《Events after The Great Game》vernon

3、第 3 章 John'

　　John's mind was racing as he led his friend to the bedroom.

　　He glanced over his shoulder. If anyone else as gorgeous as Sherlock had claimed to have had no sexual or romantic experience at all by his age, John would have assumed that they were winding him up.

　　Somehow, however, he couldn't bring himself to doubt the detective. His face had been unusually expressive in describing both his interest in John, and his distaste for anyone else.

　　He was still skittish, though, despite his claims about what he wanted, still a little on edge. As much as he had decided to investigate, it was still very much within the realm of possibility that Sherlock would change his mind, would find physical intimacy too intense, too messy for him.

　　Time to establish some ground rules, which would hopefully put him at ease.

　　He led Sherlock to the bed and tugged him down so that they were sitting next to one another.

　　"OK," he said. "Since this is all new to you, let's agree what's going to happen, so you know what to expect."

　　Sherlock gave him a small smile and seemed to relax a fraction.

　　"Just hang on a second," John told him, squeezing his hand before getting up and going to the bathroom, where he grabbed a couple of large, fresh, towels.

　　When he came back to the room, Sherlock had risen to his feet again and was standing a little awkwardly, next to the bed.

　　"Relax," John told him. "We don't have to do anything, if you don't want to."

　　"No, I want to," said Sherlock immediately, shrugging off his jacket and throwing it at the chair behind him.

　　John swallowed. Since when had just watching Sherlock remove his jacket affected him so strongly? Since you first laid eyes on him, said the voice in his head, but that wasn't strictly true. Knowing that he was going to be touching the skin under the clothes in just a few short minutes, definitely took the sight to a whole new level.

　　Sherlock had moved on to the buttons of his shirt and John stepped forward quickly, pressing his hands on top of his friend's to stop him, but unable to prevent his own palms flattening slightly, middle fingers just stroking back and forth along Sherlock's collar bones.

　　"Wait," he said, hearing the catch in his voice.

　　Sherlock dropped his hands, obediently; looking disappointed when John led him to sit on the bed again, at an angle this time, so that they were turned towards each other.

　　John reached out and took both of Sherlock's hands in his own.

　　"Nothing specifically sexual is going to happen tonight, Sherlock," he told him. "If this sort of situation is as alien to you as you say, then I certainly don't want to dive right into anything that's going to overwhelm you."

　　Sherlock snorted in disgust. "I'm not a child, John," he replied, haughtily. "I may be blind at the moment but I don't need mollycoddling. I'm perfectly capable of making decisions for and about myself." He looked extremely affronted, and started to pull his hands away, but then seemed to change his mind and held on tighter instead.

　　"I'm not suggesting anything of the sort," replied John, soothingly, stroking both thumbs over the backs of the hands he was holding. "I'm just saying that it's best to take things slowly– you wouldn't jump into an experiment without gathering the necessary data in advance, would you?"

　　Sherlock tipped his head to one side, wearing an expression of deep suspicion, until a slight smirk appeared at the corner of his mouth - John's only warning of what was to come.

　　"So," he said, pulling his hands free. "Are you telling me that if, on one of those moments I mentioned..." He raised both hands to cup John's face, angling his head so they were nose to nose.

　　"On one of those nights when we came in from a case, high on adrenaline, hearts pounding, out of breath..." His voice was getting lower as he spoke.

　　"On one of those times when we paused in the hallway, leaning against the wall and looking at each other..." His eyes seemed to be burning, even though he couldn't see.

　　"On one of those moments," Sherlock said. "If I had acted on the impulse I failed to recognise at the time and leaned over and kissed you," he pressed his forehead to John's, his words breathed out huskily only inches from the smaller man's mouth.

　　"If I had pulled your body close to mine and then pressed you up against the wall and kept on kissing you, until neither of us remembered we were supposed to be breathing..." His fingers stroked along John's jawline.

　　"If that had happened back when I had my sight, are you telling me you would have stopped me, and said you wanted to take things slowly?" He released his friend and sat back slightly, clearly feeling he had made his point.

　　John could feel the flush rising all the way up his chest and over his face as Sherlock perfectly described one of his most recurring fantasies, as if he was watching it play out on video inside John's head.

　　He cleared his throat and tried to reply, but his voice wouldn't work. He raised his hand, noticing that it was shaking, and rubbed it over his face.

　　"Sherlock," it came out as a croak. He tried again. "Sherlock," that was better. "When you said you had no experience, did you really mean NO experience, or just that you hadn't actually had sex?"

　　The detective was looking increasingly impatient. "I meant what I said, John," he replied. "It's never interested me at all – whatever intimacyyou're currently wondering if I have participated in, the answer is sure to be 'No'. Do you want to be more specific, or are you going to answer my question?"

　　John ran a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he explained. "But that was a fuck-hot description of a kiss for a man who's never had one. You can't blame me for asking."

　　A strange look passed across Sherlock's face, but he just raised his eyebrows. "I may be inexperienced, but I don't live in a bubble, John," he said. "Sex is a primary motivator in crime. My factual knowledge is both extensive and wide ranging." He was clearly still waiting for a response.

　　John drew a deep breath. "OK," he said. "If that had happened, just as you described it," he paused for a moment to clear his head again. "Then no, I wouldn't have stopped you. Stopping you would have been the last thing on my mind."

　　"But," he added, taking Sherlock's hand again. "But... If I had known that you were a virgin..." His friend grimaced slightly at the word.

　　"If I was worried that this was just an experiment for you and that you would change your mind as suddenly as you had made it up..." His thumb rubbed rhythmically over the back of the hand he held.

　　"If I was afraid that this one time was all I was ever going to have, then,yes," he confirmed, sitting back and letting his hand fall. "Yes, I would have stopped you."

　　He paused, then added honestly, "Even though it would have half-killed me to do it."

　　Sherlock sat still for a moment, then raised a hand to John's face again, just checking his expression this time, as he so often did. He must have been able to feel the heat from the flush which had yet to dissipate and, after a little while, he nodded.

　　"Alright, John," he said. "This is your lesson,you're in charge." He shrugged his shoulders. "Go ahead."

　　John tried to pull himself together. "OK," he said. "Have you ever had a massage?" he asked.

　　Sherlock shook his head. "I don't like strangers touching me," he explained. "Well," he added, "I say strangers," he paused. "I don't really like anybody touching me. Except for you, John." He smiled. "I think we have established by now that you are the exception to most of my rules."

　　John cleared his throat. "Well, I'm not trained in massage, by any means, but that's not what this is about." He thought for a moment. "Let's call it an experiment in touch."

　　He took Sherlock's right hand in his and held it palm up, then started running his left index finger along the inside of the detective's wrist, gradually moving down, then along and between his fingers.

　　"There's a towel in the middle of the bed," he said, unfastening the button at Sherlock's cuff and running his finger lightly up the detective's inner arm, then back down to his palm again.

　　"I'm going to go and get a couple of things, while you get ready." His eyes were transfixed on the progress being made by his finger as it moved over the pale skin before him, tracing the delicate veins of the wrist. "I would suggest you change into your pyjama pants, if you're comfortable with that, then lie down on the towel. Your back seems a good place to start, so lie on your front."

　　He turned Sherlock's hand over again and laced their fingers together. "Does that sound alright?" He looked up.

　　Sherlock's lips were parted and his head was down. He nodded, but didn't say anything.

　　"Right," continued John, getting to his feet. "I'll be a few minutes, so take your time. I'll knock before I come back in."

　　He left the room quickly, before the temptation to just push Sherlock down onto his back and climb on top of him became overwhelming.

　　Running up the stairs to his bedroom, he grabbed the bottle of massage oil from the back of his nightstand, then headed to the kitchen, where he filled a bowl with hot water and stood the bottle in it, flipping the top open at the same time.

　　Leaving it to warm for a couple of minutes, he walked into the living room and moved to the window, raising his hand to rest on the frame and looking blindly out at the street below, wondering what the hell he was doing.

　　Was he just torturing himself? Did he really believe that Sherlock Holmes, genius, self-professed sociopath, aloof, proud, prickly madman, actually wanted to become embroiled in one of the messy, irrelevant, personal relationships which he so despised, and with him – John Watson, the very personification of ordinary?

　　John closed his eyes, and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the glass. Wasn't it more likely that Sherlock was bored? Bored and curious and with only John available to experiment on?

　　He squared his shoulders, pushing the negative thoughts out of his head. It was impossible for him to judge Sherlock's motivations, since he wasn't sure that the man understood them himself, and his brain functioned on an entirely different level, anyway. John didn't know what was at the root of this sudden interest, but he didn't think his friend would deliberately just use him.

　　He would need to proceed with care and caution if he wanted Sherlock. And he did want Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock very badly indeed. The fact that he had always assumed Sherlock was the one thing he could never have, had not lessened his desire in the slightest.

　　Fine. He would never have pushed his friend into anything, or taken advantage of him in any way, but if it the game was on, with Sherlock as the prize, then John was going to do his damnedest to win.

　　He straightened up, determination lengthening his stride as he collected the oil from the kitchen and made his way back to Sherlock's room, where he tapped on the door, as promised.

　　"I'm ready, John," came the deep voice of his flat-mate. He walked in, then stopped dead near the doorway.

　　Sherlock was lying face down in the centre of the bed, as requested, but he wasn't wearing his pyjama bottoms. Clearly, he was determined to test his friend's limits as far as possible. John supposed he should be glad that he had, at least, retained his underwear.

　　He set his jaw. Right. Two could play at this game, and only one of them knew what he was doing. The fact that his desire for the body he now saw laid out before him seemed to be getting stronger every day was just another challenge to be met.

　　He was not going to let Sherlock have his way and get what he wanted immediately. He was going to keep the detective's interest focused on himself for as long as possible, make sure he still had more to learn, more to investigate, more to keep him coming back to John.

　　Eyes on the prize, Watson, he told himself, and stripped off his shirt.

　　Sherlock was very aware of John's position, as he moved around the room. There was a dull thud as he put something down on the table, then a rustle of clothing – was John getting undressed too?

　　No, just his shirt by the sound of it, but then – no, he didn't take those off over his head; he must have removed his T-shirt as well. That meant they were both topless.

　　Sherlock shivered slightly, even though the room was warm. He felt quite exposed, lying here in only his shorts, but it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. He knew that John liked to look at him, knew that John found him attractive. He could feel his friend's eyes moving over his naked back like a prickle of electricity snaking down his spine.

　　Perhaps there was a streak of exhibitionism in his personality which he had so far been unaware of? Sherlock considered this for a moment, as he heard John pause at the foot of the bed. There was no reason for him to stop there, and the detective felt the hairs on his legs stand on end, as if more than just John's gaze had swept over them, but he was sure that John had not yet touched him.

　　He half expected the doctor to ask again if he was sure, or to check if he was alright, but John didn't say a word. Perhaps he had taken to heart Sherlock's reaction at being patronised earlier – a kiss in the hallway must have been something John had thought about himself, because he had clearly assumed it was his own fantasy that Sherlock had picked up on and described so emotively.

　　The detective couldn't divulge that it was actually he who kept thinking of those moments; that ever since their sleepy kiss a week ago, it was Sherlock who often found himself dwelling on 'what if?', it was his own imaginings which he had ruthlessly used in order to make his point.

　　A slight scraping noise brought his focus back to the present, as John picked up whatever he had brought with him, it sounded like one of the ceramic bowls from the kitchen, then moved round and placed it on the nightstand, next to Sherlock's side of the bed.

　　It struck him suddenly how quickly he had got used to having a 'side' of the bed, rather than just sprawling across it as he had always done. Surely that should have been a bigger adjustment? It was altogether strange how John had just slotted into his life.

　　Sherlock had moved the pillows when he lay down, and had both arms raised and folded under his head, with his face turned towards the door. This meant that John was effectively behind him now, and he felt the dip to his right as the doctor sat on the edge of the mattress, removing his shoes and socks.

　　Sherlock lay still, waiting, focused on the movements which approached him and paused at his side. Everything was silent for a minute, then John's voice was by his ear.

　　"You are beautiful," the voice said, John's breath gliding over the skin of his neck and shoulder. "The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

　　He sat back and it occurred to Sherlock, who had always considered beauty, or the lack thereof, to be one of life's more significant irrelevancies, that he was glad. He was glad that John found him attractive.

　　He liked it when he knew that John was looking at him – even long before, when he had mistakenly thought that John was no longer interested in him after their conversation at Angelo's, he had still been aware that the doctor found him aesthetically pleasing, had known better than to talk to him when they were going up the stairs.

　　Had this feeling always been there, then, just simmering under the surface unrecognised? How ironic that it took blindness to open his eyes, to make him see that he wanted John to want him.

　　He heard sounds of liquid, water, presumably, in the bowl and something more viscous. Oil, he realised; John had brought some kind of oil and it must be hot water in the bowl so that the oil would be warm on his skin.

　　Sherlock lay in his darkness, waiting, anticipating, wondering what John would do and how it would feel.

　　John rubbed the oil between his palms, then swung one leg over Sherlock's hips so he was kneeling astride him, still not touching. He looked at the expanse of smooth, pale skin before him, and then he looked at his hands; they were completely steady.

　　Heart beating loudly in his ears, still finding it hard to believe that he was actually allowed to do this, he lowered his hands until they rested lightly on either side of Sherlock's spine, just above his hips.

　　He waited, feeling the contact like static running up his arms, just gently flexing his fingers. Sherlock had tensed slightly at first, but he was relaxing again now. John skimmed his hands lightly up, over the shoulder blades which were gleaming palely in the light, and across, then out and down over the ribs and back to where he had started. He moved slowly and deliberately, wanting to give Sherlock time to get used to the sensation.

　　Repeating his actions, he leaned forward and let his eyes travel with his fingers, identifying scars, admiring the breadth of shoulder, the lean muscles, his hands splaying out as he passed over Sherlock's ribs again – not quite so evident now as they had been, due to more regular meals and less jumping across rooftops.

　　Several more passes and his hands were pressing a little harder, his movements getting a little bigger, fingers straying a little wider. They brushed along Sherlock's lower ribs, right at the sides of his body so that the tips of John's fingers were almost touching the towel and Sherlock squirmed.

　　John didn't say anything, keeping the motion going, pressing in with the heels of his hands on the way up, and with his fingers on the way down. After a couple more circuits he strayed to Sherlock's sides once more, testing.

　　Sherlock wriggled again, a strange gasp bursting from his lips. John leaned forward, leaving his hands where they were.

　　"Sherlock," he breathed, noticing how the detective's head twisted towards his voice, "Sherlock, are you ticklish?" He brushed his fingers over the sensitive area again.

　　"I don't know, John," his friend gasped, "I think I must be. Don't..." he squirmed again and John relented, smiling, moving his hands on and finally lowering his body so that he was actually sitting on Sherlock's hips.

　　How could anyone get to their mid thirties, he wondered, without even knowing they were ticklish? In a way, that was even odder than the lack of sex and John suddenly felt sad for his friend, and for the lonely life he had led for so manyyears.

　　A life busy with work, with the thrill of the hunt, with The Game, but also an empty life in many ways, with no-one who cared if he didn't eat for days, no-one to admire his incredible achievements and abilities, no-one to patch him up if he was injured or to give him a hug if a hug was required. There was just Sherlock, the closest thing to an island any man could be.

　　John's hands were making half-circles now, working together up one side of Sherlock's back and then the other, and it came to him that he should stop worrying about whether or not Sherlock really wanted him, wanted this. That was important, certainly, he respected his friend's choices, but Sherlock needed him.

　　It was a strange and alien thought to John, who was not remotely egotistical, but he could see the truth of it now. Sherlock with John worked much better than Sherlock alone. Not just worked in the sense of his work, although that too, certainly. But Sherlock the man, the brilliant, slightly lunatic, dazzling man; he needed John, or someone like him, to ground him, to hold his strings and stop him getting lost in his head, to remind him that he was human.

　　Except there wasn't anybody like John. That was the thought which was so shocking. For some reason, out of all the people he had met over the course of his life, the only one Sherlock had accepted was John, they just seemed to fit together.

　　Sherlock was stretching slightly now, rolling his shoulders a little in time with John's movements and... was he humming? John leaned forwards, sliding his left hand up to the back of his friend's neck and reaching for the oil with his right, managing to tip a little into his hand without ever losing contact with Sherlock's skin.

　　He brought both hands to the detective's shoulders and started kneading the muscles a little more deeply and yes, there was definitely some sort of noise coming from the man beneath him – it sounded like a low hum, with an occasional rumbling growl thrown in. John wondered if Sherlock was even aware he was doing it.

　　He rose up on to his knees again so that he could lean further, his hands moving along Sherlock's upper arms now, where they were raised, supporting his head. Sherlock moaned quietly, twisting his neck until his head was facing down, forehead pressed to the mattress, and then stretched his arms straight up, muscles flexing as his hands found and gripped the railings of his headboard.

　　John caught his breath, and for a moment had to remind his hands to keep moving as the vision before him set off an entirely new chain of fantasies... Sherlock tied to the rails rather than holding on to them... Sherlock on his back, naked, his mouth quirking in that suggestive way he had, helpless and yet still thinking he was in charge... John demonstrating the error of that assumption, breaking him down using every trick he'd learned over the years until his lover was writhing beneath him, head thrown back as he tugged against the restraints,yet not really wanting to be free.

　　John's heart was thumping and his jeans were uncomfortably tight, but he kept going, edging up the bed and smoothing his hands right up Sherlock's arms until his oiled fingers were laced between Sherlock's own, reinforcing their grip, before stroking back down to focus once more on his shoulders and the sides of his neck.

　　He lowered his head to Sherlock's again, "You feel amazing," he murmured, allowing his mouth to graze the outer edge of the detective's ear. "I could do this for hours."

　　He felt the shudder run right the way through Sherlock's body and the hands holding the railing clenched hard, knuckles standing out white even against the pale skin. At this stage, thought John, he would have to say that the experiment in touch seemed to be going very well indeed...

　　Sherlock had never imagined anything like this.

　　It had taken a little while to get used to the sensation of hands moving over his skin, but soon it started to feel soothing and warm and really, very pleasant indeed. He wondered why he'd never tried having a massage before, but then considered the thought of someone else's hands touching him, hands that weren't John's hands, and he knew the answer.

　　When John's fingers had grazed over the sides of his lower ribs, he found himself squirming away– it was too sensitive, the feeling too intense and almost itchy. Perhaps this was not for him, after all. But John had moved his hands away, chuckling something about being ticklish, and then lowering his weight down until he was actually sitting astride Sherlock's hips, giving the detective something else to focus on.

　　He could feel the fabric of John's jeans rubbing slightly against his flanks, even through the thin material of his shorts. It would be better really, more comfortable, if John wasn't wearing them – he opened his mouth to suggest this, then thought better of it. He didn't want John to get up. He would tell him next time, Sherlock decided. Perhaps by then they could have dispensed with these annoying clothes all together.

　　Next John had started stroking his hands in half circles up one side of his back, and then the other, his hands alternating, which made it difficult to determine exactly where the next pressure point would be. It felt wonderful, it felt like... he tried to think, but his brain seemed to have switched to 'Stand By' mode. It felt... it felt as if John's feelings were seeping out through his fingers and warming the flesh beneath, Sherlock concluded, slightly hazily.

　　He was aware as never before of how much he meant to John. He knew that he wasn't an easy man to love; very few people had ever got close enough to try, not that he would have wanted them to. But John had. John really did love him, regardless of whether he had said the words or not, that was irrelevant. It was in everything that he did, every move he made, irrefutable.

　　It had taken a lot of courage for John to risk this, Sherlock realised. He knew that caring left people open to pain. John had taken a chance on him, a big chance really, Sherlock being as he was. It was quite a responsibility; he didn't want to hurt John, his only friend.

　　He would stop pushing and let John set the pace, Sherlock decided, his thoughts trailing off as John's hands kept moving and he felt as if he was getting warmer – to a greater degree than he would have expected from friction alone. He flexed his shoulders gently, stretching and arching his back as John's hands stroked over him. It was odd; in one way very relaxing, and yet at the same time he was aware of a growing tension.

　　When John's focus moved up to his shoulders, it felt amazingly good. Then the weight was gone from his hips as John leaned over him, the hands smoothing over his upper arms. Sherlock could picture in his head how they must look; himself stretched out on the bed, almost naked, with John virtually on top of him, stroking him, completely focused on him.

　　He was surprised by the sound that escaped his lips, and stretched again, luxuriously, his hands reaching up over his head. His fingers brushed against the railings of his headboard and he took hold, suddenly feeling a need to anchor himself against this feeling that was running though his body.

　　He heard John's breath catch, then his hands were moving along Sherlock's arms, right the way up to where his own hands were wrapped around the railings. John linked their fingers together and it suddenly felt as if John was restraining him, holding him down. His friend's breathing had become heavier and Sherlock felt something coiling in his belly, the tension he was feeling growing stronger.

　　When John's lips brushed his ear, he could feel his body shaking and he tightened his grip on the railings. This was fast becoming too much, the sensations too overwhelming and strange; perhaps John had been right to insist on taking things slowly, because his body was reacting far beyond what he was prepared for, and yet... and yet he didn't want to stop...

　　As if sensing how he felt, John eased back, his touch growing lighter as he shifted down the bed until he straddled Sherlock's hips once more and started simply dragging the tips of his fingers down from shoulders to hips, then circling lightly back and doing it again, the pressure reducing each time until it was just the lightest of brushes over the surface of his skin.

　　After a few minutes of this, John's hands finally stopped moving, coming to rest just above Sherlock's hips, where they had started, as if they couldn't yet quite bear to break the contact.

　　There was silence for a moment, then John spoke, his voice husky. "Do you want me to do your front?" he asked.

　　Sherlock shivered. Although John's hands had gentled towards the end, his movements as he worked had been rubbing Sherlock's hips against the bed and the detective was well aware that his body's reaction would be only too evident if he turned over.

　　He propped himself up on his elbows and turned his head towards John, so that the doctor would be able to see the flush in his cheeks and the rapid pulse beating in his throat. He opened his eyes, knowing that his pupils would be blown wide.

　　"That," he said, his voice sounding unusually deep, "would depend entirely upon your meaning."

　　An hour later, John lay on his back in the dark, stroking his fingers through the still damp curls on top of his flat-mate's head.

　　Sherlock was pressed up against his side, arm wrapped round John's middle and leg thrown over his, effectively pinning the doctor in place, not that he really wanted to go anywhere.

　　Once John had declared the massage over, Sherlock had stayed face down for a few minutes, before going off to take the first shower; not sure how he felt about the oil staying on his skin, once he was able to focus on it. When John returned from his own time in the bathroom it was to find the room in darkness, with Sherlock right in the middle of the bed, and not a cushion to be found anywhere.

　　He had made a half-hearted attempt to look for them, but when Sherlock assured him that he was wasting his time, it seemed pointless to try any longer; although how a blind man had managed to conceal such a large quantity of bulky items was anybody's guess.

　　His hand slipped down to the back of Sherlock's neck. His friend wasn't asleep, John knew. He was no doubt replaying this latest experience; categorising, classifying, determining exactly what movement had caused what reaction, analysing everything down to the last detail.

　　After a little while, he gathered his courage and asked the million dollar question. "What did you think?" John spoke quietly, but the words still sounded loud in his ears.

　　Sherlock tipped his head up and exhaled sharply, his breath hot across John's collar bones. "Don't know," he replied. "Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need more data."

　　He wrapped his arm more tightly around John, squeezing him closer and speaking into his neck. "Need lots more data," he said.

　　John opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the chime of a text message. He stretched towards the bedside table but wasn't able to reach his phone with Sherlock pinning him down, and the man seemed in no hurry to release him. John sighed. "Could be dangerous," he tried.

　　Sherlock snorted. "That's my line," he pointed out, but he leaned across anyway, his longer arms reaching the phone easily. "I miss texting," he complained, as he handed the phone to John.

　　"You used to make me send them half the time," John huffed, pushing Sherlock off so he could sit up. "You can dictate a reply to this one as well, it's for you." He scrolled down the message quickly, as Sherlock sat up too and rested his chin on the smaller man's shoulder, arms slipping around his waist.

　　"It's from Lestrade," John reported. "Sorry to contact you so late... blah, blah, blah... He's asking us to come down to the Yard in the morning, wants your advice on a case." He looked round. "What do you think?"

　　Sherlock's face was illuminated by the light from the phone, and he was smiling. "I think we're ready, John" he said.