Sherlock - fic - Spices and Chocolate, Sherlock/John, past John/OFC, NC-17
Title - Spices and Chocolate
Author - laurab1
Pairings - Sherlock/John, past John/OFC
Rating - NC-17 aka 18
Warnings - minor kink, slight D/s themes
Length - ~1,100 words
Spoilers - general series, S1 and S2
Summary - John makes an addition to the 221B Baker Street collection of massage oils.
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are entirely mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. However, Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
Follows Trapezius, Scapula and Aromatherapy
Spices and Chocolate
by Laura
The bottles of oil end up in the bathroom.
The lavender and frankincense occasionally, when his nightmares are particularly traumatic, ends up on John’s chest, applied by his own hand. If they’ve woken him up, it sends him back to sleep, and keeps them at bay. A couple of weeks after he’d first seen it, Sherlock had just left the bottle by John’s place at the breakfast table one Sunday morning, with a scrap of paper underneath it, which read, in his friend’s scrawl:
It does actually help to calm the mind. If it works for me, then I’m sure it will also work for you.
He had smiled, rolled his eyes, and put the kettle on. Sherlock wasn’t at home, so once he’d eaten, because he hadn’t slept at all well, John had stripped off his shirt and jumper, made his way to the sofa, pumped some oil into his right hand, and as instructed on the bottle, carefully massaged it into the left side of his chest, over his heart. He’d dozed off, and woken to find Sherlock’s coat draped over him.
The man himself had been in his armchair, tapping away at his laptop. “John,” he’d greeted. “Sleep well?”
“Yes. Thank you,” John had replied, feeling much better than when he’d first woken up. He’d laid Sherlock’s coat over the back of the sofa, put his shirt and jumper back on. “Case?”
“Double murder.” Sherlock had grinned far more widely than was really appropriate.
“Right, then. What do we know, and how much did the police miss?”
***
While the lavender and frankincense oil usually helps John, there’s one morning when Sherlock observes that it had made no difference. As he moves around the kitchen, making tea, John is favouring both his shoulder and his leg, and his facial expression says he might even have been crying. A distraction is needed, then.
“John,” Sherlock says, standing in the kitchen, “I wonder if I might try massaging your shoulder scar. A friction massage is said to help break down adhesions in such tissue.”
“And ‘adhesions in the mind’?” John mutters.
What can he say to that? “Possibly,” Sherlock eventually opts for. It’s probably a lie.
While the kettle boils, John is silent, presumably thinking about it, then he nods. “Why not? Tea, first, though.”
***
Later, when John is on his bed, and Sherlock is rubbing the scar against bone, John’s voice is a little panicked, as he suddenly says, “Blackcurrant.”
What? Why did he say that? Ah, yes. Sherlock understands, and withdraws his hands, moves away from the bed. While he lets John calm down, and breathe, friction massage and tapotement are both relegated to the depths of his mind palace. He will not be giving either of them to John ever again.
“I know you were only trying to help, Sherlock, and I did agree to try that massage. In the end, though, it just felt too clinical,” John says, after a few minutes of silence.
“And you were back in the hospital you were sent home to.”
“Yes. Let’s leave that particular move out, shall we?”
“Of course, John.”
Although he’s been forgiven, Sherlock still feels off balance, and even a little guilty. Out. He knows he ought to stay here, with John, for a while longer, but he needs to get out of the flat.
“Homeless network,” he more or less blurts, and then makes his escape.
***
He safeworded out of a massage. That’s the only way to describe it. The friction was helping, initially. Then it wasn’t, and he wanted Sherlock’s hands off him, away from his body. There wasn’t even the thought of whether Sherlock would understand, only the thought of the word. But he had understood, and reacted appropriately.
Sherlock’s out, apparently checking on his homeless network, and as he also needs something to think about, John is dressed, and online, investigating what else www.naturallythinking.com has to offer. He reads all details for each of the massage oils, and understands why Sherlock chose the ones he did. Some of them were too clinical, and they hardly needed something which more or less provided a shot of adrenaline, did they? So, arnica and the Tranquility oil it had to be, then.
But there’s also Sensuality.
Valentine’s Day is mentioned, and John remembers buying a bottle of Love Potion from Boots, one year. Bright red, of course, and he’d also bought an eye mask, and a jar of chocolate body paint. Being a doctor, he knew where and how to press, to rub. (And it had been so much easier to rub so much harder, back then.) Louisa had known exactly what had hit her, so, as soon as John had finished the sensual massage with the oil, she’d pounced on him. He had grinned as he’d pushed inside her, and about five minutes later, Louisa had come, with John soon following her. Then she’d slipped the eye mask over his head, covered his front with the chocolate body paint, and licked it off again. All in all, a very good memory.
John knows how he felt when Sherlock stroked two long fingers down the length of his spine, the first time he gave him a massage with the arnica oil: shivering pleasurably, he’d wished his friend had applied just a little more pressure. That’s as far as he’s got, though. But if Sherlock suspected his action wasn’t likely to be rejected, then how much else has he deduced? Maybe nothing.
But as there is apparently something other than friendship between the two of them, John decides to make a move himself, and buys the bottle of Sensuality oil. There’s little point in repeating what Sherlock did, when the other bottles arrived, and hiding them in his room. Therefore, John plans to put this new bottle straight in the bathroom, and wait for Sherlock’s response.
***
Four weeks after the bottle of Sensuality oil arrived, there’s a morning when John is replacing the Tranquility oil in the bathroom (it had helped, this time), and discovers that the new oil isn’t there. He then discovers that Sherlock has a hand around John’s left wrist. A slicked hand. Which smells of spices and chocolate.
“Are these substances actually aphrodisiacs, doctor?” he asks, voice low, very slowly dragging a finger on his other hand under John’s nose.
“Oh, God, yes,” John replies, closing his eyes, breathing in the scents. “Do you want to see just how effective they are?”
***
He’s taking his hands from John, moving them, turning him. And then there’s a hand around the back of his neck, and he’s being pulled down. What for? Oh, a soft kiss, against his mouth. A little pressure, then John is easing away, a smile on his lips.
“I rather got the impression that there would be slightly more response,” Sherlock says, smirking.
“We’ll get there, don’t worry. Your bed this time, I think, don’t you?”
-end-
Author - laurab1
Pairings - Sherlock/John, past John/OFC
Rating - NC-17 aka 18
Warnings - minor kink, slight D/s themes
Length - ~1,100 words
Spoilers - general series, S1 and S2
Summary - John makes an addition to the 221B Baker Street collection of massage oils.
Disclaimer - Alas, none of these people are entirely mine. This version of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC et al. However, Sherlock Holmes as created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is in the public domain.
Feedback is loved and appreciated :) Enjoy!
Follows Trapezius, Scapula and Aromatherapy
Spices and Chocolate
by Laura
The bottles of oil end up in the bathroom.
The lavender and frankincense occasionally, when his nightmares are particularly traumatic, ends up on John’s chest, applied by his own hand. If they’ve woken him up, it sends him back to sleep, and keeps them at bay. A couple of weeks after he’d first seen it, Sherlock had just left the bottle by John’s place at the breakfast table one Sunday morning, with a scrap of paper underneath it, which read, in his friend’s scrawl:
It does actually help to calm the mind. If it works for me, then I’m sure it will also work for you.
He had smiled, rolled his eyes, and put the kettle on. Sherlock wasn’t at home, so once he’d eaten, because he hadn’t slept at all well, John had stripped off his shirt and jumper, made his way to the sofa, pumped some oil into his right hand, and as instructed on the bottle, carefully massaged it into the left side of his chest, over his heart. He’d dozed off, and woken to find Sherlock’s coat draped over him.
The man himself had been in his armchair, tapping away at his laptop. “John,” he’d greeted. “Sleep well?”
“Yes. Thank you,” John had replied, feeling much better than when he’d first woken up. He’d laid Sherlock’s coat over the back of the sofa, put his shirt and jumper back on. “Case?”
“Double murder.” Sherlock had grinned far more widely than was really appropriate.
“Right, then. What do we know, and how much did the police miss?”
***
While the lavender and frankincense oil usually helps John, there’s one morning when Sherlock observes that it had made no difference. As he moves around the kitchen, making tea, John is favouring both his shoulder and his leg, and his facial expression says he might even have been crying. A distraction is needed, then.
“John,” Sherlock says, standing in the kitchen, “I wonder if I might try massaging your shoulder scar. A friction massage is said to help break down adhesions in such tissue.”
“And ‘adhesions in the mind’?” John mutters.
What can he say to that? “Possibly,” Sherlock eventually opts for. It’s probably a lie.
While the kettle boils, John is silent, presumably thinking about it, then he nods. “Why not? Tea, first, though.”
***
Later, when John is on his bed, and Sherlock is rubbing the scar against bone, John’s voice is a little panicked, as he suddenly says, “Blackcurrant.”
What? Why did he say that? Ah, yes. Sherlock understands, and withdraws his hands, moves away from the bed. While he lets John calm down, and breathe, friction massage and tapotement are both relegated to the depths of his mind palace. He will not be giving either of them to John ever again.
“I know you were only trying to help, Sherlock, and I did agree to try that massage. In the end, though, it just felt too clinical,” John says, after a few minutes of silence.
“And you were back in the hospital you were sent home to.”
“Yes. Let’s leave that particular move out, shall we?”
“Of course, John.”
Although he’s been forgiven, Sherlock still feels off balance, and even a little guilty. Out. He knows he ought to stay here, with John, for a while longer, but he needs to get out of the flat.
“Homeless network,” he more or less blurts, and then makes his escape.
***
He safeworded out of a massage. That’s the only way to describe it. The friction was helping, initially. Then it wasn’t, and he wanted Sherlock’s hands off him, away from his body. There wasn’t even the thought of whether Sherlock would understand, only the thought of the word. But he had understood, and reacted appropriately.
Sherlock’s out, apparently checking on his homeless network, and as he also needs something to think about, John is dressed, and online, investigating what else www.naturallythinking.com has to offer. He reads all details for each of the massage oils, and understands why Sherlock chose the ones he did. Some of them were too clinical, and they hardly needed something which more or less provided a shot of adrenaline, did they? So, arnica and the Tranquility oil it had to be, then.
But there’s also Sensuality.
Valentine’s Day is mentioned, and John remembers buying a bottle of Love Potion from Boots, one year. Bright red, of course, and he’d also bought an eye mask, and a jar of chocolate body paint. Being a doctor, he knew where and how to press, to rub. (And it had been so much easier to rub so much harder, back then.) Louisa had known exactly what had hit her, so, as soon as John had finished the sensual massage with the oil, she’d pounced on him. He had grinned as he’d pushed inside her, and about five minutes later, Louisa had come, with John soon following her. Then she’d slipped the eye mask over his head, covered his front with the chocolate body paint, and licked it off again. All in all, a very good memory.
John knows how he felt when Sherlock stroked two long fingers down the length of his spine, the first time he gave him a massage with the arnica oil: shivering pleasurably, he’d wished his friend had applied just a little more pressure. That’s as far as he’s got, though. But if Sherlock suspected his action wasn’t likely to be rejected, then how much else has he deduced? Maybe nothing.
But as there is apparently something other than friendship between the two of them, John decides to make a move himself, and buys the bottle of Sensuality oil. There’s little point in repeating what Sherlock did, when the other bottles arrived, and hiding them in his room. Therefore, John plans to put this new bottle straight in the bathroom, and wait for Sherlock’s response.
***
Four weeks after the bottle of Sensuality oil arrived, there’s a morning when John is replacing the Tranquility oil in the bathroom (it had helped, this time), and discovers that the new oil isn’t there. He then discovers that Sherlock has a hand around John’s left wrist. A slicked hand. Which smells of spices and chocolate.
“Are these substances actually aphrodisiacs, doctor?” he asks, voice low, very slowly dragging a finger on his other hand under John’s nose.
“Oh, God, yes,” John replies, closing his eyes, breathing in the scents. “Do you want to see just how effective they are?”
***
He’s taking his hands from John, moving them, turning him. And then there’s a hand around the back of his neck, and he’s being pulled down. What for? Oh, a soft kiss, against his mouth. A little pressure, then John is easing away, a smile on his lips.
“I rather got the impression that there would be slightly more response,” Sherlock says, smirking.
“We’ll get there, don’t worry. Your bed this time, I think, don’t you?”
-end-