fic: Riding the Storm Out
Title: Riding the Storm Out
Author: Fanbot
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: A storm gets to the soldier in John.
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash
Words: 840
No spoilers
The cottage was small, but sound. It had all of four rooms: a sitting room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom with a double bed. Upon seeing the one bed John Watson shrugged. “It’s not like you ever sleep when on a case anyway, Sherlock.”
Sherlock just huffed, hung his coat up behind the door, and opened up his laptop. While he made calls and studied maps of the area, John poked around the quaint cottage and stepped outside to look at the ocean view. He watched high dark clouds blowing in on the horizon and kicked his feet in the sand.
“A storm is blowing up,” he said when he came in.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve studied the scene and McCreedy will not do anything until tomorrow evening. We wait.”
John put together a humble dinner from what he found in the cabinets, even coaxing Sherlock to eat a bowl full of soup. He enjoyed the quiet evening without television or city noise. He caught up on his blogging and found a spy thriller on a shelf to read until he started to nod off.
Sherlock paced or flung himself on the couch to stare at the slowly turning ceiling fan. John ignored him.
The storm hit the coast an hour after John went to sleep. It growled into his dreams until a boom shook the walls. John sat up on bed, panting and sweating as he had not in months. Thunder shook the building again and John gripped the sheets. The wind ran in from the ocean and threw water a the windows with a rattle. He gritted his teeth, but could not keep himself from crying out at the next rolling of sound.
It wasn’t the war. It wasn’t the battlefield, he knew that. But the urge to run away which he had been trained to suppress rose up at times. When the bombs fell, there was not a man who sometimes wanted to run and rile at the wreckage.
Sherlock appeared in the doorway, a slim figure silhouetted by the reading lamp in the other room. “John,” was all Sherlock said in his deep voice. John was not sure if Sherlock was questioning or comforting.
Another wave of thunder broke, accompanied by a flash that threw Sherlock’s worried expression into sharp relief. John flung himself from the sweat-soaked sheets and paced much as his friend had earlier. Sherlock moved out of his way.
Flash and pace, flash and pace, like a trapped animal until Sherlock spoke again. “John. I’m here.”
It was a life line and John took it. He wheeled on Holmes and, taking his face in his hands, drew his head down and kissed him. It was a plea for action, a need to feel alive.
Sherlock hesitated for a flash and roll of the storm, his hands half-raised, before grasping John’s upper arms and returning the kiss with an almost bruising force.
John growled hungrily. With a military-trained move, John turned them and dropped Sherlock back onto the bed. Sherlock could have stopped him, and he knew John was aware of this. Between fevered kisses, clothing was impatiently twisted off and thrown aside.
“No penetration,” was all Sherlock said, and John nodded in agreement.
The two men became a tangled storm of their own. They were lost in the slip of sweat-slick skin, the gasps of breath, the excitement of new touch. Neither measured the time as they rolled together, almost fighting, as the storm shook the cottage as if they were dice trapped in a cup.
The lightning revealed glimpses of the two men. Sherlock’s head thrown back, his long neck a column of sinew and abandonment. John’s lips pulled back as he worried Sherlock’s shoulder with his teeth. Sherlock’s long fingered hand as it closed about John’s cock. John’s feet shoving into the sheets to push, get closer. Sherlock’s back as he arched and shivered.
An unknown time later, John’s breathing finally steadied. He lay face down, half flung over Sherlock’s equally calming body. They were awash in sweat and semen. John felt as if the storm had rolled them in the shallows and tossed them up on shore, covered in salt.
He levered himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from Sherlock. The storm threw a last grumble at having to go and silenced itself.
John drew a breath to speak, but stopped when Sherlock laid a warm hand, gentle on his back. “You can shower first, John.”
John knew his flat mate and sighed in agreement and relief. That one touch had said everything. “We’re good. Don’t worry. It was what you needed, and perhaps I did to. Hurry and clean up so I can.”
John returned to find clean sheets on the bed and Sherlock in his dressing gown on the couch, hands steepled before him. “Good night, Sherlock.”
“Humm,” was the only reply.
John slept very soundly the rest of the night.
++
Please leave a comment. Whoever you read. whatever you read. If we do not know you are reading, we may stop writing.
Author: Fanbot
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: A storm gets to the soldier in John.
Rating: R
Warnings: Slash
Words: 840
No spoilers
The cottage was small, but sound. It had all of four rooms: a sitting room, a tiny kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom with a double bed. Upon seeing the one bed John Watson shrugged. “It’s not like you ever sleep when on a case anyway, Sherlock.”
Sherlock just huffed, hung his coat up behind the door, and opened up his laptop. While he made calls and studied maps of the area, John poked around the quaint cottage and stepped outside to look at the ocean view. He watched high dark clouds blowing in on the horizon and kicked his feet in the sand.
“A storm is blowing up,” he said when he came in.
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve studied the scene and McCreedy will not do anything until tomorrow evening. We wait.”
John put together a humble dinner from what he found in the cabinets, even coaxing Sherlock to eat a bowl full of soup. He enjoyed the quiet evening without television or city noise. He caught up on his blogging and found a spy thriller on a shelf to read until he started to nod off.
Sherlock paced or flung himself on the couch to stare at the slowly turning ceiling fan. John ignored him.
The storm hit the coast an hour after John went to sleep. It growled into his dreams until a boom shook the walls. John sat up on bed, panting and sweating as he had not in months. Thunder shook the building again and John gripped the sheets. The wind ran in from the ocean and threw water a the windows with a rattle. He gritted his teeth, but could not keep himself from crying out at the next rolling of sound.
It wasn’t the war. It wasn’t the battlefield, he knew that. But the urge to run away which he had been trained to suppress rose up at times. When the bombs fell, there was not a man who sometimes wanted to run and rile at the wreckage.
Sherlock appeared in the doorway, a slim figure silhouetted by the reading lamp in the other room. “John,” was all Sherlock said in his deep voice. John was not sure if Sherlock was questioning or comforting.
Another wave of thunder broke, accompanied by a flash that threw Sherlock’s worried expression into sharp relief. John flung himself from the sweat-soaked sheets and paced much as his friend had earlier. Sherlock moved out of his way.
Flash and pace, flash and pace, like a trapped animal until Sherlock spoke again. “John. I’m here.”
It was a life line and John took it. He wheeled on Holmes and, taking his face in his hands, drew his head down and kissed him. It was a plea for action, a need to feel alive.
Sherlock hesitated for a flash and roll of the storm, his hands half-raised, before grasping John’s upper arms and returning the kiss with an almost bruising force.
John growled hungrily. With a military-trained move, John turned them and dropped Sherlock back onto the bed. Sherlock could have stopped him, and he knew John was aware of this. Between fevered kisses, clothing was impatiently twisted off and thrown aside.
“No penetration,” was all Sherlock said, and John nodded in agreement.
The two men became a tangled storm of their own. They were lost in the slip of sweat-slick skin, the gasps of breath, the excitement of new touch. Neither measured the time as they rolled together, almost fighting, as the storm shook the cottage as if they were dice trapped in a cup.
The lightning revealed glimpses of the two men. Sherlock’s head thrown back, his long neck a column of sinew and abandonment. John’s lips pulled back as he worried Sherlock’s shoulder with his teeth. Sherlock’s long fingered hand as it closed about John’s cock. John’s feet shoving into the sheets to push, get closer. Sherlock’s back as he arched and shivered.
An unknown time later, John’s breathing finally steadied. He lay face down, half flung over Sherlock’s equally calming body. They were awash in sweat and semen. John felt as if the storm had rolled them in the shallows and tossed them up on shore, covered in salt.
He levered himself up and sat on the edge of the bed, facing away from Sherlock. The storm threw a last grumble at having to go and silenced itself.
John drew a breath to speak, but stopped when Sherlock laid a warm hand, gentle on his back. “You can shower first, John.”
John knew his flat mate and sighed in agreement and relief. That one touch had said everything. “We’re good. Don’t worry. It was what you needed, and perhaps I did to. Hurry and clean up so I can.”
John returned to find clean sheets on the bed and Sherlock in his dressing gown on the couch, hands steepled before him. “Good night, Sherlock.”
“Humm,” was the only reply.
John slept very soundly the rest of the night.
++
Please leave a comment. Whoever you read. whatever you read. If we do not know you are reading, we may stop writing.