(no subject)
It wasn't a hard decision. After seeing John undressed, Sherlock's distraction with his skin had gone away just as surely as he predicted. After his intervention about Sarah, his annoying jealousy of her had vanished. It stood to reason that this new obsession with sex would go away as soon as he'd indulged it.
It was a simple enough problem to solve, when Sherlock came down to it. One night, one more session of hypnosis, and everything would be normal again.
It was the perfect solution. There would be no awkward romantic strings attached and none of the bother of persuading John to go along with it. It would be like a thought experiment, and once he was done, the slate could be wiped clean and John would wake up none-the-wiser. Sherlock could test just how far things needed to go, on his terms, and still preserve his current relationship with John. It was bloody brilliant.
Sherlock paced the floor of the living room, round and round the coffee table. He hadn't heard John's footsteps upstairs for an hour. He considered playing the violin but he didn't want to risk waking him. Sleep, he willed. Sleep while I think this over.
It was just rubbing body parts together. Why make such a big deal of it? A mere biological function, hardly worth the amount of thought and energy normal people devoted to it. Why couldn't people relieve the itch and have it done without dragging all these relationship expectations into it? Why did it have to be so complicated?
John was already so much a part of Sherlock's life, it seemed preposterous to think that, if not for the fear of wrecking what they had, he wouldn't agree to it. If he could easily forgive that girl for injuring him, why wouldn't he forgive Sherlock for giving him a bit of pleasure?
It was the rational decision. It was the necessary decision. The question was not whether Sherlock should do this. It was why was he hesitating?
John kept lubricant and condoms in his dresser drawer. For Sarah, probably, for the day he overcame Sherlock's block. There were tissues to clean the inevitable mess. There shouldn't be any marks or bruises, Sherlock wasn't planning anything kinky. He didn't think penetration was necessary.
Yes. Let's do this, he thought. Sooner the better.
Two hours since John stopped moving. Time.
Steeling himself, he padded up the stairs to John's room. The door opened silently. John's breathing was slow and deep. Sherlock moved quickly to the head of the bed. He'd done this enough times that his movements were sure and swift. John didn't even rouse before his thumbs found the spots on his neck.
"John," whispered Sherlock. "Please wake up."
"Yes?" For a second Sherlock worried that the hypnosis hadn't worked this time. But John's breathing was as slow as before. He wasn't really roused.
"Undress for me."
While John sat up and removed his pyjama top, Sherlock turned the light on in the room. Turning back he saw John stand to pull the bottoms down. He felt a sudden rush of endorphins at the sight. He'd never seen John fully stripped before. The bits of newly bared skin made Sherlock's flesh tingle in excitement. John's penis, though limp, was respectably long. He wasn't cut and the foreskin dangled like an empty sleeve past the rise of his balls.
Sherlock bit his lip and squelched an unmanly whimper.
Undressed John stood straight and watched him, the expression on his face was mild, as though he weren't at all bothered by what was going on.
"You are amazing," Sherlock said. His groin itched and tingled in a terribly pleasant way. His heart sped up from its customary 55 to a racing 90 beats per minute. The excitement he felt in his chest was not unlike that of starting a new case, except for the way his brain seemed to have grown quiet and focused on sensory input.
"Come here," said Sherlock after drinking in the sight of him for the better part of a minute. "We'll start with kissing."
"Kissing?" asked John.
"Yes. Would you like to kiss me?"
"Yes," John was smiling. "Very much want to kiss you." But then he frowned. "You don't want to kiss me. I shouldn't."
"Of course, I want to kiss you," said Sherlock.
And that was apparently enough to break through John's inhibitions. He walked over, no more clumsily than normal, until he was pressed against Sherlock's chest. His arms fitted around Sherlock in a way that instantly felt right and natural. One hand reached up and pulled his neck to make him bend, and Sherlock belatedly realized that his participation was necessary in this. He leaned down and John took his mouth.
He'd been prepared for it to be warm and a bit wet. He vaguely remembered from years ago that there would be pressure, both suction and simply the press of their heads together. What he hadn't remembered, what he hadn't expected was that the kiss would make his nipples harden and tingle. That it would make his cock go from hard to rock hard. Suddenly the touch of his own clothes was far too distracting and uncomfortable to bear.
Sherlock broke off the kiss with a deep throated sigh, then stepped back to undress as quickly as he could. John simply stood, passively watching, a smile of pleasure on his face. Sherlock just finished with the buttons of his shirt when he realized that John had gone from flaccid to hard himself. His penis lengthened about another inch, drawing the foreskin back so that the tip peaked out. The lack of prominent veins and the drooping angle suggested that John still had some growing to go. Oh, yes.
He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and giving John's member a careful, tentative pull. John looked down as if vaguely surprised that he had a cock at all, then sighed. Input flooded Sherlock's senses. The skin seemed softer than Sherlock's own, perhaps because there was no feedback from the erection itself interfering with signals coming through his fingers. It was warm and the erection felt heavy. It filled out more as Sherlock held and squeezed it. Ah, there were the veins, the head had now fully emerged from it's cowl, deep red and slightly moist.
Sherlock licked his lips. His mouth flooded with saliva. His own cock began to protest the chafing confinement. It was astonishing how quickly he shed the rest of his clothes.
John was watching him, his eyes huge, mouth slightly open. "You may touch me," said Sherlock. "Anywhere you like."
John stepped forward again and carefully touched his cock, giving it the same treatment he'd given John's moments before. It felt unbelievably good. It felt cathartically good. Sherlock took John's cock and, forgetting lube, condoms and tissues, he began to wank the man. John mirrored his movements. And in a way it wasn't dissimilar to masturbation, but in a way it was nothing remotely like it at all.
John, pupils huge, gasped with pleasure and murmured, "Faster. Faster, please. Harder."
Sherlock rubbed faster, held harder, felt the loose skin slip along the rigid meat beneath. John's foreskin slid forward and back and his cock continually leaked slippery clear precum. He was doing much the same. It wasn't all pleasure, there was a roughness to this, but the pleasure far and away overran the pain. Part of Sherlock thought to stop it, to go get the lube, do it properly, but he literally couldn't do it. It was as if all his willpower were tied to the yanking on his cock, and the need for one more pull of that hot, calloused hand was far bigger than any worries his reason had about consequences.
"Going to come," murmured John. "Going to come now."
And he did. Sherlock jumped a bit, startled by the heat and sudden wetness that splashed his hand and belly. John didn't even slow down in jacking Sherlock, even after Sherlock had dropped his cock to stare at his suddenly soiled hand. Shock slowed his own orgasm down by a minute, but then he was able to concentrate on John's hand, and swiftly pleasure overrode all his thoughts.
Seconds later it was over. John's come dripped slowly through his pubes, his own was splashed liberally over John's belly and chest. He stood a moment, feeling despoiled and empty and amazing and grossed out. He had the urge to rub his sticky hand on John's arm and felt mildly disgusted with how quickly the experiment had ended.
He had hardly had a chance to touch John at all. He hadn't licked his chest, or sucked his nipples, the way his fantasies had urged him to. He hadn't even touched John's arse. And yet, now Sherlock felt completely sated for sex, and the idea of licking or molesting him any further seemed more silly than enticing.
If only he'd been able to hold off a bit longer and done all the things he'd longed to! Would this really be enough to fill his curiosity?
Only time would tell. If not, he'd have to repeat this.
That wasn't as awful an idea as Sherlock thought it would be.
Finally noticing the mess John was in, it was obvious he couldn't have the man simply put on his pajamas and go back to bed. He told John to take a shower instead, while he washed himself as thoroughly as he could in the sink. Sherlock had a moment of fear that the spray of water would wake John from hypnosis, but it didn't. When John emerged, pink skinned from the water, he was just as placid and happy as before.
Sherlock helped John dry himself. Not because he needed to, but because it felt somehow right to do so. "Job well done," he found himself saying. John's smile grew happier. They kissed again, more chastely this time. And that felt right as well.
From then it was no difficulty getting John back in his clothes and in bed, sending him back to sleep with orders not to wake before eight.
Sherlock himself took considerably longer to get to sleep, but when he did, it was deep, comfortable, and restful. He didn't wake until John was long gone, breakfast dishes drying next to the sink. Just like a typical Tuesday.
No harm, thought Sherlock. No foul.
"I'm home," John called as he entered the flat that afternoon. "Went by Tesco and got us some liverwurst. Would you like me to make you a sandwich?" There wasn't even a hint that he remembered what had happened the night before. Sherlock felt a wave of relief.
John placed the sack on the counter. "You could start us some tea, if you would."
Sherlock slid around him to grab the electric kettle and was surprised when he turned back to find John's face in his. A moment later, John's lips brushed his in a quick, nearly chaste peck.
They both startled back.
"Oh, God," said John, flushing an alarming color. "I'm so sorry, I have no idea where that came from. I must have mistaken you for Sarah, I guess. Oh, god." His hand covered his mouth.
"It's fine," said Sherlock, recovering.
"I'm so embarrassed. I really… oh, God."
"It's completely fine," Sherlock repeated. "You can kiss me all you like. It's fine by me. I kiss Mrs. Hudson all the time."
"Oh the cheek!" protested John. "It's not the same."
"Oh really," said Sherlock suddenly feeling peevish. "So you kissed me. A man. Was it really so awful? You've already confessed your love to me. Why should this be so terrible."
"It's not that…"
"It's alright," repeated Sherlock. "We are good friends, good friends can kiss, if they feel like, deliberately or by accident, and it doesn't mean anything."
John suddenly seemed relieved. "Yes. Like the French."
"Absolutely," lied Sherlock. "Close enough. Now you were going to make me a liverwurst sandwich."
John eagerly set to it. While his back was turned, Sherlock stared and pondered.
That had been a consequence. He was certain of it.
Two nights in a row. That was pretty short order for hypnosis. Sherlock was annoyed at himself for not holding out longer.
But he couldn't sleep, the case was done and there were nothing more on the docket and he could think nothing but what he wanted to do to John's body next. If he waited any longer, he'd end up doing something inappropriate when John was awake, he was sure of it. Especially after that kiss.
John went under as predictably as ever. This time Sherlock had the willpower to wait until they were both completely undressed and crowded onto John's bed before letting himself give in to the impulses that hammered at his brain.
They'd go slower this time. No quick wank and done. It was going to be a satisfying quest for knowledge. An intellectual, as well as physical, event. And when he was done, he could work on erasing his footsteps a bit better. No more of Mycroft's much fretted "consequences."
Sherlock began with cuddling. It felt strange letting John cuddle him. The man was good at it, running his hands softly over his skin. Teasing, comforting. Not really that erotic, but still somehow very pleasant. Which was odder still, since, up to now, he'd found cuddles frustrating and unsatisfying. The touches were always too hard, too ticklish, too random. It was annoying.
Not so with John. It was as if his body knew he'd found the right person to do this with. He trusted John. He was able to relax and simply let the experience happen without the need to anticipate and counter it.
After a while cuddling grew boring and he had John stop and lie still. It was his turn. Caressing John was far more satisfying than the other way around. Where being touched was pleasant, this was exciting. Finally he could learn the flavor of John's chest. It tasted mildly of sweat with a distant tang of soap. The neck had a slight lintiness in the folds. Satisfied, he began to catalogue the rest: The texture of John's body hair, the firmness of his skin. The feeling of John's nipples hardening under his tongue.
Sherlock's groin hardened quickly at the last. Something about the sensation of nipple on tongue went straight to his cock. His blood pooled, filled it stiff, sensitive, proud. The urge to rut against John's side was pleasantly unbearable.
Inspiration. He climbed on top of John, straddling him, feeling the warmth of his legs trapped under his buttocks. Sherlock grabbed both their cocks and held them together. Remembering the lube this time (there had been a bit of reddening from the previous wank, though apparently not so much that John had been alarmed), he slathered them both up and began working them together with his hands.
John's hand joined his and soon they were squirming, sliding, thrusting and flexing together, John's hand sliding over Sherlock's and then Sherlock's over John's. It was sloppy, and hot and oh so good. A feedback loop that shut out everything but itself. Sherlock, being the one in control of their pace, came first this time. He let his sensitized cock fall free and concentrated on wanking John to completion.
This time he got the pleasure of seeing John's expression as he came. His face screwed up as if he were in great pain or fear, and then as he released it went blissfully calm. John sighed out contentedly.
"I love you, Sherlock," he said softly.
Sherlock leaned over and kissed him.
They repeated the routine from the night before with showers, toweling, getting John dressed and in bed. Once there, Sherlock couldn't resist a last kiss to his forehead. John sighed contentedly again.
Perhaps, once Sherlock had learned enough, he'd dare risk this with John awake.
"Don't be ashamed to kiss me," said Sherlock impulsively. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about." He then ordered John to forget the encounter and sleep.
Oddly enough, John didn't kiss him the next day, despite the permission. In fact, John started avoiding him.
At first Sherlock didn't notice. Sated for company and between clients, Sherlock had fallen into a bored funk that he filled with reproducing blood spatters. His mind was clear and racing -- ready for the next challenge.
So if John stayed late at the clinic, it was really no bother. If he chose the next day to meet with Sarah for one of their dull attempts at dating, that was fine as well. Lancet particularly riveting this month? That just left the living room free for Sherlock's pacing.
John could be as unsocial as he wanted. Sherlock knew that he'd be there for him in the small hours of the night.
And he was.
One night was spent learning the art of blow jobs. It was a fantastic opportunity. John, in his mesmerized state, was completely compliant and infinitely patient, responding to verbal instructions and giving clear feedback. Sherlock's earlier lovers never really gave him the chance to figure things out properly. John gave him nothing but chances.
He had John bring him off first so that his mind could be clear. Then he spent the better part of an hour applying what he'd learned. John's voice broke as Sherlock went through each technique, but he never stopped telling Sherlock what felt good and what didn't. Curious, Sherlock finally lubed up a finger, and very gently inserted it in John, to catalogue how prostate massage effected his response to being sucked. The answer made itself extremely obvious when, with barely a warning, John came.
Interesting. "Was that good?"
"Very good."
"Scale of one to ten?"
"Fifteen," said John.
Sherlock laughed. It was so like the normal John to come up with a nonsensical number. Sometimes it was hard to remember that he was under hypnosis at all. It was unfortunate in a way, because Sherlock thought he might like to discuss this sometime when John was awake, but that was clearly impossible.
They were both so sweaty from all the exercise that Sherlock piled into the shower with John. When he finally put him to bed there was a scant two hours left to the night.
"I love you," said John just before he drifted off into his ordered sleep.
Sherlock kissed his brow. "I know."
It wasn't too much of a surprise that John came home from work yawning and in a foul mood. Sherlock was ready to offer him tea, but John jolted away when he approached, then mumbled something about a nap. Sherlock had to go out on an errand, and by the time he came back John had woken and left again.
That night Sherlock experimented with passive sodomy. It had been a long time since he'd done this, and in his memories it had been a lot more uncomfortable and less rewarding. With John, the pace was steady, the sensation heady. He was filled and fulfilled and everything just felt more intense.
"I'm going to come," he gasped out, when it became inevitable. "Come," he ordered. John arched his back with a groan and Sherlock came harder than he ever had in his life.
As he put John down to sleep and he whispered, "Next time we'll switch."
Though it had been over a week since thoughts of lust interfered with his day-time activities, it didn't occur to Sherlock to stop. He was starting to wonder if he couldn't just keep doing this forever.
But then fate stepped in.
The next day, John decided to see his sister, which wasn't wholly out of character. The two got along well enough for day or two before their personalities clashed too badly. Sherlock only worried when John decided to spend the night because he hadn't brought an overnight bag with him and it seemed rather impulsive.
Sherlock pushed away the thought and busied himself instead setting up a pin board with every unsolved crime in the last five years carefully marked off with color-coded strings. He then attempted to make some sort of sense out of the patterns that emerged. He remembered John when he discovered the refrigerator empty, but then forgot again when he got distracted at Tesco predicting which vegetables the patrons would choose to put in their cart.
That night, he paced John's empty room. Though they'd barely interacted outside of the bedroom in nearly two weeks, for the first time, he truly missed the man. His body had become used to their nightly sessions, but more than that, Sherlock missed hearing John's voice, missed having his comfortable presence around as a sounding board to his ideas. Missed everything about him.
Sherlock realized that John hadn't met his eye or engaged in conversation longer than eight words since the accidental kiss.
What had happened?
He tried texting John to clarify things, only to discover the daft man had left his phone in the pocket of his discarded trousers. Sherlock dug the phone out of the hamper and set it uselessly on the coffee table.
Another "consequence?" But Sherlock had been so specific with his orders. John shouldn't remember their encounters at all. Why would they affect him? And why like this?
Before he could find out, Mycroft called in his marker.
He entered the flat, with barely a nod and sat down in John's chair as if he owned it. Sherlock wished John were there so that he'd have an excuse to kick Mycroft out of it, but John was at the clinic this morning.
And perhaps it was best Mycroft not meet him. John had returned from Harry's in no better mood than he'd left. Mycroft would pick up on the silent treatment immediately and be full of difficult probing questions.
What's more, last night's active sodomy experiment had left John with a slightly stiffer gait than Sherlock had intended. Might as well give Mycroft a diagram of their activities.
"Remember," Mycroft said mildly handing over a file. "You promised. No complaints."
"My memory is fine," Sherlock bit out. "I know what I agreed to." He flipped it open. Not too surprisingly it was spy stuff. A missing operative in Belgium. It promised a lot of legwork in a new location, two things that made Sherlock's mind hum happily despite his inclination to be grouchy.
He looked up to see Mycroft beaming out his patented little smirk. Got you. It seemed to say.
"All good," said Sherlock closing the file. "I'll see if John can get a few days off -"
"I'm afraid not," Mycroft interrupted. The smirk was gone. "John doesn't have the clearance for this. You may not discuss the case, nor may he join you on it."
Sherlock bristled. "What do you mean, he has no clearance? Clear him. I need him."
"You don't need him," said Mycroft. "No - don't argue, I know that he has made things very convenient for you lately. A second pair of arms and legs. But you coped perfectly fine before he came around. You don't need him. And frankly, I think it would be healthier for both of you if you stopped smothering him and gave him a bit more space."
"More space? He's hardly been home for weeks, what with all his socializing and dating. If I gave him any more space, I wouldn't see him at all."
"Yes, about that -" Mycroft's eyes sharpened. He leaned forward in John's chair, his fingers steepled together like a disapproving headmaster about to make a point. "Why do you think that is, Sherlock? That he's been avoiding you?"
"I don't know." Sherlock folded himself tighter into his chair and looked away. He hated when Mycroft got self-righteous like this. Who was he to talk about "smothering" anyway?
"I think you do." Mycroft sat back. "When I taught you how to hypnotize a person, I did worry that you might abuse the power, perhaps to bully a witness. But I thought that good sense and ego would prevent it from going too far. If I had thought for one moment you might use it to rape your flatmate, I would never have shown you how."
Sherlock's face flushed and suddenly he was out of his chair, resisting with all his might the urge to throw a book at his brother.
"I'm not raping him."
"Really, all those two a.m. visits to his room were to … consult? A very physical consultation, I should say, judging by the need for showers afterward. It has to stop. Consider this case a chance for you to break yourself out of the habit."
"I'm not harming him," insisted Sherlock. "I've hurt him much worse with the cases we've been on. And it's not your business-" I need him. How else am I to stop these impulses? And I'm learning so much --. Sherlock suddenly remembered the excuses from their last case, how adamant the pedophile was that what he was doing was right and good. The parallel burned. "He loves me. I didn't plant that idea."
"It's not consensual," said Mycroft, softly. "Not with hypnosis. I know it might look like it, but it's not. He can't say no to you. He is acutely vulnerable."
Sherlock shook his head, denial of everything.
"I understand your fear of rejection, especially given your history with these things. Lord knows it was difficult being young and gay and socially awkward in the nineties. But you aren't 19 anymore. Times have changed. If you want to try having a sexual relationship again, far be it from me to stand in your way. But this can't continue."
"Get out," said Sherlock. Low and deadly.
Mycroft continued. Implacable. Unstoppable. "As you can see from John's behavior, there are consequences. Can't you see him attempting to run away from you to protect himself? He doesn't even know why he's doing it."
"Get out," said Sherlock repeated. Because either Mycroft was going to leave in the next few seconds or Sherlock was going to shut him up by shoving that umbrella down his throat. "Get out. You've said what you've needed, get out."
Mycroft nodded. "So I have." He stood up and walked to the door. "Oh, and Sherlock, I won't tell him. You're secret is safe with me. I do wish to see this resolved in a happy manner."
Unable to push Mycroft out the door fast enough, Sherlock turned and stalked to his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, unsure if the fury that burned him was for his brother or himself.
The case helped. It filled up all the corners of his life where John could have been. It soothed the raw spots with the pure cleansing Puritanism of intellect. For four days, he hardly thought at all about his sexual experiments.
True it was a bit annoying having his libido rear up in the night, but he'd expected that to happen. After all, he'd all but trained his body to expect sex. But abstinence wasn't anymore difficult for sex than it was for food. And honestly, the amount of sex he'd been indulging in had been a fluke to start off with.
Without John distracting him, his mind felt as sharp as ever. The clues, the mysteries, the little details. Yes, now he remembered why he'd married his work! Nothing could compete with this, and how ridiculous of Sherlock to have gotten so sidetracked. If he hadn't been so bored….
The Belgian was dead, of course, his body wrapped in burlap, weighted with chain and dropped into a canal near his office. Mycroft accept that with a dismissive nod. The real question wasn't so much how and where, but why and who. Those questions took longer, but eventually Sherlock sniffed out the rat: a counteragent for the Ukraine and a competitor for a particular bit of juicy encryption technology.
It was far too political for Sherlock to care about, so he simply phoned the information back to Mycroft and let him handle it from there.
When he arrived back at the flat, all seemed to have returned to normal with John. They had a decent conversation, went to dinner together to celebrate Sherlock's secret mission. But as the dinner progressed through an awkward, everything-but-the-case discussion of Brussels, Sherlock began to detect a little discomfort in John's behavior. Lack of customary eye contact for one. A little blush that crept in when Sherlock reached out his hand to pat John's sleeve.
It was time for that conversation.
"You are uncomfortable around me, John," said Sherlock. "Why."
"Don't ask," was John's response.
"I have to, because you are important to me. Is there something wrong? Have I done something?" Does he remember?
"It has nothing to do with you Sherlock," said John and met his eye. Sherlock detected that it was only a partial lie. Galling. He far preferred it when people told him the complete truth or a total lie.
"Does it have something to do with our accidental kiss two weeks ago?"
"Don't say that so loud!" hissed John, he looked about the restaurant as if anyone in the other tables cared about their love life.
"It does have to do it," stated Sherlock. "But I thought we'd squared that away, John. I'm fine with it. I liked it. I wouldn't mind doing it again."
John did a double take. "You what?"
"Or not, if you'd prefer. I know you are heterosexual -"
"You what?" repeated John.
"I liked the kiss," said Sherlock. "I am gay you know. Is that your fear? That I'm going to hit on you, or molest you in your sleep -" it was as close to a confession as he could make it. Here is where, if Mycroft were right, John would reveal that the experiments had subconsciously bled through.
But John shook his head. "No, of course not," said John. "I know you'd never do that. I'm not a bigot."
Sherlock pressed his eyes closed for just a second before donning a poker face. "You're afraid that kiss led me on?"
"No, I--"
"Some kind of affront to your sexual identification -?"
"Shut up, Sherlock and let me say something."
Sherlock snapped his mouth closed. This was maddening. Was Mycroft right or was it coincidence that caused John's behavior? He had to know. He hoped Mycroft was wrong, that he hadn't driven John away. Why couldn't he just spit it out, whatever it was?
But John didn't speak right away. Sherlock bit his tongue while John took his sweet time composing his thoughts. He ruffled his hair and pulled his jumper, hemmed, hawed and blushed furiously.
"Well?" Sherlock blurted when his patience wore thin.
"I didn't know you were gay," John said softly. "And now that I do. I'm not sure what to think. I'm thrown."
"You didn't know I was gay?" said Sherlock. "How could you not? I hardly keep it a secret. The clothes. The utter lack of interest in women? Certainly you didn't think I was straight."
"Yes, I noticed you didn't seem interested in women, but you didn't seem interested in men, either. No data does not automatically mean 'gay' to me. You could just not be interested. At all."
"Ah. Well, now we've cleared that up," said Sherlock. "Is this a problem?"
John blinked. Then shook his head. "You being gay? No. Definitely no."
"You were afraid you'd foisted yourself on me," said Sherlock suddenly realizing. "Was that it? Two weeks of the silent treatment because you were worried that I was weirded out by it? I told you I wasn't." This couldn't be the whole story.
"It does seem a bit silly, I suppose." His eyes drifted down. Ah, there was more. "But no." Here it came. "What if I wanted more than a kiss?" His face turned darker. "What if I've been having a hard time keeping my hands off of you? What if I've been thinking about you in bed, damn near obsessively?"
Sherlock's eyes widened. Suddenly he had no words.
John continued: "You offered me that pity fuck and I turned you down. But since. I just keep thinking what would have happened if I said yes." John shook his head as if to rid himself of a thought. "But you seemed so relieved when I did turn you down that I know you don't actually want to sleep with me. But I still …" John shrugged. "I can't stop where my mind goes."
"But you are straight."
"Obviously not completely. Most blokes don't do it to me. But you do. And it seems like only you lately." John sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm wrecking everything aren't I? You're my best friend, and the last thing I wanted was to be a creeper. I suppose I can try avoiding you some more. That seemed to help. While you were off in Belgium, I stopped feeling like I was going to get up in the middle of the night and jump you in your sleep."
Sherlock winced.
"When did this obsession with me begin?"
"The idea crept into my head after the last case, if you can believe it. I suppose it could have been worse. I could have developed a thing for underage girls."
Sherlock flashed back to their first hurried handjob. It had been that night. Oh god. "And before that - did you desire me?" Please say yes.
John tsked. "I didn't think of you that way. It didn't occur to me."
"So this is my fault. I changed you." I violated you. Not just your body. Your soul. I changed you to please myself.
John rolled his eyes. "Don't blame yourself my problems. I mean, you are brilliant and I love you, Sherlock, but you don't have that kind of power over me."
Mycroft was right. It had to end before he did it again.
"Read it," said Sherlock, holding out the sheet to Mycroft, as they sat in the nearly empty office that Mycroft used to entertain visitors. The real office was hidden behind a false wall, and was considerably larger and far more filled with electronics, but it had nowhere for a guest to sit.
"Your handwriting hasn't improved over the years," he muttered before his mind caught up with his eyes. Mycroft looked thoughtful. Then nodded. "I see. You've come to see the reason of it."
"I don't want to damage him."
"Of course, you don't." Mycroft had the sensitivity, thank god, to put aside his usual smarm and sound genuinely concerned.
"But I will," Sherlock insisted. "I can't stop myself. I want things… him… so much, the temptation to take the short cut is too great. Right now it's sex, but what will it be next? Will I start hypnotizing him out of his bad habits? Will I alter his speech? I'm afraid that I will turn him into a puppet, who is everything I think I want and nothing of what I fell in love with. I should not have this power over him. I'm convinced of it."
"I agree with your caution," said Mycroft looking down at the paper again. "Though you realize that by doing this, it will make John, for all intents and purposes, unhypnotizable by anyone, ever."
"That is the idea." If not me, nobody.
"There could be times when it would be helpful," cautioned Mycroft. "It did solve that stalker case of yours."
"It's too tempting. I solved crimes before without hypnosis."
"You could alter the wording… here…" Mycroft pointed, "And allow me to speak for you. I promise I would never touch him without you being in the room."
Anger burned white hot in Sherlock's belly. "Never." Even the thought of Mycroft whispering into John's vulnerable ear was enough to make his gorge rise.
Mycroft sighed. "Very well. What is it that you want from me?"
"To be a witness. To be there to stop me from chickening out at the last minute. With you there I wouldn't be able to convince myself I'm wrong."
Mycroft nodded. "Very well. Let me in at two a.m. tonight. We shall do this together."
Sherlock seemed to collapse in with relief.
"Though it will cost." Mycroft smiled his more normal smirk. "One more case. I'll see to it that John gets his clearance, so it won't be quite so lonely this time."
John's breathing was slow and steady when Sherlock lifted his head and found the spots. He'd gotten so good by this time that John didn't rouse at all. Mycroft stood like a dark shadow near the door, not saying anything. His presence nonetheless loomed. When John moaned, he reached over and flipped on the switch.
"John, do you recognize me," Sherlock asked.
"Sherlock. My best friend."
He hesitated.
By the door Mycroft shifted. His eyes commanded Sherlock to begin.
Girding himself, Sherlock read the sheet. It wasn't long, but the wording was careful. It had to be, because there was no going back to fix things and the last thing he wanted was to leave John with the impression that he should never listen to Sherlock or obey a directive from a boss or worse yet, lock out all instructions before Sherlock reached the end and be left forever in unreachable limbo. This had to be clean. It had to be complete. It had to be perfect.
He didn't stumble. When he looked up once, he saw Mycroft nodding his approval.
"Do you understand?" Sherlock asked after giving the final instruction.
"Yes," said John. He seemed neither happy nor unhappy. Just neutral.
Sherlock leaned in and kissed his brow. Then whispered "I love you," in John's ear. He stood up and gave the final hypnotic order: "Sleep naturally and wake free of hypnosis."
John's eyes closed.
The lights flicked off again. Without a word, Mycroft turned around and walked slowly down the stairs. Sherlock remained a few minutes in the dark, listening to John sleep. By the time he wandered down the sitting room, Mycoft had gone.
Sherlock hadn't really expected any open praise or forgiveness from his older sibling. For him, the matter was closed and he'd moved on, the way he always did. Except for the marker, which he would call in.
Sherlock wondered if it would ever be over for him.
Life went on. Back to normal, or close enough to make no difference. Neither of them brought up the two weeks that had nearly distroyed them. If John thought about it at all, he gave no indication of it.
Sherlock wished he could stop thinking of it. He missed their closeness, as false as it was.
The last time... if he'd known... he would have made it last longer. I could still remember the look of John, flat on his back, pillow under his bottom, raising it up. The way the sweat had followed the creases of his stomach. The heady smell of lube and endorphins and John. And then the pressure, the sudden tight grip around his cock as he pressed his way into John for the first time. Even loosened by Sherlock's fingers he'd been snug. The friction and lube and sheer heat of his body were incredible.
It had been better than anything they'd tried before. Better than the hand jobs, better than oral sex. He'd flexed backwards, felt the stretch in his thighs and hips, then pushed forward again, and that slide, that absolutely perfect slide of him fitting into John. If he'd known that fucking John would feel this good he'd have skipped straight to this.
Even John's little grunts were perfect. The way his eyebrows rose and his neck arched. Sherlock, stroked John's erection with his and felt it's hardness. The sensation of power, control, and pleasure all mixed together. This was what he had been missing from his life. “Feel this,” he'd hissed to John. “Feel me.”
If he could have, he'd have made that moment last forever.
But it was gone. And it wasn't ever coming back. The loss of it hurt.
Work helped.
The next case was an aggressive purse snatcher, whose M.O. was to drive up to women and lean out the window and snag the bag and hit the accelerator. Four times it had ended with a woman pulled off her feet and thrown to the pavement. The fifth victim had been dragged under the rear wheel before the strap snapped.
Sherlock cursed the fact that the witnesses all seemed to have stared at precisely the wrong things. Trivial details like the pattern of the purse. What about the hand? Did no one notice anything about the hand? Of course, not. The license had been conveniently obscured with mud, but in what pattern. What kind of mud? Black Fiesta. Oh my, how many black Fiestas were there in London? Were there any scratches, dents? No one noticed.
Sherlock found the man anyway, though it took a dreary long while canvassing the pawn shops until he found the Gucci bag in question. From then on it was a matter of going through the owner's records and following the trail of hand-offs until John did the honors of throwing back the tarp over the car with the woman shaped dent in the rear door.
The perp fled his flat in nothing but his pants. He didn't get far in the deep winter chill. Lestrade provided him a warm car for the ride down to the MET. An undignified end to a nasty petty thief's career.
John and Sherlock laughed all the way to the Quilon, where Sherlock treated John to a proper five course feast of West Coast Indian cuisine. The atmosphere was intimate. The beer was good. The camaraderie was almost the same as it had been before mesmerism entered their lives.
It had been weeks now since their last "experiment". The memory was still rich in his mind, filled with tantalizing desire and shame. Sex was boringly predictable. Messy. Far more complicated than it was worth.
And yet, had he the chance, he wouldn't hesitated to repeat any of those stolen moments.
Sherlock put down his fork and gazed at John. There was one thing left to try.
"What if it weren't a pity fuck," he asked, boldly. Shall we give this a try.
John chewed. Swallowed. Glanced up. "Well, that would be completely different."
Sherlock's heart raced. "Would it?"
"Yeah, I loathe pity." John smiled. Yes.
Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. "I love you."
John went back to his meal. "I love you, too."
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