp of mere mortals such as himself. But the more he thought about this, the less sense it made. Sherlock had been completely open, receptive, not analyzing his every move. For Christ's sake, his were eyes closed most of the time. And it had been...it had been amazing. He had never seen Sherlock so vulnerable and trusting... well, before it all seemed to come crashing down upon them, as if he had suddenly had too much to process. Maybe he wasn't capable of intimacy after all, but not for the reason John originally thought. He wasn't too callous. He was.. too fragile? Sherlock? John shook his head in confusion.

Mary continued to speak contemptuously as she dressed herself, reaching behind to zip up the back. "I bet he's faking it. He's probably listening to how we argue and seeing where our weak points are... how he can tear us apart to get at you. As if what I offered wasn't good enough for him."

John furrowed his brow. "What you offered?"

Mary humphed. "John, did you think I was joking when I said that I saw how he looks at you? And you at him, too. I mean, I am willing to share. It's fine. But he isn't fine with it. And that's really not fair, when he left you, for all that time, and I was there. Selfish. He left you, John, because being clever was more important than being there for you. You said it yourself. I will always be there for you." John's eyes were downcast and the corner of his mouth twitched. Mary glared at Sherlock, who hadn't moved the entire time, and spoke directly to him, convinced he could hear. "I will never leave."

John spoke through gritted teeth. "Mary. Go."

"What?" Mary walked toward Sherlock, and John stepped between them, preventing Mary from getting any closer to his catatonic friend-turned-lover.

"Go. I don't want you here when he comes out of this." John's hand clenched and released. "Go. I will meet you at home."

"Don't listen to him, John. He'll lie to you. He already has."

"Everyone has lied to me, Mary." John was seething, barely reining it in. "Every. Single. Person. But you know what? That doesn't even matter anymore, that they lied. What matters is who they are. Who they really are. Now, I will talk to you later. Go."

Mary's jaw dropped open in surprise. John met her eyes, challenging her to say something. Go ahead. I dare you. Mary turned and left. John listened to her heels click down the hallway, then nodded as he heard the door open and then fall back into place.

He turned back to Sherlock, running his hand along his arm gently, and sat down again. John fidgeted. He wanted to get a glass of water for Sherlock, maybe make tea, maybe take a shower (as if he could wash this away and somehow start fresh again) but he didn't want to leave Sherlock's side. What he wanted was to hold him tightly, but John wasn't sure if that would be a good thing or a bad thing. He decided it wasn't worth the risk, and moved Sherlock's chair closer to the side of the bed... close enough to observe any change in facial expression. If he had not been so distressed, he would have permitted himself a smile when he realized he had never sat in Sherlock's chair before.

I love that John immediately knew that something was wrong. I can't wait to see what's going on in Sherlock's head!

Here ya go! Next chapter is another significant one, so might be a few...

Sherlock hadn't been to this part of his Mind Palace in ages. Technically, it wasn't within the Mind Palace at all, but a platform, high in a tree--a more fanciful person might call it a treehouse--that Sherlock and his father ( capable hands ) built when he was seven. It proved particularly useful when one wanted to get away from people. Not for its inaccessibility, which had regularly deterred Mycroft (his larger frame always a bit ungainly on the rickety ladder), but for the simple fact that the tree was taller than the house and made for a superb vantage point. You could see anyone approach from what seemed like miles away. From this crow's nest, you could just make out the sea, with the aid of a trusty wooden spyglass, of course.

Standing on the weathered, yet sturdy, planks, Sherlock heard a clicking noise in the distance and spotted an enemy ship sailing off toward the horizon.

Redbeard sat at the foot of the tree, keeping vigil for any other pirate foes who would dare approach.

Sherlock knew, with the certainty found in dreams, that he had finished his lunch just before climbing up here, but the scent of spoiled food lingered in the air, making him feel nauseated. A breeze out of the east brought fresher, cleaner air with it. The nausea dissipated.

Gradually, Sherlock became aware that he was still very hungry. An enticing aroma wafted up from below. Tea. Honey. Toast. Simple comfort food for his vaguely unsettled stomach. He climbed down the ladder and greeted his Setter with a full embrace, running his fingers through soft fur, as they reassured each other that all was well. Sherlock headed into the house.

Once through the door, the rooms transformed, an external representation of whatever was stored within. He followed the scent, past walls with peeling paint and deep cracks he had attempted to repair with plaster, past police tape, to the perfectly-preserved sitting room of 221B, where two chairs sat in front of the fireplace: tea, sugar, honey and toast on a tray beside his chair and a full breakfast and a cuppa with cream, no sugar, alongside the chair opposite. John's chair.

Aww. In a way this is adorable, but in context it's just heartbreaking.

That's exactly what I was going for... But at least he's coming back home. :)

John watched as Sherlock's eyes opened. Not fluttering, just an increasingly wide, steady stare, followed by a quick dart about the room.

"Just me. She's not here."

Sherlock nodded tightly. "Bathroom."

"I think I should, help you get up, or something..." John moved toward the bed. Sherlock leaned forward, and realised his dressing gown was draped over him with nothing beneath it. He quickly put it on. Shrugging off any assistance, Sherlock wandered into the adjoining bathroom, leaving the door open, and leaving John to wonder if that was done as an invitation or in hazy neglect.

John peered in to see Sherlock running water for the tub and sitting on the edge, watching it fill.

"Sherlock, I just..."

"I'm fine, John. No need."

"But I didn't ..."

Sherlock huffed out a frustrated breath. "It didn't work. It's...fine. Really, it is. But I'm not looking forward to being inundated with your sympathy, or to listening to you try to take responsibility for my inadequacies because I can't han... on some level it was exactly what I wanted, so let's just say it was fine and forget about this. Failed experiment." Sherlock steadfastly avoided John's gaze.

"Okay, okay. I'll drop it--but, can I at least get a bit of debriefing before I file this away permanently, then? There are some things it might be helpful for me to, at least know something about." John sat on the toilet seat and leaned forward, arms bent, resting on his knees.

"Oh. No, there's nothing to tell. No painful experience I'm reliving. Just an inability to appreciate what every other male on the planet would. No sympathy required." John watched as Sherlock simply continued to track the flow of the water, expression unreadable.

"Well, that's good."

"Is it?," he asked flatly.

"Yes. Actually, yes. One of us with occasional flashbacks is more than enough. So, where did you go, and why? And notice I didn't say 'if you don't mind me asking'. Actually, I've got an even better question. Why did you do any of this?"

"Why did I do this? Why did you do this? Judging by the convincing demonstration of marital bliss, you certainly have been getting what you need recently." Sherlock smirked and jerked his head upwards, his expression a textbook illustration for haughty sarcasm. It was a strange insult, if that's even what it was meant to be. John was a confident lover, and he felt an urge to examine the words and gestures, but was pulled back into a righteous anger by the simple fact that he had been (as he had suspected) under observation.

"So that was what this was all about? Judging my sexual prowess. The one part of me you weren't able to successfully deduce, that you just had to know all about."

Sherlock grinned darkly. "In a manner of speaking, yes. You should ask your wife why she wanted to do this. It wasn't my idea, remember?"

"I will, when I'm ready to talk to her again."

Sherlock turned off the water.

"You argued. You argued about me?"

John folded his arms. "Piss poor nurse she is. Thinks someone can fake something like that."

"Ah. I'm sure I could."

"I'm sure you think you could. You might be able to make yourself appear to hyperventilate, and I bet you could try to raise your pulse a bit, but your body isn't going to let you do that for too long. Real anatomical reactions... not so easy to replicate. And she was pretty convinced you were going to try and use whatever information you gathered, presumably while lying there trying to accelerate your breathing and heart rate to a convincing level, to tear our marriage apart."

"That would be the last thing I'd do, considering how hard I've worked to keep you two together." Less than a second later Sherlock wrinkled his brow and tilted his head, looking as if those particular words had escaped his mouth without permission.

John smiled. "I suspected as much. Go on."

Sherlock slowly smiled back. "I knew you weren't a complete idiot."

"Let's pretend I am for a bit longer so you can explain. Why did you want me to stay with her? She'd try and kill me if I left?"

"No. Well... maybe, but I didn't think so. It was for my benefit. And yours, I thought for yours, too. You love her."

"I loved who I thought she was. I loved some of what she turned out to be. But how does that help you? To watch her more closely?"

"I...miscalculated. Not being able to observe one's self is always a disadvantage. Mycroft saw it, of course...the bastard. Told me not to get involved. I thought that I could send you off in style. See you happily married, a wife, even a child... though I didn't know that at first. I thought seeing you happy would make it easier... to... let you go. Mycroft and I checked out her past. I had more enemies which she could successfully protect you from than she had who might cause the both of you harm. I determined she would no longer be a danger to you or me if Magnussen was unable to threaten her. Aside from that, she would make an ideal companion for you." Sherlock's voice dropped a bit in pitch and volume. "Minus the trying to kill me bit, so I minimized its impact somewhat."

"Meaning, she did try to kill you." John's eyes sparkled. It's almost... well, actually, it is pretty damn funny. Looking at John...taking in the small wrinkles around his eyes, at the corner of his upturned mouth, the creases in his forehead as he raised his brows... Sherlock visibly relaxed.

"Well, she certainly didn't try as hard not to as I had implied."

"It didn't make sense, but I thought, 'always your way'. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did."

"And I also never meant you were attracted to psychopaths, John. You're not. What you do need, though, is someone to look out for. Someone to save." The tension returned, a stiffness settling back into Sherlock's features as he continued to speak. "And it couldn't be me anymore, at your side, but at least with her in your life, there wouldn't be an empty spot there beckoning me to fill it."

John's expression varied between new realization and increased confusion. "You could have been... if you wanted that space, you..."

"Opportunities come and go. I had mine. I didn't know right away, John. I didn't know what it was. I'd only had one relationship of any real significance to go by. I read your attraction to me, that first night at Angelo's, but I didn't want that then. I really didn't. And at the pool, I ---was confused. When I was... gone... by then I knew. I wrote you letters I didn't send. It was too much to put on paper. I kept trying to get back home and explain in person, where I could read your face, know if I needed to retreat. Where I wouldn't have to wait for an answer. I figured I'd finish soon enough, but then I would find a new cell. Moriarty's network was vast. I had never wanted you beside me more, nor been more glad that you were still in London. The work was," he paused, searching for the right word, "difficult."

I just want to give them both a hug! Can't wait to see how it develops.

Sherlock eyed him cautiously. "As far as what happened today is concerned, I wasn't expecting the chance to ... experience that with you. Not once I saw you had committed yourself to someone else. I didn't think this scenario through as a possibility." He looked down at the tub again. "Obviously," he mumbled. Sherlock glanced over at the door, but John shook his head.

"I don't feel right about leaving someone who just came out of an unresponsive state alone in a pool of water. So, go ahead and bathe. There's nothing there I haven't seen already."

Sherlock fixed him with a cold stare. "That's not entirely true." He took his robe off, and John was transfixed by the series of dark red marks across his back. "A holding cell in Serbia. Well, most of them. The one on the back of my neck is courtesy of Albert Gruener." He lifted his dark curls to expose a poorly-healed scar. "Most of those wounds were internal, but here's the knifepoint one. The lower back was outside of Tibet." Sherlock let the robe drop in a heap on the tile.

John swallowed and continued to look at his back, categorizing the types of injuries. He wanted to tend to them, but they were long past the point of benefitting from any kind of medical treatment. He still longed to touch them, to soothe the skin. His hands moved forward instinctually as he looked at them. Sherlock watched his reactions. "They are old, John. Years old, most of them. I don't need care-taking." Sherlock climbed into the tub. John expected him to lower himself carefully, as if the wounds were still fresh, and was surprised when he merely lowered himself in and lathered up some soap. Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, stretching out his limbs as best as he could.

John's lips curled and settled somewhere between a smile and a frown. "I should have been there to..."

Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up abruptly, water sloshing and splashing on John's face and chest. "To get yourself killed? And probably me, too. It was difficult enough for me to infiltrate Moriarty's ranks. I spent three months in Norway as Per Sigerson. How's your Norwegian, John?" His speech grew more rapid and terse. "Ikke veldig bra. I suspect your Mandarin is equally proficient."

"Sherlock..."

"And maybe you think you can get two of us through the woods unnoticed. Didn't work for one, even. And they weren't exactly looking for me, as I was already dead. Though by then, they had suspected I wasn't...the element of surprise only buys you so much time. Once the bodies start stacking up, people make an educated guess, and then they want to make you dead in actuality."

"Sherlock..."

"You would have protected me, yes? Stopped me from taking unnecessary risks. I wasn't about to have you killed, John, by being there with me or by preventing me from doing whatever I had to. He had to be stopped or he would continue to terrorize everyone I cared about, and all of greater London besides."

John spoke quickly before he was interrupted again. "I don't question how dangerous it was. I had no idea what you were up against. And I should have known better... the men he would have worked with." John fidgeted, but remained seated.

"Meanwhile, you were dating Mary, having quite a bit of fun, judging by the fact that she was pregnant within six months of your meeting her. At her age, her fertility rate wouldn't be that high, would it?" Sherlock's eyes were like lasers: sharp, glowing, deadly. "Shall I attempt to determine the number of times you..."

John sprang to his feet. "Sherlock! You and I had gotten as far as dancing around a relationship neither of us were quite sure we wanted, and you seem to forget that you were dead! That I watched you die. That I watched you jump off a bloody roof right in front of me and do you have any fucking idea what that is?" John made what he knew would seem like overly grand gestures with his hands before letting them fall abruptly to his side. "What that is to watch your whole fucking world collapse in front of you? Voluntarily? Why the hell did you want me to be there? You did, didn't you..." He pointed an accusing finger. "You knew that I would come back once I saw Mrs Hudson was okay, and you staged the whole bloody thing for me so I could what...be your witness? Grieve convincingly for you? "Not dead." Should have put it on a postcard. Okay, okay, you weren't exactly near a post office." His hands moved rapidly through the air again. "It wasn't a beach holiday. But, have Mycroft whisper it in my ear? Too conspicuous? Maybe have one of your bloody homeless network people drop me a note?"

Sherlock spoke quietly, sinking back into the tub. "Firstly, it wasn't voluntarily. It was either jump or watch my friends die. Fortunately, I had anticipated that scenario." He looked directly at John for the first time. "And secondly, you know why not, John."

John sighed. "I was being watched."

"You were being watched. Moriarty expected me to find a way out of it. He planned for that eventuality, too. And you think these men would have believed that you knew I was alive, but didn't know where I was? Truly? Haven't you seen enough spy movies?" Sherlock cleared his throat, and almost stopped altogether. "As I got deeper in, I thought I was going to die. You know what I said when I felt it? It wasn't asking God to let me live. To myself, in the darkness, I said, 'I have lived far longer than I deserved to'. And I said, 'I'm glad I never sent those letters. I'm glad he has already mourned me. It makes it easier to die now.' Somehow, I didn't, though. All this work to clear my name, all this keeping me alive in the press, and I thought, 'just let it go, let my reputation die with me', but you wouldn't, would you?" There was a slight smile on his lips, but a sadness in his eyes. "You fought for me. Never stopped believing in me. Maybe you wanted that part of me alive as much as I wanted to be back with you. But. Then you had found someone. Someone who made you happy. I knew when I saw you in that restaurant. I knew I had lost you. And I let you shove me to the ground, punch me in the face, nearly break my nose, make the pain physically manifest, and it didn't help." Sherlock lathered some soap and balanced his right foot on the tub and leaned forward, scrubbing at his toes. "Even in the train car, when you thought we were seconds from death, I couldn't help it, couldn't help but say that you would have been better off without me back. That it could have been just you and Mary... a quick fantasy, to give you a chance to deny that truth and claim me back as yours in our final seconds. What do people say when they think they are going to die, John?" He switched feet. "Confessions, perhaps? You had no place for me in your life. I needed to let you go."

Sherlock continued to bathe. John was torn. Half of him wanted to see if two adult men could cram into a bathtub, while the other half thought he should respectfully leave the room. Whatever Sherlock had once thought, he had found moving from fantasy to reality to be a difficult transition, and having John ogling him while he bathed seemed intrusive. Neither one said a word, and John tried his best to look away from the amazing-in-every-way man in the bathtub as he began lathering up his chest.

"You're trying to not look at me. Why?" Sherlock stopped washing to search John's face, soap still clinging to his chest. "Never mind. You can go. I didn't slip into a fugue state, and I'm not going to lose consciousness bathing myself. I deliberately chose to disconnect myself from the situation. My Mind Palace provided a quick and reliable refuge."

John turned to leave, nodding solemnly. "I'm sorry you needed a refuge from me, Sherlock. I never wanted you to feel uncomfortable with me. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again."

John had his hand on the doorknob before he heard Sherlock's voice. "It wasn't you I was uncomfortable with, John."

John removed his hand, but hadn't turned around.

"Quite the opposite, in fact."

What a moment to stop! *refreshes the page* Poor Sherlock. I hope he'll let John take care of him soon.

Sorry about that! Wanted to end on a positive note after all the defensiveness and such...and it ended up quite cliffhangery.

Sherlock allowed the water to run down the drain and toweled himself off. "I'm afraid this is becoming a terribly important conversation, and I'm not certain I possess the emotional stamina required." Sherlock slowed his speech somewhat, affording John the opportunity to ponder the meaning behind the words. "Perhaps it would be best if you go home. Check on Mary and Bess."

John certainly caught the implication. Sherlock might not be able to handle this--the conversation, the relationship, or most likely both. He should do... the right thing? Go back to his wife and child. Forget about this. He turned back to Sherlock, but didn't respond, his face reflecting not just confusion, but more than a touch of anger that Sherlock had already anticipated abandonment.

Sherlock seemed to be gathering energy. He straightened his frame, took a deep breath and began to speak. "John, you are intensely loyal. I don't know that you could carry on splitting your time between us, and I know I can't do anything like this --the three of us-- again." He smiled weakly. "I barely have the capacity to handle a committed physical and emotional relationship with one person. No moral judgment implied-- I speak only for myself-- but I need the two to go hand-in-hand. Physical and emotional. I never expected to find someone who I could..." Sherlock stopped to grab the robe he had discarded on the floor and put it on. "I shut it all off for many years; I can do it again. Mary is fully capable of providing you with all you need, and I-- well, as I have said in the past, I am a ridiculous man, John. I couldn't be whatever passes for normal if I tried. You. You have that potential, for both of you. Anything I say will unduly influence your decision... and I can't seem to help that... so I will remain silent on the matter and wait to hear from you." Sherlock walked past John into his bedroom and sat in bed. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, then closed his eyes, still lying on top of the covers, hands resting over his upper abdomen.

Every part of John wanted to stay here with Sherlock, but in the back of his mind he couldn't help but wonder... would he feel the same way about Mary, upon seeing her again? He thought about her, about his daughter, and felt a wave of pity for his wife who had felt trapped and reacted without forethought... but that was derailed by the jarring reminder that all the excuses he had made for her, that Sherlock had made for her, were lies.

He had been willing to accept them as truth, blinded by his urge to do better than his parents had. To keep his family together. To help Mary escape her past and build her own future. Here he was, doing it anyway. Recreating patterns, and he had managed to recreate the worst of both of them... quick to anger and in love with someone who was missing some intangible, fundamental piece. Surely, both Mary and Sherlock were damaged. Was there a difference? If he went to Mary, saw her in the flesh, maybe would he feel this same pull. John looked again at Sherlock, who refused to even acknowledge his presence in the room, so he simply left, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Nooo John don't leave! Give him a hug!

John will be back soon. He's got to take care of that wife if his. And then it gets all Garrideby. Which I've decided is a word.

I'm still here, and still loving it! But ouch, there is so much pain in that fic! Poor Sherlock, poor John... However, I have hope that everything will turn out well in the end (i.e. will officially become Johnlock, hahaha!).
I'll be waiting eagerly for the next parts~ :P

Just posted more...and yes...Johnlock ending for sure

[what do I do when I run out of space? Is this too narrow to read easily? So...we are almost at the end. Just a few chapters left. Yes, it ends in Johnlock, and there's a whole bunch of Three Garridebs references in here and reinterpreted text from it in this and the next chapter, so reading that might make this more entertaining! My apologies if I am villainizing Mary a bit, I have to give John a reason to finally leave]

He walked through the front door to find that Mary had already put Bess to sleep, and was sitting at the table with her gun at the ready.

"Did you think I would come back armed?"

Mary glanced sideways as she searched for words. "I didn't know what he might say. What he would make you think about me. That my feelings for you were all a sham. That I was sent to kill you. That Bess isn't yours." Mary's eyes drifted towards the gun on the table. "He'd say anything to keep you. And you'd believe it. I needed to be prepared."

"Prepared to shoot me." John didn't even sound surprised. He wasn't, really. "If I had been there when you tried to kill Sherlock, you would not have got out of the room alive. Now, Mary, what did you want to say?" She had nothing to say for herself; she only sat and scowled. John's eyes fell upon a litter of half-eaten jars of puréed food and baby bottles, rolls of paper towels and, neatly arranged upon the small table, a number of neat little bundles of notes worth perhaps hundreds each.

"They're fit to pass anywhere. Help yourself. Call it a deal and let me leave."

"I don't do things like that, 'Mrs Watson'," he said with undisguised contempt. "You want to make a deal? Keep the money. Give me Bess." John kept his eyes on the weapon. "I'm sure there are boltholes for you throughout this whole country. Got to imagine the number goes down to next to nothing when you've got a child in tow. You shot many, many men, haven't you?"

"Yes." Her face was a cold mask. It was a simple statement of fact. "Though you should know he advanced on me," she added, just as plainly.

"Armed?"

Mary turned away, and John just caught a passing glimpse of a frown. She turned back to face him with a smile now and promptly changed the subject. "If I had killed Magnussen, I would have had a medal the size of a soup plate. Could anyone wonder why I wanted to get him?" Her face darkened again. "And can you wonder that, when I knew this crazy, queer ex-something of yours was never quitting you, I had to do the best I could to manage him. Maybe it would have been wiser if I had put him away." She paused as if considering this option after the fact. Tilting her head as if balancing her decision. "It would have been easy enough, but ..." She blinked her lashes in flirtation. "Maybe I'm really just a sweet, soft-hearted woman that can't be killing people unless the other guy has a gun also."

John would have laughed. There was certainly an element of comedy. He managed to keep it reined in to just a raising of eyebrows and a slow nodding of his head.

"Not buying that, are you?" She opted for something a bit closer to the truth. "He would have disarmed me. You would have found out all about me." She looked right at him, a desperate plea in her eyes for any kind of understanding John could muster. "What choice did I have?"

"I found out anyway. I stayed. Anyway. And if you were going to shoot someone, you shot the wrong person."

She smiled and fell back on arrogance. She was good. One of the very best. "I think, as far as my clientele was concerned, I'd have done a great service killing either of them; they’d have given me that medal. It's too bad you'd have taken a less favourable view." Her smile quickly faded as she began to defend herself. "What have I done wrong, anyhow? I haven't killed him. Where do you get me?"

"Only attempted murder, so far as I can see, but that's not my job. They take that at the next stage, and they'll want your sweet self. Please give NSY a call, Mary. It won't be entirely unexpected."

John ascended the stairs as a melancholy version of the piece Sherlock had performed on his wedding night drifted down to greet him, but he was only vaguely aware of a violin being played. Instead, he was entirely preoccupied with the intense swirling in the pit of his stomach, unsure if it was fear or anticipation.

He conjured up a mental image of Sherlock and felt a sudden surge of heat, his mind flooding with visions of Sherlock sprawling upon the bed, of Sherlock's wiry fingers round him, of himself... pressing hot against Sherlock's thigh as he claimed a kiss against the walls of this very hallway. The music stopped abruptly as he began to push open the door.

Sherlock scanned him as he entered the room and before John could say a word he had discarded the violin and was leading him to a chair. "Bess? For God's sake, say that she is not hurt."

Shocked, John barely had the chance to blurt out, "She's with..." before he realized Sherlock had answered his own question, "With Mrs Hudson."

Sherlock visibly relaxed. "I must admit, this is sooner than I had anticipated. I was concerned Mary had made another desperate move. That she had threatened her."

"Threatened me, actually."

The back of John's legs were butted up against Sherlock's chair, but he remained standing, drawing himself to his full height and speaking in earnest. "Sherlock, I don't want to escape this life. When you spoke of the thrill of the chase, I wanted it so badly, wanted that back. I couldn't stand not having had it for so long. I'm so sorry... I had I no right to come at you like that." He gently pulled Sherlock's head down and tenderly kissed him on the bridge of his nose, the very spot where he had once launched his forehead.

"It was nothing, John. A mere scratch. Quite superficial."

"And the... with Mary." John shook his head and brought a hand up to briefly cover his eyes before running it down his face. "God, both times with Mary," he muttered, lips pursed. "I hope all these wounds," John traced his hands along the scars on Sherlock's back and chest before resting them over his heart, "can be healed."

"It was worth a wound. It was worth many wounds. It was worth my time in exile to know the depth your loyalty. It was worth relinquishing my body to her to know the physicality of your love." Sherlock's clear, hard eyes dimmed for a moment, his firm lips shaking... a great heart as well as great brain, plain to see in that moment of revelation. "Now, that's entirely enough sentiment. Please assume forgiveness for any way in which you could have possibly wronged me. There are far better things to do with our time."

Sherlock fixed his eyes on John's as he placed his finger gently over John's lips and slowly dragged it down his body: chin, neck, chest, stomach, cock. John groaned and leaned his forehead on Sherlock's arm. "This is so right," he whispered, as he reached for Sherlock's belt. "Just us. Except for the location. Need something more... horizontal. This room is wrong."

"But expedient." Sherlock pushed him backwards into the chair and straddled him, nimble fingers reaching into John's pants and running along his length, before he released his grip and freed himself. John quickly removed his trousers, nearly ripping the fabric in his haste. Sherlock wrapped his hand around the both of them and simply held them together for a moment, bracing himself on the back of his chair with his other arm as they took in the stillness of the flat and the quiet of their breathing. He began to move his wrist. In a whisper, he outlined his intentions. "John.... John, I want to feel you... I want to be surrounded by you."

John's posture stiffened. He wasn't sure if he was ready for...

"No... like this..." He pulled back John's foreskin, exposing the slick and darkening head, and then he pulled his own back as well. He pressed the tips of glans together and kept them in place with one hand while he pulled John's foreskin down, stretching and releasing and stretching and releasing again, working the pliable skin gently with the other while John waged a war between his arousal and his curiosity. Once it was lengthened enough to cover both their glans, he pulled John's forward and then began the same process on himself, taking time to stop, breathe and refocus on his goal rather than lose himself in sensation. He pulled his over the top. John looked down at their connection and gaped.

"You... are a clever, clever man."

"That I am."

John closed his eyes and tilted his head back, focusing on feeling not just the most responsive part of his entire body flush against Sherlock's, but the sensation of being wrapped in each other. He needed to see it happening.

John opened his eyes just as Sherlock began to stroke his hand softly over both of them... a slow vibrato. In no time, John was wet as hell, and Sherlock must have been too, because the two of them fused together in a literal bond, stimulating each other in a way which had simply never occurred to John before.

Hands... I should do something with..., John's mind cut through the haze and ran his hands across Sherlock's chest, caressing the high-end cotton that was refined enough to feel like silk, as Sherlock sped the pace. John could feel his cock swell, could feel Sherlock's cock swell, too. Could see his shaft darkening, and Sherlock's, beneath his quickly moving hand. John looked up to see Sherlock staring at him. Eyes like... eyes like Sherlock's fucking eyes,there is no simile better than the actual thing, and he shuddered and squirmed and groaned and thrashed until he saw himself coming coming coming and then he wondered what it must feel like for Sherlock, fused together with John's come trapped around his cock and it must feel bloody magnificent because Sherlock's coming too and oh my God yes! And was that in his head or out loud, because damned if he knew which.

"Oh..oh......oh, John!" Sherlock cried with an immense sigh of relief, before reluctantly separating them and beginning to clean off their cocks, his hand and much of the chair. John moved Sherlock's hand aside, struck with the urge to find out what a mixture of the two of them would taste like, and pushed Sherlock to the floor. His mouth was on him, reversing the momentum of Sherlock's softening cock as it responded to John engulfing him. Sherlock's hands hovered over the back of John's neck, hesitating, wanting, but afraid to grab him tight. John placed those hands on his shoulders and shoved himself forward deeply on Sherlock's behalf. No words were spoken, but the message was clear. It's fine. It's all fine. Sherlock was reduced to an inarticulate string of guttural noise. Listening closely, which by God he did, John could almost decipher the broken syllables as variations of his name.

I'm so glad the boys are finally on the right track! (And sory for not commenting on the previous part, I completely missed it!)

No need to apologize! Yup... took em long enough ;)

Sherlock Holmes knew a great many things about his body. He knew he could stay awake for 73 hours, knew how long he could hold his breath both on land and underwater (1'58" maximum, with lung packing... it had provided him with an excellent motivation to quit smoking... and 3'28" submerged, due to a controlled mammalian diving reflex ), and knew that, in spite of his best efforts, writing produced with his left hand still looked visibly different than with his right. What he did not know, and in fact, never imagined he would have the opportunity to discover, was how long his refractory period was.

He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing to have his body ready to go for another round so soon, and if his mind could keep up. John stopped for a moment, concerned. It was not surprising, given Sherlock's previous reaction to this particular act, but this was different. So very different.

"Talk to me, Sherlock. Tell me how it feels."

John's mouth was back on him and Sherlock struggled for speech. "J... Hhhuh...on." John vocalized his approval without removing his mouth and the vibrations elicited a shuddering breath and a sharp jerk of Sherlock's hips. "John. I ... I want you taste you, too. I want to have..." John stopped and kissed his way up his stomach and rested his hands on either side of his head.

"Well then..." John said, as he leaned in and kissed him deeply. Sherlock closed his eyes and his mind began its analysis. It was strange, knowing he was tasting himself, both of them, on John's tongue, and a bit shocking at first. Salty? Bitter? Surely diet would play a factor in... The analysis didn't last very long, because John was kissing him again, probing deeper, and Sherlock became more aware of texture, warmth, and more unquantifiable things. Sherlock kissed him back.

He began the process of overwriting all other kisses. John's previous kiss, from mere hours before, gone. He traveled backwards through time. Victor's, gone; Catherine's, gone; until there was but one sensation filed under 'kiss'. He hummed happily and entirely forgot to mention that this wasn't what he had intended when he had said he wanted to taste John. Well, there would be plenty of time for reciprocity.

John's mouth was perfect; his lips were soft, the pressure was firm. He captured Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth-- hard and soft... flawless-- and pulled back just slightly before releasing it. It was the most perfectly executed movement Sherlock had ever witnessed. Suddenly, Sherlock felt serious doubt. He hadn't even felt this much like a teenager when he was a teenager. He needed to do more. Needed to prove to John, to himself, that he could handle this. He nervously eyed John, who was still largely flaccid.

FILL 18/18 END "Three" (Threesome fail)

(Anonymous) - 2014-06-11 03:09 (UTC) - Expand

Re: FILL 18/18 END "Three" (Threesome fail) op

(Anonymous) - 2014-06-11 17:47 (UTC) - Expand

Re: FILL 18/18 END "Three" (Threesome fail) op

(Anonymous) - 2014-06-11 20:00 (UTC) - Expand

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