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Entry tags:
FIC: Natural
Title: Natural
Relationship: Sherlock/John
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1800
Summary: Sherlock is back in John's life. At the moment he is--rather inexplicably--asleep in John's bed. In completely unrelated news, for some reason John is aroused. This is awkward.
Notes: Set just after whatever is going to happen at the beginning of Series 3.
John Watson came awake slowly, and for a moment the dim morning light through the blinds was the same as always.
Then he remembered, and everything shifted as if into a different spectrum: more radiant, more luminous.
They had staggered home--home!--through the night together, weary and giggling, propping each other up. Sherlock had stumbled to his old room and collapsed on the bed, asleep before John could throw a blanket over him and trail off to his own room.
He had woken in the night to a rustle of sheets, and someone crawling into bed with him. Half-asleep, ready to protest, he heard Sherlock mutter "Nightmare. Better here." Something in his voice, and the memory of nightmares of his own, stopped the complaint in John's throat. He'd drifted off to sleep again listening to Sherlock breathe, each breath a small and perfect thing in the dark.
Now he lay in bed, feeling a presence at his back. As cautiously as if it were an illusion he could break by looking, he rolled over.
Sherlock was there, his eyes closed, breathing softly. His long limbs were drawn up close to his body, one hand curled up against his own mouth. In sleep, without that manic intelligence animating his face, he looked both more and less human, somehow.
There was a nasty bruise purpling one cheekbone; John had some very complicated feelings regarding it.
The morning light crept from gray to golden as he looked, and slowly he became aware of an almost uncomfortable physical arousal. He stopped himself before he could mutter "Good grief" out loud--of all the times for this to happen, this had to be the worst. Sherlock was between him and the bathroom, and it didn't seem wise to crawl over him to get there. He re-arranged the sheets a bit to try and obscure matters. Sherlock's eyes were still closed, thank God. John watched his face carefully, but he seemed to still be sleeping soundly.
Soon those eyes would open and John would hear his voice again, hear him laugh. They'd go out into the day together and Sherlock would complain about being bored and start filling up the fridge with thumbs and eyeballs and what have you, would bend over John as he wrote his blog and criticise the over-dramatic choice of words to describe his return. He'd lean in close and murmur in John's ear that it was unscientific to dwell on either joy or anger, that just the facts would be enough: that he had not been here and now he was, and he had no intention of ever leaving again. He would--
John heard himself make a small sound of irritation. This...this small physical problem...was not going away. He surreptitiously re-adjusted his briefs, nearly wincing as his thumb brushed along his length. God, that felt good. It had been so long since it had felt good, like something he wanted to do rather than a banally necessary physical function to take care of. Not since--
It had been a long time.
And now that he actually wanted to, of course he had to get rid of it somehow, because Sherlock was right there. Damn Sherlock, anyway, always showing up at the least convenient times. All right, he could take care of this. John Watson fell back on his personal trick for banishing unwanted wood: reciting bones.
It was simple enough, good review for medical school when one was younger and tended to have this problem more often: simply start at the top and work down to the bottom, bone by bone, boring polysyllabic word by word until the physical appetite gave up and slunk away. So then. Keeping an eye on Sherlock to make sure he didn't wake, John began rattling them off in his mind.
Start with the cranial bones. The skull. The miraculously whole skull, cradling a brain made of purest light. Good place to start. Frontal, parietal, temporal, occipital, sphenoid, and--damn it. What was the last one, the last one, he couldn't concentrate. Ethmoid, that was it. All of them complete and unshattered and perfect.
Facial bones. Lacrimal bone, the smallest and most fragile, named for tears. Palatine. Maxilla. The zygomatic bone, more commonly known as the cheekbone. Light was gleaming through Sherlock's lashes and brushing his cheekbones, casting dappled patterns across that bruise. John hitched his hips up very slightly so he could push down his briefs, which were constricting him terribly. The mandible, the jawbone, used in biting, licking, sucking. Hypothetically, one supposed, for kissing. His cock bounded alarmingly, and John slipped his hand under the sheet to press it down once more, bare skin on bare skin. To circle it with thumb and finger, the most delicate of frissons. Just the tiniest bit.
Bones. More bones. Keep reciting, Dr. Watson. Time was running out to distract himself before-- Keep reciting. The hyoid bone in the long pale throat. Seven cervical vertebrae. The scapula. The pressure of his own hand making his breath ragged and yearning. The clavicle, also known as the collarbone.
Sherlock's maroon shirt was open at the neck, revealing collarbones sharp as blades, with a gap between them that seemed scientifically designed to press a kiss into, and damn it, he really should not be wanking off with his best friend right there next to him. He most definitely should not be doing this, and he was definitely going to stop right now.
Right now.
Right...now.
He was having a hard time keeping his breathing steady at this point. If he had any decency at all in the world he would at least stop staring at Sherlock while he was doing this: at his hair and his fingers and oh God at his mouth. He forced his eyes closed, but then it was even worse, because he could imagine Sherlock with his eyes open and wearing quite a bit less, and John shuddered and had to stop moving his hand completely because it was too much. Your best friend, John? That's grotesque. He'd be appalled. He'd--
John opened his eyes and oh Jesus, Sherlock's eyes were open and looking right at him.
John considered laughing and saying it was a nightmare, but stopped himself: Sherlock might be a bit dense about human relationships, but he knew the flushed face and dilated pupils of arousal just fine, thank you. So he just looked at Sherlock, breathing heavily, and waited.
Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Don't stop on my account, John," he murmured, and--was that a smile? Whatever it was, it went straight to John's groin and sent a jolt along his spine to his mouth, pushing a startled groan from him. He shifted his hand almost without meaning to, his eyes drifting closed--
"No." Sherlock's voice was sharp this time. John's eyes snapped open. Various expressions flickered across Sherlock's face, almost too fast to read, and he swallowed once, hard. "Don't stop looking at me," he said.
"Uh." John's cognitive abilities seemed even slower than usual at the moment. "While I'm--"
"--Yes. If you don't mind, that is."
"I don't mind," said John, speaking one of the greater understatements of his life.
He started moving his hand again, his eyes on Sherlock's face. Sherlock seemed entirely uninterested in anything going on below the neck--no surprise there--his eyes flicking across John's face as if gathering essential evidence. John knew he should hurry this up, get it over with, finish up and get away from Sherlock's eerie pale gaze. Yet his motions stayed slow and incremental, just his finger and thumb in a narrow band of pleasant teasing agony, almost as if he didn't want this to end, didn't want to ever leave this moment, here with Sherlock watching him. So close, he was so close, they were so close, it was heaven, God, don't ever let it end. John struggled to keep his expression level and neutral under Sherlock's curious eyes as his breath grew short and his hips lifted against his hand. Was Sherlock collecting data for some kind of bizarre case featuring, who the hell knew, a serial killer who liked to get off while watching his victims sleep? Was this some kind of experiment?
And then Sherlock bit his lip, hard enough that it looked painful, and a tiny sound escaped him, and John gave up entirely pretending that there was anything impersonal about this. "Jesus, Sherlock," he muttered, and let his face betray him utterly. Let Sherlock see what he was thinking. Let him read John like a book. Let him observe all the need and the lust and know it was him who made John feel this way, only him. He didn't care anymore, all he cared about was that they were both here and they were both alive again and he had never felt so good, it was almost too good to be true--
Too good! Sudden, irrational panic spiked through him, nearly stopping his breath. Was he dreaming this? Was this all a delusion, would he wake alone with stained sheets and an empty bed and the empty days going forward senselessly forever and ever and--
"No, John." Sherlock's voice was calm but there was a tremor beneath it. "I'm here." He reached out and put his hand on John's bare shoulder, his fingers splayed so that each fingertip was like a point of pure grace on John's skin. "Look at me. I'm right here."
"Sh--" He was trembling on the brink of orgasm, panting, still unable to believe, to let go and fall--no, not fall, rise into joy, it wasn't possible, it couldn't be. "Sh--"
Sherlock Holmes smiled at him then, affectionate and condescending and beautiful. "You may achieve your messy physical release, John," he murmured, and it was just the kind of asshole thing only his Sherlock would ever say, and the gust of annoyed laughter that swept over John turned into a gasp of something else entirely as he came. He groaned in delight, his back arching into the sensation and his toes curling and his eyes wide open, watching the flash of cold arrogance on Sherlock's face melt away again into satisfaction, their eyes fixed on each other, always and always.
Later, cleaned up--Sherlock's distaste at the "mess" was entirely genuine, John discovered--and back in bed, facing each other with their knees barely touching, John pondered how the strangest things could seem normal and natural when Sherlock Holmes was in your life.
Sherlock gave him one of his lopsided smiles. "Maybe we'll have some excitement today," he said, his eyes dancing. "With any luck, we'll have a nice serial killer to celebrate my return."
No, thought John Watson. Nothing with Sherlock ever seemed normal.
But when they were together, everything seemed natural.
Relationship: Sherlock/John
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1800
Summary: Sherlock is back in John's life. At the moment he is--rather inexplicably--asleep in John's bed. In completely unrelated news, for some reason John is aroused. This is awkward.
Notes: Set just after whatever is going to happen at the beginning of Series 3.
John Watson came awake slowly, and for a moment the dim morning light through the blinds was the same as always.
Then he remembered, and everything shifted as if into a different spectrum: more radiant, more luminous.
They had staggered home--home!--through the night together, weary and giggling, propping each other up. Sherlock had stumbled to his old room and collapsed on the bed, asleep before John could throw a blanket over him and trail off to his own room.
He had woken in the night to a rustle of sheets, and someone crawling into bed with him. Half-asleep, ready to protest, he heard Sherlock mutter "Nightmare. Better here." Something in his voice, and the memory of nightmares of his own, stopped the complaint in John's throat. He'd drifted off to sleep again listening to Sherlock breathe, each breath a small and perfect thing in the dark.
Now he lay in bed, feeling a presence at his back. As cautiously as if it were an illusion he could break by looking, he rolled over.
Sherlock was there, his eyes closed, breathing softly. His long limbs were drawn up close to his body, one hand curled up against his own mouth. In sleep, without that manic intelligence animating his face, he looked both more and less human, somehow.
There was a nasty bruise purpling one cheekbone; John had some very complicated feelings regarding it.
The morning light crept from gray to golden as he looked, and slowly he became aware of an almost uncomfortable physical arousal. He stopped himself before he could mutter "Good grief" out loud--of all the times for this to happen, this had to be the worst. Sherlock was between him and the bathroom, and it didn't seem wise to crawl over him to get there. He re-arranged the sheets a bit to try and obscure matters. Sherlock's eyes were still closed, thank God. John watched his face carefully, but he seemed to still be sleeping soundly.
Soon those eyes would open and John would hear his voice again, hear him laugh. They'd go out into the day together and Sherlock would complain about being bored and start filling up the fridge with thumbs and eyeballs and what have you, would bend over John as he wrote his blog and criticise the over-dramatic choice of words to describe his return. He'd lean in close and murmur in John's ear that it was unscientific to dwell on either joy or anger, that just the facts would be enough: that he had not been here and now he was, and he had no intention of ever leaving again. He would--
John heard himself make a small sound of irritation. This...this small physical problem...was not going away. He surreptitiously re-adjusted his briefs, nearly wincing as his thumb brushed along his length. God, that felt good. It had been so long since it had felt good, like something he wanted to do rather than a banally necessary physical function to take care of. Not since--
It had been a long time.
And now that he actually wanted to, of course he had to get rid of it somehow, because Sherlock was right there. Damn Sherlock, anyway, always showing up at the least convenient times. All right, he could take care of this. John Watson fell back on his personal trick for banishing unwanted wood: reciting bones.
It was simple enough, good review for medical school when one was younger and tended to have this problem more often: simply start at the top and work down to the bottom, bone by bone, boring polysyllabic word by word until the physical appetite gave up and slunk away. So then. Keeping an eye on Sherlock to make sure he didn't wake, John began rattling them off in his mind.
Start with the cranial bones. The skull. The miraculously whole skull, cradling a brain made of purest light. Good place to start. Frontal, parietal, temporal, occipital, sphenoid, and--damn it. What was the last one, the last one, he couldn't concentrate. Ethmoid, that was it. All of them complete and unshattered and perfect.
Facial bones. Lacrimal bone, the smallest and most fragile, named for tears. Palatine. Maxilla. The zygomatic bone, more commonly known as the cheekbone. Light was gleaming through Sherlock's lashes and brushing his cheekbones, casting dappled patterns across that bruise. John hitched his hips up very slightly so he could push down his briefs, which were constricting him terribly. The mandible, the jawbone, used in biting, licking, sucking. Hypothetically, one supposed, for kissing. His cock bounded alarmingly, and John slipped his hand under the sheet to press it down once more, bare skin on bare skin. To circle it with thumb and finger, the most delicate of frissons. Just the tiniest bit.
Bones. More bones. Keep reciting, Dr. Watson. Time was running out to distract himself before-- Keep reciting. The hyoid bone in the long pale throat. Seven cervical vertebrae. The scapula. The pressure of his own hand making his breath ragged and yearning. The clavicle, also known as the collarbone.
Sherlock's maroon shirt was open at the neck, revealing collarbones sharp as blades, with a gap between them that seemed scientifically designed to press a kiss into, and damn it, he really should not be wanking off with his best friend right there next to him. He most definitely should not be doing this, and he was definitely going to stop right now.
Right now.
Right...now.
He was having a hard time keeping his breathing steady at this point. If he had any decency at all in the world he would at least stop staring at Sherlock while he was doing this: at his hair and his fingers and oh God at his mouth. He forced his eyes closed, but then it was even worse, because he could imagine Sherlock with his eyes open and wearing quite a bit less, and John shuddered and had to stop moving his hand completely because it was too much. Your best friend, John? That's grotesque. He'd be appalled. He'd--
John opened his eyes and oh Jesus, Sherlock's eyes were open and looking right at him.
John considered laughing and saying it was a nightmare, but stopped himself: Sherlock might be a bit dense about human relationships, but he knew the flushed face and dilated pupils of arousal just fine, thank you. So he just looked at Sherlock, breathing heavily, and waited.
Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Don't stop on my account, John," he murmured, and--was that a smile? Whatever it was, it went straight to John's groin and sent a jolt along his spine to his mouth, pushing a startled groan from him. He shifted his hand almost without meaning to, his eyes drifting closed--
"No." Sherlock's voice was sharp this time. John's eyes snapped open. Various expressions flickered across Sherlock's face, almost too fast to read, and he swallowed once, hard. "Don't stop looking at me," he said.
"Uh." John's cognitive abilities seemed even slower than usual at the moment. "While I'm--"
"--Yes. If you don't mind, that is."
"I don't mind," said John, speaking one of the greater understatements of his life.
He started moving his hand again, his eyes on Sherlock's face. Sherlock seemed entirely uninterested in anything going on below the neck--no surprise there--his eyes flicking across John's face as if gathering essential evidence. John knew he should hurry this up, get it over with, finish up and get away from Sherlock's eerie pale gaze. Yet his motions stayed slow and incremental, just his finger and thumb in a narrow band of pleasant teasing agony, almost as if he didn't want this to end, didn't want to ever leave this moment, here with Sherlock watching him. So close, he was so close, they were so close, it was heaven, God, don't ever let it end. John struggled to keep his expression level and neutral under Sherlock's curious eyes as his breath grew short and his hips lifted against his hand. Was Sherlock collecting data for some kind of bizarre case featuring, who the hell knew, a serial killer who liked to get off while watching his victims sleep? Was this some kind of experiment?
And then Sherlock bit his lip, hard enough that it looked painful, and a tiny sound escaped him, and John gave up entirely pretending that there was anything impersonal about this. "Jesus, Sherlock," he muttered, and let his face betray him utterly. Let Sherlock see what he was thinking. Let him read John like a book. Let him observe all the need and the lust and know it was him who made John feel this way, only him. He didn't care anymore, all he cared about was that they were both here and they were both alive again and he had never felt so good, it was almost too good to be true--
Too good! Sudden, irrational panic spiked through him, nearly stopping his breath. Was he dreaming this? Was this all a delusion, would he wake alone with stained sheets and an empty bed and the empty days going forward senselessly forever and ever and--
"No, John." Sherlock's voice was calm but there was a tremor beneath it. "I'm here." He reached out and put his hand on John's bare shoulder, his fingers splayed so that each fingertip was like a point of pure grace on John's skin. "Look at me. I'm right here."
"Sh--" He was trembling on the brink of orgasm, panting, still unable to believe, to let go and fall--no, not fall, rise into joy, it wasn't possible, it couldn't be. "Sh--"
Sherlock Holmes smiled at him then, affectionate and condescending and beautiful. "You may achieve your messy physical release, John," he murmured, and it was just the kind of asshole thing only his Sherlock would ever say, and the gust of annoyed laughter that swept over John turned into a gasp of something else entirely as he came. He groaned in delight, his back arching into the sensation and his toes curling and his eyes wide open, watching the flash of cold arrogance on Sherlock's face melt away again into satisfaction, their eyes fixed on each other, always and always.
Later, cleaned up--Sherlock's distaste at the "mess" was entirely genuine, John discovered--and back in bed, facing each other with their knees barely touching, John pondered how the strangest things could seem normal and natural when Sherlock Holmes was in your life.
Sherlock gave him one of his lopsided smiles. "Maybe we'll have some excitement today," he said, his eyes dancing. "With any luck, we'll have a nice serial killer to celebrate my return."
No, thought John Watson. Nothing with Sherlock ever seemed normal.
But when they were together, everything seemed natural.
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I figure a sexual relationship with Sherlock Holmes has got to be filled with so many weird moments.
"What--what are you doing down there, Sherlock?"
"I want to see your toes during orgasm. Don't stop. Why have you stopped? I just want to see what happens with your toes. It's very interesting. Keep going."
Luckily I figure John Watson is game for a LOT of weirdness in his life. :)
Thanks so much for the comment! Now you have me thinking about John's toes. I thank you for this as well.
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"You may achieve your messy physical release, John," has to be the best Sherlockian alternative ever for "you can come now." :D
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