《Events after The Great Game》vernon

5、第 5 章 He wa

　　He wanted John, Sherlock realised, as the two of them travelled back to Baker Street.

　　He wasn't sure exactly in what way, but he definitely wanted John. He wanted to touch him, wanted to feel his skin, how warm it was, how hot. He most definitely wanted to kiss him again, to kiss him properly this time, to find out how he tasted, how they fit together.

　　Would John be dominant, as he could be sometimes? He had been so self-controlled up to this point, so reluctant to take advantage, always calling a halt, being careful of Sherlock, so very, very careful; so annoyingly, frustratingly, maddeningly careful.

　　Sherlock wondered what it would take to break that control. Was there a point at which John would snap, would accept that the attraction was mutual and finally take what he wanted?

　　He shivered slightly at that thought. He had always needed to be in charge, never liked being told what to do, hated it, even, but the thought of John losing his restraint, giving in to this... whatever it was and just taking him. Well, that thought was a lot more interesting than Sherlock had ever imagined it would be.

　　He had decided to let John set the pace though, had determined that it was unfair to push him. John had done so well today, being his eyes, letting him work, making him whole. John was important, John was necessary, John was essential. Sherlock's gloved hands clenched on the edge of his seat.

　　Keep your hands to yourself, John repeated in his head, as the taxi made its way through the London traffic.

　　They hadn't spoken a word to each other since leaving the morgue, but this wasn't their usual, companionable silence – this was anything but. Sherlock had been pleased with him today, John knew. He felt huge relief that Sherlock had solved the case, that he hadn't let his friend down, that he had done enough to allow Sherlock to work.

　　It wasn't relief in the air now, though. This was one of Sherlock's 'moments'– the post-case, adrenaline-high, heart-pounding moments... the difference being that it wasn't just John who was aware of it now.

　　He looked to his left, at Sherlock's hands, as they gripped the seat tightly. No indeed, it wasn't just John, this time.

　　As he watched, the arm nearest to him lifted; then Sherlock's other hand moved across and slowly, inch by inch, finger by finger, pulled off the glove, his right hand looking pale and naked as it was gradually revealed. Very deliberately, Sherlock stretched out his arm and rested his hand, palm up, on the seat between them.

　　That wasn't the hand which had been sneaking into his pyjama bottoms when he woke up this morning, thought John. How a detective of Sherlock's genius had possibly imagined that anyone could sleep through his little grope-fest earlier, was almost beyond John's comprehension. He really was as innocent as he claimed, not that John had doubted that after his reaction to the massage the night before, which had seemed to almost overwhelm him at one point.

　　It had certainly been an unexpected way to wake up and he had lain there, the knowledge of exactly whose long fingers were skimming along the top of his pubic hair, causing him to get very hard, very fast. He had wondered at first what he should do, immediately ruling out the first three ideas which jumped into his head. The fourth possibility had merit; he considered it seriously with the part of his brain which wasn't totally frozen with the words 'Sherlock's hand, Sherlock's hand' playing on a continuous loop, but in the end he decided to just wait and let his partner explore, wondering how far he would go.

　　It was only when the detective seemed to get stuck, and not know what to do, that John had taken pity on him and staged his 'wake-up', resigning himself to yet another shower. At least it wouldn't have to be a cold one, he thought. Since the week before, when Sherlock had insisted that he didn't care what went through the doctor's head, John no longer bothered trying to repress his fantasies.

　　He looked now at the hand which was lying palm up, as if in offering. The experiment in touch had been a success, and Sherlock was clearly ready for more. The question was, how much more?

　　Sherlock waited, his hand feeling cold and exposed, to see if John would accept his invitation. This wasn't pushing, the detective reasoned to himself, this was just offering. It wasn't the same thing at all.

　　Would John understand what he was saying, what he was asking? How could he really, when Sherlock didn't even understand it himself. He just knew that he wanted more. More data... more connection... more John.

　　His thoughts trailed off as a warm hand closed around his fingers and the heat of it seemed to scorch a trail up his arm. Touch was really an unusual sense, he decided. Less consistent that those on which he was used to relying. How was it that he could hold John's elbow and it would just be for guidance, he could wrap his arms around John, in bed even, and it would simply be comforting and warm, and yet at this moment, with only their hands in contact, he felt naked?

　　He broke the silence. "John?" his voice didn't sound quite normal.

　　"Sherlock." John's voice was odd too, a little low, somewhat tense.

　　The detective considered how best to phrase his request, in the end abandoning his usual eloquence in favour of, "Hallway?"

　　He heard his friend's indrawn breath and the fingers around his own tightened abruptly, before slackening again.

　　"I can't," said John. "I can't kiss you like that, not yet, not until you're sure."

　　Sherlock gritted his teeth. Why on earth was he so drawn to somebody who was so infuriating?

　　"Don't give me that face," John told him. "I don't mean the same thing that you mean." He paused briefly, his thumb tracing circles on the back of Sherlock's hand. "I can try to explain it to you but, in all honesty, I don't know if you're capable of understanding."

　　Sherlock half turned his body and adopted an attentive attitude, one eyebrow raised. This should be interesting.

　　John sighed. "Kissing is... can be," he corrected, "a very intimate experience." There was silence for a moment, just the heat of John's grip, and his thumb moving rhythmically over the back of Sherlock's hand.

　　"With almost anything else,you can distance yourself emotionally, mentally," he continued. "That may sound odd to you right now, but sometimes you need to do that, to take a step back in your head. Perhaps to prolong things, so it's not over too quickly,you don't come too soon – it can be better if you wait. Delayed gratification; do you follow me?"

　　Sherlock nodded, although it felt slightly odd to be having this conversation. He'd never discussed this sort of thing with anyone before.

　　"Kissing isn't like that," John said. "At least, not for me," he added. "It's very personal,you're right there, in that moment, with that person. You're connected."

　　Sherlock felt his attention sharpen somewhat at that word, which he often used in his head in relation to John.

　　"How personal it is, how intimate it feels, depends on who you're kissing and your emotions towards them," John continued. "I could probably kiss someone else and not have it be that big a deal."

　　Sherlock frowned. He didn't want John kissing someone else. He certainly didn't want John to be connected to anybody else.

　　John squeezed his hand more tightly. "It's OK, I'm just trying to explain," he said. "I'm not kissing anybody else." He paused, clearly thinking. "Wait, wasn't that on your list from this morning of things to be deduced?" he asked, but didn't wait for an answer. "Well, I don't want anybody else, so you can cross that one off."

　　His thumb went back to the lazy circles. "But to kiss you, Sherlock," he swallowed. "Kissing you would be the biggest deal there ever was." Sherlock cautiously ticked off another item from his morning's mental list.

　　John was still talking, but his voice was from a slightly different angle; he must have his head down. "I've thought about kissing you a thousand times," he said. "Hell, I even dream about it. Recurringly." There was a short silence. "But I'm glad I haven't. I know we agreed to try this," he lifted their joined hands briefly to illustrate his meaning. "I know you want to explore the sense of touch, investigate the possibilities of a physical relationship and that's fine with me." He cleared his throat. "More than fine," he added.

　　"But, until you have a conclusion, I need to protect myself a little bit. Because I don't want to have to leave if you decide that it's not for you. Do you understand, Sherlock? I don't want to do anything that might make it impossible for me to stay."

　　At this point, Sherlock realised that his entire contribution to the conversation thus far had been John's name, and a prospective venue. It seemed time for him to volunteer a little more.

　　"And kissing would be over that line?" he asked, doubtfully.

　　"It could be," John confirmed.

　　"But anything else is fine?"

　　"Anything else should be fine," John replied.

　　Sherlock thought about that for a moment. It was difficult, really, to understand John's perspective. It seemed to go against the typical route of sexual progression as he understood it. However, he had to concede that John's level of self-awareness in this area far exceeded his own. If that was how John felt, he supposed he would have to accept it.

　　"Look, I'll leave it to you, all right?" John interrupted his thoughts, the grip on his hand tightening once more.

　　"You can kiss me when you're sure," he continued. "As soon as you've got enough data, if your conclusion is that you want to be in a proper relationship with me, then fine, go for it."

　　"But Sherlock," he added. "I'm asking you, as my friend, don't rush that decision. I know you always want to know everything, and it's always now or sooner with you, but please, for my sake, wait until you're sure, OK?"

　　Sherlock's lips twisted, realising that he had been backed into a corner, with no easy way out. He couldn't just announce now that he was sure, when only the night before he had demanded assistance with his sense of touch; John would never believe him. Also, the threat of John leaving was enough to make him more cautious than usual.

　　He would have to wait. He sighed. He hated waiting.

　　Part of Sherlock's brain had automatically been tracking their route, noting every twist and turn of the journey and he knew that they were now almost home.

　　"Fine," he agreed, begrudgingly, sighing again. "I just wanted you to kiss me, that's all," he added, aware that he sounded petulant.

　　There was a flurry of motion, a hand on the left side of his jaw and the press of something just below his right ear. A touch of lips, a nip of teeth, Sherlock gasped in surprise and something else; something that was more like... anticipation.

　　John pulled back, but not very far, his words hot against Sherlock's neck. "Oh, I will kiss you, Sherlock. I have no problem kissing you," he said. "I'll kiss you anywhere you like." He grazed his teeth up to Sherlock's ear. "Except on the mouth," he added.

　　The taxi pulled up on Baker Street and John paid the driver while Sherlock opened the door and climbed out. As John stepped onto the pavement, the detective took his hand and placed it carefully over his belt buckle. High enough to be decent, but low enough to make his meaning clear. "Anywhere?" he queried, one eyebrow arched invitingly.

　　John stumbled as he shut the cab door behind him, but quickly steadied, sliding his other arm under Sherlock's coat and round to his lower back, then squeezing his hands together slightly so he held Sherlock's abdomen sandwiched in between them. "Oh, God,yes," he replied.

　　John's mind was reeling as he released his partner and turned towards their front door. Had he really just agreed to give Sherlock Holmes his first blow job? It certainly seemed that way.

　　He half wondered if Sherlock was truly ready for that sort of intensity, but quickly dismissed the thought. His friend now at least had the experience of the massage to draw on, and if he felt confident enough to make the suggestion, then John decided he would respect that decision. After all, John was only human… the chance to get his hands, to get his mouth on Sherlock was not an opportunity he could resist any longer, not when it was so freely, even eagerly, offered.

　　His right hand closed around Sherlock's wrist and he tugged him quickly towards the front door, left hand searching through his pocket for his keys.

　　It was at this point that Sherlock's attention was diverted and he put his other hand over John's, which was just putting the key in the lock. "Wait, John," he said. "Someone's here."

　　Before John even had chance to look round, Sherlock groaned, then leaned forward until his forehead thudded against the door.

　　"Good afternoon," Mycroft's voice spoke from behind them. John turned around. The older Holmes was smiling politely, but there was an edge to it; he didn't look happy.

　　Sherlock spoke without moving, "To what do we owe the displeasure of this extraordinarily badly timed visit?" he asked, with what John felt was understandable rudeness.

　　"Shall we go in?" Mycroft suggested, gesturing towards the door. John glanced at Sherlock, who looked extremely fed up, then turned the key and led the way inside.

　　The two brothers sat opposite each other in the armchairs, seemingly engaged in a silent battle of wits while John bustled around, making tea. Once everyone had their mugs, the room fell quiet.

　　John leaned against the table, deciding to keep out of it as much as possible.

　　Eventually, Mycroft spoke. "Are you being entirely wise?" he asked, directing his words towards his brother. "Only a week ago,you were happy that Moriarty appeared to underestimate you and yet now, here the pair of you are," his disapproving gaze moved over John also, "deliberately drawing attention to yourselves."

　　Sherlock curled his lip, but declined to comment and Mycroft's eyes turned to John.

　　"He solved the case,you know," John pointed out. "Two cold-blooded killers off the street." Mycroft looked unimpressed. "And we asked Lestrade to keep Sherlock's name out of it." Actually, it had been John who asked, but he had been perfectly open about it and Sherlock hadn't objected.

　　Mycroft seemed to feel this was a complete waste of time when considering someone with Moriarty's connections and resources. He turned back to Sherlock. "Is it your intention to continue to endanger yourself?" he asked. "To go on playing the blind detective until Moriarty makes another attempt to stop you? An attempt which John may be unable to thwart this time."

　　"What would you have me do?" demanded Sherlock, irritably. "Just sit around until my brain rots completely?"

　　"I expect you to let me do my job, so that it will be safe for you to go back to doing yours," Mycroft told him. "I have good people working on the Moriarty situation. He won't be a threat forever."

　　"You don't have anybody as good as Sherlock," John spoke up. "You should be letting him help if you want to catch that psycho; he's probably the only one who can."

　　Sherlock's lips twitched in a half smile, but Mycroft rose to his feet, and his face was cold. "You surprise me, John," he said. "You surprise me very much."

　　He swung his umbrella to and fro slightly, before leaning on it. "I would have thought, given your feelings," there was a slightly disdainful note in his voice, "that you would be more interested in protecting Sherlock and less keen to encourage him into dangerous and potentially deadly situations." He looked down his nose at the smaller man. "I confess myself to be disappointed," he added.

　　John glanced at Sherlock, whose lips were set in a thin line. Mycroft was displaying a clear example of what John thought of as 'Big Brother' syndrome. He loved Sherlock, but he didn't really respect him. He recognised his brother's genius, and was happy to utilise it when the occasion arose, but he still treated him as a child, which, of course, only made Sherlock more determined to be childish.

　　This explained why Mrs Hudson had mentioned to John early on that the rent was taken care of and why every time he used the cash point machine, the balance seemed unchanged. It also explained why Sherlock had been so unused to praise, despite having a sibling who clearly cared about him.

　　Mycroft was happy to nurture and protect his brother, but he didn't like him making his own choices.

　　John stood a little straighter, his posture changing along with his attitude, until the man facing Mycroft was the soldier he had first met.

　　"I understand that you want what's best for Sherlock," he said. "And I recognise that you supported me in the hospital, and since then, because you assumed that my priorities were the same."

　　He held Mycroft's gaze as he spoke, and his voice was strong. "I may be several things to your brother, and it's clearly no secret that I want to be more, but I'm not his keeper." He threw a quick glance towards Sherlock, who looked a little startled.

　　"If I try to stop Sherlock from doing what he loves, from being the man that he is, then I might as well shoot him myself," he said bluntly. "If that's what you call love, then you can keep it."

　　Both of the Holmes brothers wore matching expressions of surprise, and both automatically blanked their faces as Mycroft slowly turned back so that they were facing each other. It occurred to John that Mycroft didn't really need to bother at the moment, but perhaps he thought Sherlock would regain his sight and not admit it... Actually, that was just the sort of thing that Sherlock would do, at least as far as Mycroft was concerned. John shook his head at the pair of them.

　　Mycroft sat back down, his gaze moving between the two of them, and John noticed the slight twitch of Sherlock's hand which seemed to beckon him. He moved over and perched on the side of his partner's chair, Sherlock's arm immediately wrapping around him.

　　After a few minutes, Mycroft nodded and got up again. "Very well," he said. "Is this what you want, Sherlock?"

　　John glanced round, as the hand on his hip tightened.

　　"It is," replied Sherlock, and John experienced the familiar feeling that there was a lot more being communicated between the Holmes brothers than was actually being said.

　　"I'll send Anthea round shortly," Mycroft told them. "She can bring you up to date on the current information."

　　John moved to stand up, but Sherlock's hand tightened further and he subsided.

　　Mycroft quirked a brow slightly. "Don't get up, John," he said. "I can find my own way out." His gaze passed over both of them as he turned to the door. "See you very soon," he observed, before departing.

　　The flat was quiet after he had gone and John turned his head to look at Sherlock, who had a most unusual expression on his face. A slow smile was growing and John suddenly found himself in motion, as Sherlock used both arms to pull him sideways, sliding down into his chair at the same time so that they ended up with Sherlock stretched out and John lying back on top of him.

　　He grunted in surprise and Sherlock adjusted his grip, his left arm spanning John's chest to hold him in place and the other sliding down until his fingers skimmed under the waistband of his partner's jeans, the position reminiscent of how John had woken up that morning.

　　He arched slightly backwards at the sensation and Sherlock's voice was low and husky in his ear.

　　"John," the voice said. "John, if there is anything that you want..." John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock's lips brush his neck. "If there's anything you have... imagined..." The lips moved up and Sherlock's teeth caught the lobe of his ear for a moment. "Anything I can do for you..." John's whole body shuddered and he grabbed the arms of the chair to steady himself.

　　Sherlock's hand moved up slightly and started unfastening John's belt. "Now would be a good time..." he whispered.