mithen | FIC: Scientific Progress (BBC Sherlock, John/Sherlock, NC-17)

Title: Scientific Progress
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2000
Summary: John is still getting used to having Sherlock as a lover. It may be transcendently weird at times, but it's certainly never boring.

"I want to watch your toes."

"My--" John Watson stopped what he was doing with an effort. "Sorry, you want to what?"

With a flurry of movement and a flutter of purple silk, Sherlock Holmes leapt to the foot of the bed, crouching down on the floor. His eyes appeared just above John's toes, fixed on John's feet with bright intensity. The view of his face was obscured somewhat by John's imperative erection between them, which only made the whole tableau that much stranger. "All right. Keep going, John."

"Sherlock, what are you--"

Sherlock fitted his finger into the hollow between the sole of John's foot and the pads of his toes; John's toes curled involuntarily around it and he bit back a groan that was half pleasure and half exasperation. Sex with Sherlock was a transcendently weird experience--he would have said "kinky," but that would require an awareness that something abnormal was taking place, and Sherlock always seemed blithely unaware of that fact. Indeed, he didn't seem to have noticed any qualitative change in their relationship at all. It was just a new thing they were doing together, like so many others. They never used to to eat at the chip shop down the street, and now they did. They never used to listen to Miles Davis, and now they did. They never used to lie in bed together while John masturbated, and now they did.

"You have amazing toes, John," Sherlock announced.

"Why, thank you. I guess."

"I want to see how much they flex when you orgasm. So do carry on."

John made an irritated hissing noise, but it was entirely pro forma, and he knew Sherlock knew that. He started up again, keenly aware of Sherlock's laser-bright gaze fixed on his vulnerable toes.

John was quite aware that he should find this emasculating, or dehumanizing. Or at the very least, for God's sake, embarrassing. Though it wasn't like Sherlock always treated him like a fascinating specimen--there was a surprising amount of kissing, and a great deal more cuddling than John would ever have expected from a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Days could go by without Sherlock suddenly deciding to gauge John's reaction to rubber versus leather cock rings, or to check to see if John liked having his fingers sucked during orgasm, or to record the sounds John made for later (and, considering his refusal to use earphones, extremely awkward) analysis.

That John tended to get restless and irritable waiting for Sherlock to have a new bizarre scientific whim to test on him suggested that John was kinky, but that Sherlock was just Sherlock.

Sherlock did something to the soles of his feet that made John's back arch uncontrollably. "Nng," he said.

"Are you close?"

"Yes, God damn it."

"Oh good, good." Sherlock peered at his feet and pressed his finger into that delicate hollow once more, and although the abrupt arrival of John's orgasm was not at all surprising, the sounds he made during it seemed to take them both somewhat aback.

"We'll have to do that again and record you sometime," Sherlock said, springing back onto the bed and dropping down beside him as he panted. "I didn't know the human voice could do that."

"Would you at least not replay them when Mrs. Hudson is around this time?" John sighed.

"Embarrassment is the enemy of scientific progress, John," Sherlock admonished him.

John wasn't sure if he should admit that it wasn't embarrassing so much as arousing. Probably not. He looked over at Sherlock, then did a double-take and frowned. "Are you--"

Sherlock glanced down at himself. "Apparently. That's why I want to analyze the sounds you make, they have a very stimulating effect."

"Oh." John was fairly certain that was a compliment. "I didn't know. That...that I had that effect on you."

"Of course you do!" Sherlock looked surprised, then faintly worried. "Have I never mentioned?"

"Not...in so many words. I mean, you never--we never--"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Physical reactions are fleeting. You arouse me mentally, John, and that's what's important." He looked thoughtful. "Most unintelligent minds are so boring. That's what makes you amazing. Take Anderson. His brain is like mud, slows me down when he's around. You, on the other hand, have a brain like running water. You speed me up, make everything easier. I want to lick your brain."

Sherlock Holmes had a distressing tendency to say things that could be taken either at a rather sweet metaphorical level, or at an alarming literal level. The way Sherlock was eyeing his forehead wasn't helping. John decided to be sure. "You do mean figuratively?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose. "What a grotesque thought, John."

"I'm never absolutely certain with you."

"Anyway," said Sherlock impatiently, "My point is that somehow I find it intellectually stimulating to be around you, despite your relative dimness. Sometimes that translates into physical stimulation as well. That's only natural," he pointed out.

John nodded downward. "For a fleeting physical reaction, yours is lasting a while."

Sherlock frowned and shifted his hips in a way that made John's mouth go dry. "It is. It will go away on its own eventually, or I suppose I can masturbate. Tedious," he sighed.

"Would it be less tedious if I, uh, helped out?"

Sherlock turned a look of luminous surprise on him. "I wouldn't want to bother you."

"Bother m--Sherlock, that's not...it wouldn't be a bother."

"Are you sure? I get immense satisfaction from observing your responses, but I can't imagine you'd enjoy it in the same way."

John felt a wave of exasperated tenderness roll over him at Sherlock's concerned look. "We ordinary minds have our own ways of enjoying it," he said.

He reached out and slipped a hand under the waistband of Sherlock's pajama bottoms, pausing to look at Sherlock's face. Sherlock didn't seem annoyed--or, God forbid, bored--so he reached further until he encountered curling hair, and then hotter, silkier skin. He ran his knuckles along Sherlock's cock and Sherlock made a pleased sound that was somewhere between a growl and a purr and did odd things to the pit of John's stomach. Wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's erection, he began to very slowly move his hand.

Sherlock put his hands beneath his head and watched John's face with rapt intensity.

"Could you--could you not stare at me while I'm doing this?" John muttered. "You're supposed to be enjoying yourself."

Sherlock frowned. "Do I not seem to be enjoying myself?" he asked, nodding downward. "You're certainly getting the desired physical responses."

"Yes, but...well, usually people are a little more...you know." Sherlock waited for him to finish the sentence. "You know, involved."

"'Involved'?"

"Most people don't carry on cogent discussions while getting a hand job," John said with some exasperation.

"Oh, you mean the theatrics," Sherlock said. "The 'Oh John, the manly pressure of your hand is driving me wild!'" He threw back his head and half-closed his eyes in rapture. "John, oh, yes, how I've yearned for this!"

John grimaced. "All right, you've made your point--"

Sherlock moaned lasciviously over his voice. "My angel, my dearest, I'm mad with desire for you, the way your strong grip encloses my--"

"--Sherlock, that's enough, you're right, you can go back to being clinical, it's far less creepy."

Sherlock opened his eyes again, the ecstatic look dropping away as if it had never been there. "I'm not generally one for theatrics, John." He frowned at John's expression. "It feels very good and I'm enjoying it! What more do you want?"

John sighed. "I don't know, Sherlock." He realized he had sped up and forced himself to slow down again. "So what feels best? What would you like?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, "No, no. It's the unexpectedness that's pleasurable. When I do it myself I always know what's about to happen, it's rather dull. Your ineptitude at guessing my needs is--"

"--Ineptitude?" John pulled his hand away.

Sherlock grabbed it out of the air. "John! I said that's the appeal. It's thrilling, not knowing for sure. Of course I can guess much of what you're going to do, but not all of it, and--" He broke off and bit his lip. "Please don't stop."

Grumbling slightly under his breath, John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's cock once more. "Thrilling?" he said.

"Oh yes," Sherlock said. "The physical build up without knowing the precise moment is quite engrossing. It's--um. It's such a complex process," he continued, clinical and cool, as if unaware that for an instant his voice had hitched and his eyes gone faraway. "When I was younger I disliked the way the body could override the mind, but I've learned how to keep thinking through the physical paroxysm and so it doesn't seem such a--oh. Such a waste."

John Watson was quickly discovering that the moments where Sherlock's breath caught and his eyes turned inward for just a flicker were infinitely more arousing than any manufactured moaning and groaning. "You can keep thinking rationally all the way through an orgasm? What do you think about?"

"Oh, whatever case I'm currently working on, mostly. Sometimes the moment of climax actually is like a spark that helps me put formerly disconn--disconn--" A couple of quick breaths, "--nected ideas together." Sherlock frowned slightly. "But that's easier when I'm doing it myself. I'm finding the random stimmm..." His voice lowered into a wordless hum for a moment. "Stimuli. I'm finding the random stimuli distracting."

"I can stop." John flexed his fingers as if to unwrap them and Sherlock's eyes flew open wide.

"No! No, that's fine," Sherlock said.

John picked up the pace a little, tightening his grip. "So," he said, keeping his voice as level as possible considering how Sherlock's face looked while flushed and with the pulse going fast in his throat. "What are you thinking about right now, then?"

"Well, besides monitoring my general state of arousal--"

"--Which is pretty high--"

"--Which is--yes--is pretty high--" Sherlock agreed breathlessly, "I'm thinking about phleboliths. Calicifications in the veins. They increase with age, so their presence in a cadaver would--" He broke off and put his hand to his mouth, biting the side of his palm, long fingers splayed and trembling. "Would--"

John waited until it was clear he wasn't going to finish the sentence. "And what are you thinking about now?" he prompted.

Sherlock started to say something, but his voice broke off into a gasp as he came, the word lost forever in a rush of surprised random sound.

However, John was fairly certain that whatever it had been, it had started with a "J."

Sherlock lay against the pillow for a long moment, taking deep breaths as John gathered up some tissues and cleaned him up. "Mmm," he murmured, blurry and satisfied, stretching against John's touch. Then his eyes snapped open and he propped himself up on his elbows. "John! Did you get a good look at my toes?"

"What? I--no, I wasn't thinking about your toes, Sherlock."

Sherlock fell backwards onto the pillow with an annoyed sigh. "You waste so many opportunities." Then he glanced over at John and the corners of his mouth lifted. "But speaking of opportunities..." He reached out with delicate fingers and it was John's turn to take some deep breaths. "Your recuperative powers are a constant joy to me, John." Then Sherlock pulled his hand back, his eyes kindling. "I'm going to go get the recording equipment!" He vaulted out of the bed and disappeared in a flourish of purple silk; John heard his bare feet pounding down the stairs. His voice drifted back up to the second floor: "Don't get too far ahead!"

John leaned back on the pillows and contemplated the sacrifices he was willing to make for scientific progress.