sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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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.

"My turn to deduce, then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock huffed.

"Well, off hand, I'd guess you are wondering if I'm expecting another go, since you're eyeing me and you think I'm out to reclaim you in the name of John Watson." Sherlock had intended to be scornfully dismissive at John's attempt to read his mind, but was quite surprised to find he was entirely correct.

"I can, if you want. The rest of me is good to go, but anything involving my cock is going to have to wait another 20 to 30 minutes; I'm obviously pretty sated. And, impressively, you're not." Sherlock turned away at this statement.

"Oh. Now you're wondering if that is really a good thing. Well, it gives you options, so of course it is. But, what your body does is not necessarily what your mind wants, so... how about it? I don't need to reclaim you, you see. I never lost you. Did you delete it already? The first time I touched you? The first time I kissed you?"

"No. It doesn't work like that. I don't erase it. I just- choose not to save it where I can access it easily. It's stored somewhere else."

"You can talk to me. You can tell me what happened."

Sherlock hesitated. "No need. It doesn't serve a purpose to discuss it since this particular set of circumstances is a one-time occurrence."

"But, maybe we can get in the habit of... discussing things?"

Sherlock kept it curt. "Too much Mary." He found it embarrassing to say more, and it annoyed him that he was embarrassed. Sex does not alarm me. And it didn't. He had no moral qualms about anyone having as much sex as they wanted with as many people as they wanted. Separately. Together. With accessories. Of course, with Mary, he had good reason not to be trusting, but it occurred to him that maybe John would always want a woman, too. Someone more trustworthy, of course, but maybe he'd want this again.

"I can't do this, John." John was working hard not to jump to conclusions about what "this" meant. He bit his lip to remind him to keep his mouth shut.

"I know people would think I must be disconnected from my body to not have had any sort of sexual relationship for so long. That I must reject the physical plane somehow, or punish myself by strictly controlling sexual release or prohibiting pleasurable rewards. But, in actuality, my body and my mind are entirely too connected. My mind is supreme, my entire body a mere appendix... but that doesn't mean it is utterly useless, only subordinate. My body is the vehicle through which my mind expresses itself, and this time it was... too connected to my mind. I can't offer it to just anyone. Not Mary, certainly, but- not just anyone else either. Just. You." Sherlock frowned and avoided John's questioning gaze.

"And this upsets you?"

"It's childish," he mumbled, running his fingers through his curls while eyeing the weave of the sheet.

"And wanting to go slower? Is that childish?"

This time he met John's gaze, his confidence reestablished by determination to shift away from nebulous emotions to more concrete matters. "I want to try many things. I want to process them all. See what works. Quantify it."

John shook his head and smiled. "Doesn't sound at all childish. Sounds... well, that bit sounds very good, actually." His eyebrows shot up and his smile broadened. Sherlock was transfixed by the little wrinkles that appeared at the edges of his eyes. Smiles lines, they were called. They were fascinating. "And I suppose you wish to line your investigation up with the scientific method?"

"Since I can't rely on replication, I will need increased levels of repetition. For example, kissing."

"Anything for science," John whispered in his ear as he made his way back to his mouth for additional research.

I'm so glad to finally see them happy together! Thank you!

Glad you liked it OP. If you want, I will let you know when my variation on this with the Mary who is redeemed and not so evil story is done? Lmk if you are interested.

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