《Events after The Great Game》vernon

11、第 11 章 "The

　　"The only question is whether you deal with it yourself, or whether you want a hand? Or,you know... a mouth?"

　　Sherlock felt his heart rate elevating at John's words and the mental pictures they conjured up. His current blindness in no way affected his visual imagination, and his brain had already provided several viewing perspectives of the scene in the chair a few days earlier.

　　He had liked doing that to John, he had enjoyed the closeness, the intimacy, the completeness of John's surrender; in fact he had since spent an unfeasible amount of time thinking of other things he could do to John, several of which he would like to try as soon as possible.

　　He shook his head to clear it, dislodging John's hands, then tightened his arms to indicate that the gesture hadn't been meant as a negative. They were in rather a novel position with him perched on the arm of the sofa, and John standing between his legs – this would be what it would be like if John was the taller one, he mused; then dismissed the idea as irrelevant, turning his head to rest his cheek against John's shoulder, glad of the continued silence as he tried to come to terms with the apparent conflict between his brain and his body.

　　For once, John's deduction seemed entirely logical and it was clear that something would have to be done if he was to make any progress with the case, just as he sometimes needed to sleep, or even eat, if a case went on for too long. However, the thought of things being the other way round, of it being he who lost control, that idea was decidedly... uncomfortable.

　　John had moved one arm around his shoulders, and was running the fingers of his other hand through Sherlock's hair. The sensation was simultaneously soothing and stimulating and for a few minutes he just relaxed into it. This was John, he reminded himself. If there was anyone in the world he could trust, anyone he could lower his defences for, then surely it would be this man.

　　He sat up, acceptance clear on his features, and felt John's momentary stillness, before he leaned down, pressing their foreheads together.

　　"Sherlock," he breathed, and his mouth was so close, just inches away. Sherlock parted his lips, feeling the warmth as John exhaled and knowing, just knowing that John wanted to kiss him, was holding himself back, denying them both. Sherlock found himself raising his head a little more, tilting it to the side slightly. He couldn't kiss John, he had promised... but if John were to give in, well that would be different.

　　He breathed out, wanting to follow the air as it left him and chase it across John's skin.

　　"What do you want, Sherlock?" The words were soft, and he could almost taste them as they ghosted over his lips. Was that an invitation? He stretched up, reaching blindly, but John turned his head. "Anything but that," he said, pressing kisses along Sherlock's jaw line until he reached his ear. "Anything at all, Sherlock," he whispered. "What do you want?"

　　That was just the problem. In terms of what John was referring to, Sherlock hadn't the least idea. "I want to be able to think," he replied.

　　John made a wordless sound of assent, and started kissing his way down the side of Sherlock's neck, right hand gripping his hair and the other moving to his shoulder. Sherlock hummed in pleasure at the sensation of John's lips moving over his skin, John's tongue pressing against his pulse point, John's heat warming him.

　　He tipped his head to the left, and John took full advantage of the better access, nibbling, licking and sucking at the exposed flesh, until his progress was impeded and Sherlock felt his hand pushing at the jacket he still wore. He let his arms fall so that he could shrug it off, dropping it onto the sofa behind and found that he was trembling slightly, even though the day was mild. John's hand stroked across his chest to the buttons of his shirt, quickly unfastening the top two and sliding inside, and Sherlock froze.

　　"Wait," he said. John lifted his head, and Sherlock could feel his confusion, as if it were passing though the warm fingers resting on his chest and adding to his own.

　　"What is it?" John asked. "I've touched you before, Sherlock. You climbed into bed with me last night wearing onlyyour underwear; not to mention the massage."

　　Sherlock thought about that for a moment. John was right, of course, he was being illogical. He drew a breath, then brought his hands up, unfastening the rest of his shirt buttons himself. Once he was done, he raised his face again; he didn't know what John saw in his expression, but suddenly he was engulfed, wrapped up in an embrace as warm as it was welcome.

　　"Tell me what you're worried about," John's voice spoke into his ear and a part of him marvelled at their connection, at how John now read him so well, even when he was behaving in a manner so unlike himself.

　　"Can we go to bed?" he asked. "I don't mean for..." he trailed off. "Well, maybe that," he added. "But to talk. Can we? I know it's early, but..."

　　John chuckled against his skin and Sherlock immediately wanted to feel that sensation again, possibly many, many times. "You'll never have to talk me into bed," John told him. "Come on." He stepped back, taking both of Sherlock's hands and pulling him upright. "I'm all yours," he said, walking backwards, and Sherlock smiled, following John blindly, even though he knew the way.

　　Once they got to the bedroom, John released his hands. "Shorts?" he queried, and Sherlock nodded, stripping off his other clothes quickly and sliding under the duvet, aware that his body was betraying his physical state, but assuming that John was already fully aware of the situation.

　　After spending the last few days unconsciously fighting this bond, he was starting now to acknowledge it again and already felt less concerned about putting his trust in John so completely.

　　He felt the dip as John climbed in beside him and reached out, finding that John was already moving closer, both of them raising their arms to wrap around each other as they lay on their sides, until they were hugging closely, their chests pressed together, both keeping their knees slightly bent, so that the rest of their bodies retained some distance; at least, for now.

　　For a moment, being back in the bed brought back the memory of his dream, and Sherlock shivered as the nightmare vision assailed him again; seeing the red dot from the laser sight on John's head turn into a bullet wound, the life draining from his eyes, feeling the rip through his own chest as he was shot in turn, although... there was something wrong there, that wasn't exactly...

　　John's hand ran through his hair, dissipating the thought; warm, alive fingers trailing through the vision and dispersing it into swirls of meaningless colour as Sherlock buried his face in John's neck and focused instead on every millimetre of their skin which was in contact. He could smell John, could feel John's mouth surreptitiously tasting the skin of his shoulder, he could sense how much John wanted him, was aware of John's affection, like a warm blanket enveloping his body.

　　He stroked what skin he could reach, and enjoyed the feel of it under his hand, wondering if the massage oil was still in the room... But that wasn't what this was about. John's hand smoothed down his back, sliding under the waistband of his shorts, and Sherlock froze again.

　　"Stop," he said. John pulled his head back and moved his hand up slightly, but didn't remove it; his thumb stroking soothingly in a circular motion.

　　"Talk to me, Sherlock," he said. "What's going on in that brain of yours?"

　　Sherlock didn't know what to say. What could he say? 'I want to touch you, but you're not allowed to touch me'? No, that wasn't accurate. 'You can touch me, but only up to a point'? That was closer, but sounded ridiculous. 'I don't want to lose control'? That was the crux of it, but how could he say that to John? It implied a lack of trust which was most unfair. He said nothing.

　　John gazed at the closed-off features in front of him in frustration. Not sexual frustration, this time, although that was always simmering away, but frustration at his own inability to work out what was going on. On the face of it, Sherlock seemed to be at war with himself, his body clearly,(John recalled the seconds between the falling of the trousers and the disappearing under the duvet), very clearly wanting one thing, but his brain overriding it whenever steps were made in that direction.

　　He tried to imagine the situation from Sherlock's perspective, but gave up almost immediately. There was only one thing for it. Eyes on the prize, he reminded himself, and drew a deep breath, raising his hand to the side of Sherlock's jaw to make sure there was no head dropping or other evasive manoeuvres, fingers stretching round to the back of his neck.

　　"I'm not going to push you into anything physical, Sherlock," he started. "You know that, don't you?"

　　Sherlock nodded, John's hand relaxing to allow the motion.

　　"But I am going to make you talk to me, because if I don't..." He tightened his grip as Sherlock tried to pull away. "If I don't, then this is over."

　　Sherlock stopped resisting immediately. "Is that a threat?" he demanded.

　　"No," John denied. "No, that's not what I mean." He tried to think ahead. "I mean that if we can't talk about it, not just this, but anything major which affects us both, then we have no chance."

　　He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's cheekbone, holding his position for a moment and noticing the way Sherlock pushed into the contact, almost rubbing their faces together. It wasn't that the man wasn't sensual, or that he didn't like being touched, John confirmed, with relief; and you only had to hear him play his violin to know there was passion under that apparently cold exterior. John was going to work this out. He pulled his head away.

　　"Right," he said, thinking back. "It seems to me, that before the massage,you were the one pushing things physically and I was the one not wanting to take advantage, is that right?" He was remembering the skimpy towels and the circular arguments. "In fact," he added, "immediately before the massage, when we agreed to try and you reached up to kiss me, I got the distinct impression that you were willing to go as far as I would take you. Was I wrong?"

　　Sherlock shook his head. "I hadn't really thought about it in detail at that point," he admitted. "I was focused more on convincing you to try." He drew his brows together, clearly thinking. "I honestly don't know what would have happened if you'd..."

　　"Pushed it?" suggested John, half of him wishing he had gone for it when he had the chance, and just shagged the man before he had time to engage his bloody brain.

　　He shook his head to dislodge that image, before it led him in a dangerous direction. "Hmm," he mused, aloud. "But then, with the massage,you quickly relaxed and that was much more intense than anything we've just done, but it didn't cause you to..." freak out? panic? "freeze," he finished.

　　Sherlock twisted his lips. "You told me that nothing would happen," he reminded John. "You told me it wouldn't lead to anything that night and I believed you." He shrugged. "I argued, of course."

　　John rolled his eyes, of course he had argued. Sherlock always argued, and that particular argument had been especially memorable.

　　"Stop rolling your eyes," said Sherlock, just quirking a brow when John drew breath to deny it.

　　"I love you," he said, instead.

　　There was a silence. John decided to pretend he hadn't just let that slip out. "So," he continued, clearing his throat, "you relaxed, because you knew nothing else was going to happen – that's the difference now...you're worried about what comes next?"

　　Sherlock blinked a few times, unscheduled declarations of affection clearly not being something he was used to dealing with. "Yes," he replied, eventually. "I wasn't thinking ahead. I wasn't really thinking very much at all." He took his hand from John's back and brought it to his face. "John, I..."

　　"Moving on," said John, quickly. He could feel that his heart was racing, probably in relief at finally releasing the words it had been holding on to for so long, but it wasn't as if the news was anything startling, he reminded himself. It seemed the world and his (or her) wife already knew he was in love with Sherlock, even Mori-bloody-arty had guessed as much.

　　He cast his mind back, determinedly. "But, that doesn't really make sense either," he thought aloud, "because the next day, after the taxi ride, when you took my hand and put it over your belt..." He paused, wondering if his assumption at the time had been completely wrong. "I'm sorry if I got this backwards," he said, just in case, "but I took that to mean you wanted a blow job?"

　　Sherlock moved his hand to grip John's wrist, trying to pull it away from his face. John let go, and he ducked his head down, but not before the suffusion of pink making its way up his neck was apparent.

　　"Sherlock, are you -" John broke off, almost biting his tongue to stop that sentence emerging.

　　"What?" snapped Sherlock, keeping his head down. "Am I what?"

　　John looked at him; even the tip of his ear was pink. Of course, he realised; Sherlock would never have discussed anything like this before, at least in connection with himself. No relationships, where this sort of thing would come up. No 'mates', who often compared notes in nauseating detail. No evenings down the pub, where discussions on how long a new partner could safely leave you alone in their flat before you had a wank, were not uncommon.

　　He recalled Sherlock's use of the rather coy term 'backside' when discussing the body on the beach with Lestrade; his response after the hand job the other day, when he'd tried to reassure John that he still wanted to proceed – the way he'd avoided actually saying anything explicit.

　　John couldn't keep the smile off his face, but he worked hard to keep it out of his voice. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said. "We do need to talk about this, but I'll try to bear in mind that you are..." he pushed his brain ahead of his mouth and took out 'adorably shy', replacing it with, "uncomfortable with some of my terminology."

　　He wriggled a little way down the bed and put his head against Sherlock's chest, butting up against his chin gently until Sherlock raised his head and John could snuggle in. Hopefully Sherlock would recover from his embarrassment more quickly if he knew that John couldn't see him.

　　"John," Sherlock's voice was low, and he had wrapped both arms around John now. "About what you said before..."

　　"My question first," interrupted John. "Was my assumption wrong, Sherlock? Did I misunderstand you?" He didn't try to look up, directing his words instead towards the collar bones which so often tempted him, unable to resist brushing his lips against them. He felt the quiver which ran through Sherlock's body and smoothed his right arm around to the small of his back, just rubbing gently in place.

　　"No." The voice above him was slightly breathless. "No,you didn't misunderstand. When you said you would kiss me..." he broke off and inhaled sharply as John started nibbling across his chest, but he didn't freeze this time. "You said you would kiss me anywhere... Mmm, John..."

　　He seemed to be losing his train of thought and John wondered if he should just keep going. Clearly Sherlock was not unresponsive; whatever the problem was, it certainly wasn't physical. Perhaps the body could win out over the brain, if he didn't give it chance to catch up.

　　On the other hand, he didn't want Sherlock just once. This wasn't about getting his leg over, or proving a point. If there was a problem, it needed sorting out. Cursing himself, he pulled back, turning his head to rest his cheek on Sherlock's chest, waiting for the heart beneath to slow its pace before speaking.

　　"You're not freezing up now," he pointed out. "What's changed?"

　　"We're talking, now," Sherlock said, sounding startled. "I mean," he paused. "We're also..." he seemed to be looking for the word.

　　"Cuddling? Fooling around? Winding each other up?" John supplied.

　　"Yes, thank you, John," he retorted, with a trace of his usual acerbity. "All of those things, no doubt. But we're talking, aren't we? You're not suddenly going to..." he trailed off again.

　　"Rip your pants off?" John couldn't resist, deciding it was probably just as well he had stopped when he did.

　　"If you're just going to make fun of me, we can get back to my question," Sherlock snapped.

　　John wriggled back up the bed until his head was on the pillow and they were nose to nose. "I'm sorry, love," he said. "I was just trying to lighten the atmosphere. So," he continued, determined to get to the heart of this problem before his balls were permanently damaged, "somewhere between getting out of that taxi a few days ago, and deciding to try some... er, tension relief, today,you, or your brain, at least, decided that it had a problem. Am I on the right lines?"

　　Sherlock raised a hand to John's face, checking his expression. "Do you know you just called me 'love'?" he asked, his own expression quizzical.

　　Now it was John's turn to blush, as he thought back quickly and mentally kicked himself. "Sorry," he said. This was a problem – the first one had just slipped out, which was bad enough, but this time he hadn't even noticed. "Seems the floodgates are open. I'll try to stop it."

　　Sherlock frowned slightly, obviously able to feel the heat of John's reaction under his hand. "No," he said, slowly. "No, it's fine." He smiled, a little tentatively. "I don't mind."

　　John tried to pull himself together. "So what happened between then and now?" he asked, returning to his point in his usual dogged fashion. He didn't really expect an answer from Sherlock, who certainly hadn't been keen to volunteer anything so far, but he hoped that the urge to contradict would override the reticence if John got truly off track.

　　"Something to do with the case?" he mused, but that didn't feel right, and Sherlock showed no reaction. "OK, not the case," he decided, "then it must be the..." he bit off 'hand job' for now - he was going to have to work on Sherlock's vocabulary. At this point, the implications of his conclusion began to dawn on him and he lurched backwards, pulling away from Sherlock, who made a sharp noise of disapproval.

　　"It was me, wasn't it? You didn't like it. You should have said! I didn't expect you to do that. I didn't ask you to. You didn't have to do it. I would never-" His words were muffled and then stopped altogether as he found himself crushed against Sherlock's chest, with an arm wrapped tightly round his body and another curving up to the back of his head.

　　"You're wrong," said a low voice in his ear, with total conviction. "Shh, John, that's not it." He felt pressure as Sherlock kissed the top of his head and stayed silent, hoping that he would keep talking.

　　"It's the control," Sherlock admitted, after a few moments, his arms still holding John tightly in place, clearly not wanting to be observed. John edged his body a little closer, allowing one of Sherlock's legs to slide between his own.

　　"You lost control, John. At that moment, when you..." He paused, and John could almost hear him gritting his teeth. "When you climaxed," he continued, and part of John waved a virtual flag, "you were completely unaware of anything going on around you, totally vulnerable."

　　"And the idea of that scares you," John murmured, almost to himself. It was starting to make sense now.

　　Sherlock bristled slightly at the suggestion of fear, but John ignored it, struggling against the restraining arms until he could wriggle up and take Sherlock's face in his hands.

　　"I get it," he said, stroking his thumbs along those incredible cheekbones. "You already feel so much more vulnerable than normal, because of the blindness. This just seems like a step too far." He paused, gazing at Sherlock's eyes and wishing with all his heart that they were looking back at him. "If you had your sight, this probably wouldn't seem like such a big deal to you, but I can understand why it is right now."

　　Sherlock looked surprised, as if he hadn't made the connection with his blindness, which surely he must have? "So, where do we go from here?" he asked.

　　John thought for a moment, but really it was a no-brainer. "I think we should try," he said. "Or at least, I should try... on you, and you should try not to freak out."

　　Sherlock looked affronted at the thought of doing something so undignified.

　　John ignored his expression. "I had really intended to... er, use my mouth," he continued, euphemistically, "because that was what you seemed to want before." He thought, briefly. "But, perhaps I should try with my hand? You may find that less... intrusive."

　　Sherlock's expression flickered, the tiny frown appearing so fleetingly, John wasn't completely sure he had seen it. "What?" he asked.

　　Sherlock shook his head. "No, it's fine, that's fine," he said. "You're the expert; I will be guided byyou."

　　John leaned away and frowned, now convinced there was something. He dropped one hand to Sherlock's chest, just at the base of his neck. "Tell me," he commanded, the voice emerging from his memories of dealing with stroppy junior officers; not a tone he had ever used on Sherlock before.

　　"You won't kiss me, John," the words were blurted out, and Sherlock twisted his lips in annoyance, but he continued. "That's fine, it's your choice, of course, but I..." he lowered his head slightly. "It's your mouth that I think about."

　　John smiled to himself. There had been several reasons for the kiss embargo, only one of which he had divulged so far, but this was a benefit he had not actually anticipated.

　　He drew a deep breath, trying to organise his thoughts. "OK," he said, after a minute. "Let me sum up. You need to get off, because this frustration is interfering with your work. You want me to be involved and you want me to use my mouth, but you're not sure how far you want to go with another person because you're a control freak and witnessing me going to pieces in your arms has..." he tried to rephrase 'frightened the pants off you' in his head, but struggled due to the distracting image that went with the words, "...alarmed you," he finished, eventually.

　　Sherlock looked annoyed, then resigned. "That seems to be a fair assessment," he acknowledged.

　　"OK, well think of the situation like a Band Aid," John suggested. "When you need to remove a sticking plaster, do you peel it off inch by inch, or do you just tear it off in one go?" he asked. "Because it seems to me there are two possible approaches to this situation. Well," he added, "three if you count 'ignoring it and hoping it goes away', which hasn't been working too well for you so far."

　　There was a gleam in Sherlock's eye which suggested that John had struck a chord. "Rip it," he said.

　　"Really?" John tested. "I don't mean I'm just going to..." Hell, this language thing was a problem – what could he substitute for suck you off? "dive right in, with no build up," he said. "I mean that I would try to overwhelm you, keep your body a step ahead of your brain."

　　Sherlock looked distinctly intrigued by this suggestion, but when John asked, "Do you think that would work?" he shrugged his shoulders.

　　"I don't know, John," he said. "But I'd rather try that, than have every move be a battle." He looked curious. "Do you really think you can overwhelm me?"

　　John chuckled. "In most things, definitely not," he admitted. "But in this? After the tension you've built up, and your reactions so far, then I would bloody well hope so." He thought for a moment. "If you can make it through the first... let's say five minutes, without thinking about what comes next, just pretending to yourself that nothing more is going to happen; then I'm pretty sure I can take it from there."

　　"I'm not going to push you, though," he added, just in case that wasn't clear. "If you tell me to stop, then I will stop, of course."

　　"Don't stop for the five minutes," said Sherlock. "No, that's unfair of me," he continued immediately. "I'm sorry, John. I will control myself."

　　John snorted. "The whole idea is that you don't," he pointed out. He thought for a moment, trying to anticipate anything which might cause a 'freeze'. "Will you take your shorts off?" he asked. "Only, stopping to remove them is going to give your brain a chance to catch up."

　　Sherlock looked taken aback, but after a moment he nodded, although he still seemed uncomfortable. "You, too," he said, not making any move to comply as yet.

　　"Really?" John asked. "This isn't about me,you know."

　　"I don't want to be naked if you're not," objected Sherlock, apparently gearing up for another argument.

　　"No problem," said John, shimmying out of his underwear, promptly, and throwing them out of the side of the bed.

　　His movements were unmistakeable, and Sherlock slowly followed suit, keeping the duvet well pulled up. John knew that Sherlock wasn't unduly self-conscious about his body, so it must be his state of arousal that was causing this usually unflappable man to feel so shy. John found his embarrassment oddly endearing.

　　He moved closer to Sherlock and wound both arms around his neck, stretching his body up. "How do you feel, now?" he asked, inwardly thinking how odd it sounded to be asking such a question of Sherlock Holmes, who would rarely admit to having any feelings in the first place.

　　Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, then slowly slid one all the way down his back as they lay on their sides. Probably checking he really had stripped, thought John.

　　"Nervous." That must have been hard for him to admit, and John kissed the side of his neck, tightening his grip slightly.

　　"I might feel better if you kissed me properly?" he suggested, and John chuckled against his skin, which he seemed to like.

　　"Nice try, love," he murmured, working his way down to resume his collar bone assault, then realised what he had said. "Bollocks. Sorry."

　　"I already told you it was fine," Sherlock's words were reproving, but he had a smile in his voice, which turned into a gasp as John blew gently across his collar bones.

　　John felt as if it was Christmas morning. Admittedly, a rather worrying Christmas, when there was the significant risk that his presents might suddenly be whisked away unopened, but still.

　　He loosened his arms as he moved down the bed, leaving his left hand gripping the side of Sherlock's neck and trailing his right down to stroke over the damp skin he was leaving as he kissed his way down the smooth, pale chest before him. He felt Sherlock tense as he started to veer to the left, and he paused, holding his position and reaching his left hand up to stroke through Sherlock's hair.

　　After a few moments, the tension eased and he immediately slid his right hand down, straight to Sherlock's left nipple, which he rubbed with his thumb. Sherlock's whole body twitched, and he inhaled sharply, but he didn't freeze… it seemed to be the anticipation of an action which affected him adversely, rather than the act itself, John realised.

　　Bearing this in mind, he quickly ducked his head and sealed his lips around the other nipple, circling his tongue around it and sucking gently as he did so, occasionally flicking his tongue over the tip.

　　Sherlock was trembling slightly now, but he seemed fine. Ideally John would have liked to roll him over, but there was a possibility that being flat on his back might make him feel more vulnerable, so perhaps it was best not to risk it.

　　He angled his head slightly so that he could watch his hand as it played with Sherlock's nipple, rolling it between finger and thumb, circling around it, just rubbing it with varying pressures, enjoying its responsiveness as Sherlock's breath became quicker above him.

　　John had dreamed of this for so long, he could happily have played for hours, but it seemed Sherlock's body was ahead at the moment, and he didn't want to give the brain chance to catch up.

　　He started sucking harder on the nipple in his mouth, largely as a distraction before he changed position, but Sherlock groaned loudly in response. John took the chance to drop his left hand down to take over, simultaneously propping himself up on that elbow and latching his mouth over the other nipple, sucking hard immediately, before Sherlock had chance to worry about what was going on.

　　That freed his right hand, and, after a moment's deliberation, he dropped it straight down to Sherlock's arse – no; backside, he corrected himself. May as well get used to that for now. Sherlock still hadn't frozen again; in fact he seemed quite happy and was making that rumbling humming noise, just as he had during the massage. John could feel the vibrations in his chest.

　　He took a minute just to appreciate the situation, the taste of Sherlock's skin on his tongue, the responsiveness of the hard nub between his lips, the feel of the muscles under his hand, flexing as Sherlock rocked his hips, probably without realising he was doing so. John squeezed his hand, running his palm down the back of each thigh in turn, as far as he could reach, then stroking back up again, moving from one side to the other, part of his brain registering his amazement that he was actually allowed to do this, as if he was watching the scene from above, in blatant disbelief.

　　He tried to clear his thoughts, realising that he had to stay focused if he was to have any chance of getting Sherlock off before he his own control totally disintegrated.

　　He introduced the slightest hint of teeth to the tip of Sherlock's nipple, pinching the other one firmly. There was a sharp catch of breath from above him and he glanced up to see Sherlock biting his lip – it seemed he liked that.

　　John did it again, definitely nibbling now, using more teeth than he normally would on one side of Sherlock's chest and twisting his fingers on the other. Sherlock had released his lip and was undeniably panting... there wasn't going to be a better opportunity.

　　With one last, firm, bite, John contracted the muscles in his right arm and pulled himself down the bed, leaving his left hand in place as he used his grip around Sherlock's hips to guide him.

　　"Don't..." the word was breathless, but it halted John in place, mouth hovering over his goal, hands clenching in protest. He exhaled and felt the tremor run through the body he held onto.

　　"Don't stop," Sherlock said, and John engulfed him.

　　For a moment he just adjusted to the sensation. Sherlock was moaning above him, and seemed past the point of objection. If he'd never experienced anything like this before, it probably wasn't going to take long, John realised, automatically starting to swirl his tongue, sucking gently.

　　He felt torn. On the one hand, he wanted to show off... because he was bloody good at this and he could turn Sherlock's world upside down if he wanted to.

　　On the other hand, Sherlock's main concern was about losing control, so if John completely took him apart at this stage, it might actually put him off. Also, with a bit of luck Sherlock might be willing to try doing this himself, so John didn't want to make it seem too complicated.

　　Then again (he was running out of figurative hands) there was a big part of his mind, which was just screaming 'This is Sherlock... You've got Sherlock's cock in your mouth... Sherlock's cock is In. Your. Mouth.'

　　He closed his eyes briefly, trying to focus. Control. Sherlock was worried about control. In a flash of inspiration, John reached for the hand which Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do with and placed it on his own head, where the fingers immediately pushed into his hair and tightened, almost painfully. That was good. That was helping. He could concentrate better with the tugging sensation keeping him grounded, and it gave Sherlock the illusion of dominance.

　　He moved his hand back to Sherlock's leg, feeling the long muscles respond as he stroked his palm upwards, allowing his fingers to reach further round than he had done before, skimming up Sherlock's inner thigh this time, overriding his instinct to tease and work his way up gradually, as he remembered that anticipation was a bad thing in this instance.

　　Sherlock shuddered, then rolled onto his back, throwing his right arm up across his face, but keeping the other hand firmly on John's head, as if to make sure that John followed his movement. He needn't have worried. John wasn't going anywhere.

　　He kept the actions of his mouth and tongue going, gripping the sides of Sherlock's hips now with both hands as he rearranged his own body until he was kneeling next to Sherlock's legs and leaning forward. He couldn't comfortably maintain this position for long, but it seemed pretty clear that he wouldn't need to.

　　Sherlock was shaking. John sucked harder and dropped his hand down, feeling Sherlock's balls draw up as he got closer, and rolling them gently. He smoothed his other hand over Sherlock's abdomen, loving the way the muscles rippled and contracted under his touch. He raised his eyes and almost lost it completely.

　　Sherlock was breathtaking. John ran his gaze over the lean torso, up to the chest, nipples still standing out firmly after his earlier attentions; he couldn't resist reaching up to them again, rubbing each in turn and Sherlock's breath caught, then released in a shuddering cry. His head was tipped back, the tendons in his neck standing out in sharp relief as his cock thickened further in John's mouth, making him want to swallow around it, but he resisted the urge this time – he didn't want to risk Sherlock gagging if he tried to imitate that too soon, should their roles be reversed.

　　That thought nearly threw him again, and he was almost glad when Sherlock started pulling on his hair. Bossy bastard, John thought affectionately, tempted to reach a finger down and go for his prostate – that would show him who was in charge.

　　He realised that Sherlock was trying to talk, the fingers pulling harder now. "Enough, John," he gasped out, his body almost writhing on the bed. "Enough."

　　Bugger. John thought fast. He had promised he would stop, but Sherlock was right there, holding himself back by sheer force of will. If they stopped now, he wouldn't walk straight for a week. But John couldn't force him... well, he could, they both clearly knew that, but it was no good, it would break their trust irrevocably.

　　He felt almost desperate as the thoughts raced through his mind. If they gave up now, that would be it, he knew... Sherlock would never let himself go this far again.

　　He gentled his mouth but didn't remove it, reaching up instead with his left hand, tugging at the arm Sherlock had over his face until he dropped it, then clasping his hand, lacing their fingers so their palms were pressed tightly together; John's left to Sherlock's right, their dominant hands.

　　He tightened his grasp, squeezing Sherlock's fingers. 'Trust me,' his grip said and Sherlock inhaled sharply, flexing his fingers in turn.

　　Time seemed to stop as John waited, afraid to move, watching his happiness, his life, spinning in the revolving door of Sherlock's brain... everything you want / the end of your dreams /your lover's arms /your lonely bed... round and round, while Sherlock battled with himself.

　　Quite suddenly, it was over. The hand in his hair fell away and the other squeezed harder. 'I trust you,' it said. John didn't allow for second thoughts.

　　He hollowed his cheeks and sucked hard, his tongue flickering and Sherlock came almost immediately, arching off the bed and crying out, his nails digging into John's knuckles, other hand scrabbling across the bed, before he threw his arm back and gripped the railings of his headboard, his position close enough to John's previous fantasy to almost make his eyes roll back in his head, but he didn't want to miss a second of this, still not sure if it was something he would ever witness again.

　　He was trying to record everything, the feel of Sherlock pulsing in his mouth, the taste of him, the smell of his skin, the way his hips jerked, the noises he made and his face, lips parted, cheekbones flushed, his expression as John pulled off and swallowed, audibly.

　　John sat up as Sherlock began to settle, willing his own body to calm for the time being so he could continue to focus on Sherlock, although looking at him now wasn't helping with this situation in the slightest.

　　He waited while Sherlock's breathing rate gradually slowed, watching as his muscles relaxed, his grip on the rail easing, until he released it altogether, the pulse visible in his throat no longer beating quite so hard.

　　"How do you feel?" he asked, again; aware of the tension in his voice, each word feeling heavy in his mouth.

　　Sherlock clearly heard both the words and the fear, as he always did, and he tugged John forward, bringing their joined hands to his chest. "I feel loved," he said.