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These nightmares are worse.
They’re better, in terms of sheer carnage, sand, and the constant sense of barely tamped panic. (Afghanistan reaping the seeds sown at the core of John’s mind.) This isn’t the nightmare where John holds a dying soldier, barely nineteen years old, choking on his own lifeblood.
“We’re losing him!” He was already good as dead.
There was no hope to begin with.
The boy’s fate was sealed the split second a sniper’s bullet shattered his heart.
Delicate, so easily obliterated, these bodies. It doesn’t seem possible. Somehow, it is.
John watched the blood turn frothy as it mixed with saliva and slid down the soldier’s chin. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t confess anything. Burning sun, gunshots, screaming men, and the sand underneath. The hopeless shelter of John’s palms holding a dying boy.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I can’t help you, please, forgive me.
He only bled and bled, looked at John, eyes wide and afraid.
John wakes himself from that nightmare. Sometimes his face will be wet from the tears shed inside the dream; grief and panic finding its way outward. It’s trauma, manifesting itself, resolving itself, only to hurt a hundred different ways all over again.
John lived those dreams. Slowly, they’ve turned themselves into awful, but predictable scenes, replayed against the back of his eyelids. It’s a familiar sort of horror, and perhaps that’s why those nightmares are more tolerable.
But this.
This nightmare is the worst sort of torture. It’s the kind that seems to last the duration of John’s slumber, though there’s hardly anything to it at all.
John wakes into this nightmare. He walks inside of it. It’s real, tangible, and John walks and walks.
A grey sidewalk and blue sky. A place so generic in description that it’s probably not anywhere at all. A sidewalk that he’s fallen hard onto, palms on his knees. He’s not friends with the pavement, though it has embraced him many times. Sometimes, there’s only white walls, and John can’t see the seams between the walls and the floor.
And the dead body of Sherlock Holmes lying right in front of him. Black wisps of curls crushed underneath the weight of his skull. John stoops, runs his fingers along the blurring edges of his body. John could pick Sherlock out from a faceless crowd by the lines created by his exquisite posture. He doesn’t understand why Sherlock’s body defies the physics of human boundaries, here. The contours of his skin shimmer with infuriating static. Still, John searches for blood. Holes. Cuts. An explanation. There’s never anything.
He shouldn’t be dead. There’s no reason for it.
Eyes open, staring at nothing, the usually vivid spectrum of his eyes has gone dull. John can’t remember how to talk, and Sherlock just lies there. Unhelpful. How is John supposed to save him, like this? All dead, and blurry the way he is.
John has things to say to Sherlock, important, life-altering, things.
But his mouth is so full of silence, that he gags on it.
He turns around, he can still see the body.
So he just stands there, looking at it. And he does not know what he should do with it.
John wakes up. No tears. Only a pressing hollowness and the residual ache of his utter futility, it seems to follow him from the grey pavement, the white walls, and into John’s consciousness.
The solitariness of his bed feels so utterly inadequate.
John kissed Sherlock, over a week ago. It was more than kissing. Less than groping. They kissed, held onto one another, and came.
In hindsight, it was predictable, the way it happened. The both of them stumbling over the threshold of their flat after a particularly harrowing case, Sherlock still bleeding slightly from a cut over his eye. The switchblade’s graze, the abrupt flow of red over pale flesh. John’s bruised ribs, a result of fists against the caging bones. A tense moment in the alleyway when John cupped Sherlock’s face in his hand, used his thumb to smooth over skin to check for swelling. The soft catch of breath that wasn’t John’s own as his fingertips seemed to move of their own volition to trace the whorl of Sherlock’s ear. Then the sound of sirens coming to apprehend their (unconscious and likely concussed) catch, a shrill, wailing, call intruding on their hazy cocoon. John was at once both relieved, and absolutely incensed over the interruption.
Didn’t quite matter there in the end, John’s body remembered what it wanted as soon as he heard the door latch under the weight of Sherlock’s back. A brief moment of heated eye-contact, Sherlock dipped his head, some minute nod of consent: John lunged for him. Hauled him down by the collar of the greatcoat. Sherlock’s arms flailing at the first hard press of their lips together, then long fingers digging into John’s hips, gathering him closer.
And the moment of yes, oh god, soft tongue against John’s own. Sherlock’s eager mouth, plush lips, drawing John inside. A heart-stopping act of magnetism.
Kissing Sherlock under the cover of adrenaline and libido took John to where his mind was not allowed, his thought processes relegated to the hot swipes of tongues, and the quickening cant of Sherlock’s hips. John going up and down on his toes, rubbing his erection against Sherlock’s. Neither one of them speaking past whispered gasps of oh god oh god, the sound of their trousers as they rutted. John, desperate for more, but unwilling to break his hold on Sherlock’s coat, fearing the man might dart out from underneath him. Sherlock, shaking, on the brink of something. The combined instinctual grind of sex.
Sherlock came first, John’s face buried in the crook of his neck. A low, barely audible, “Fuck,” in John’s ear. The sound of it going straight to John’s cock and he was coming in his pants.
They stayed clutched to one another, breathing raggedly. Sherlock’s eyes shut, brows furrowed, his head thrown back against the door. The whole thing took maybe a grand total of five minutes, it was a frenzy of lust and biting kisses.
Afterward, Sherlock pushed him away softly, but firmly, at the shoulder. He cleared his throat, and averted his eyes. John felt panic bubble up in his throat. He wanted to clarify himself, explain, but all the came out was, “Sherlock, I..”
Sherlock looked at him expectantly, but the sentence hung incomplete in the air between them.
“I’m going to take a shower.” John finished lamely. He left Sherlock leaned up against the door, still panting and undone in the aftermath of their exchange. He looked confused, and it struck John in a way that made him ache with guilt.
Since then, neither have spoken of it. Business as usual. John still looking out when Sherlock’s back is turned, his gaze resting everywhere Sherlock is. John’s avaricious eyes locking onto his flatmate, like they belong in the dip of his waist, or the slant of his eye, or the curve of his arse.
John had instigated this, pulled Sherlock toward him, rubbed himself against that long body, demanded more than what Sherlock had offered that night sitting in a booth at Angelo’s.
And Sherlock gave of himself. Let John touch him, despite John’s continuous and insistent assertions of his heterosexuality. All of John’s denials must have seemed pretty ridiculous with John’s tongue in his mouth, and hard cock on his hip. Then of course, shared orgasms. Can’t forget about those.
It wasn’t anything as dramatic as a crisis in sexuality that made John sprint for the bathroom. He doesn’t consider himself gay. Has never. He’s fucked both women and men with great enthusiasm, but has only ever been in committed relationships with the former.
It’s not the mundane fear of commitment. Their fealty to one another is a forgone conclusion at this point. Perhaps it was all the tiny variables in between the hard points that made John run scared. His mind needing time to catch up with what his heart had already decided.
And now John lies in bed. Dreaming of Sherlock’s dead body. The indistinct edges of it evading his discerning touch. John, alone on the grey cement, alone in a white room, negligible in his own existence. There’s only Sherlock, taking up all the space with his lifelessness.
How could John be expected to go on without him? John wants to shout it out at him, maybe if he shook him up a bit he’d cough, blood would flood back into his cheeks, and he’d get up and say, “Honestly John, your subconscious is a dull and tedious place. Could you at least exhibit your unresolved issues in a more fascinating environment?”
John rolls over in bed, pushes to sit up.
He misses him.
Misses Sherlock, after that dream.
Wants to make sure he’s breathing, wants to set his fingers against skin to see if it’s pliant and warm.
The indigo glare from his alarm clock reads half past two in the morning. Sherlock had gone to bed early, after nearly 52 hours awake, he didn’t have a thing on. When John urged him to rest, Sherlock told him, “I can’t possibly think of anything in existence less interesting.” As usual, turning the basics of human function into an ala carte matter where he can pick and choose desirable options, like one would pudding over tarts.
Sherlock fell asleep curled in his black chair, chin to his chest. He woke some time later and sauntered off to his bedroom. John heard the shuffle of a tired gait, and the shut of the door while he was putting up the shopping.
John just wants to check. There’s no harm in that.
He throws his feet over the side of the bed, creeps down the stairs, avoids the fourth step because it creaks. Plods through the flat, and comes to stand in front of Sherlock’s door. He tries listening for soft exhales, restless legs twisting in the sheets, but the door bars John from the things he wants.
He twists the door knob, slowly, he doesn’t have to worry about light streaming in to disturb Sherlock, he turned off the lamps before turning in. The subdued glow of the moon filters through instead, a silhouette of inky curls splayed across the crown of the pillow, the linens caught about tapered shoulders. He’s facing away from the door, John can’t see his face. Can’t see his lips part to breathe in night air. John creeps forward.
He reaches out carefully, puts the tip of his left hand index finger to the line of Sherlock’s shoulders, feels the slow lift of an inhale.
Leave, John should really leave, now. Sherlock’s fine, and John isn’t alone, and he should go back to his room. But that traitorous index finger moves, is caught by a curl, twining its way around the digit. Might as well be the jaws of a crocodile wrapped around John’s entire hand. He can’t move away, just lets that bit of hair hug his knuckle. Sherlock’s room smells like sharpened pencils and books. A bit like the first day of school.
But he should leave.
John gives the lightest of strokes down to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and pulls away to make his exit.
“I heard you on the stairs. Why aren’t you asleep,” comes the muffled, sleep roughened voice. John startles, looks around the room helplessly. Maybe an answer that doesn’t sound strange or awkward will write itself out on the wardrobe for John to repeat. Sherlock twists under his sheets, turns now to face John. “Come here.”
Where? In the bed? With you?
“Or don’t. Either way.”
John moves, slips in underneath the sheets, turns on his side to face Sherlock. Their hands rest parallel, but don’t touch. A full minute passes, they stare at each other, Sherlock’s pale eyes reflective of the moonlight. The silence is comfortable, somehow. It isn’t the smothering quiet of John’s nightmare. Sherlock’s living silence is companionable, John could fall into the warm chasm of it and drift in endless, happy, stasis.
“Sometimes,” John begins, meeting Sherlock’s gaze the best he can in the dimness, “Sometimes, in my dreams, you’re dead.” John’s eyes flutter closed when Sherlock’s pinky finger brushes against his, then drapes over it.
“I can’t figure out why. You’d hate it. There’s no evidence--”
“There’s always evidence.”
John shakes his head, “Maybe for you, there would. For me it’s the most stupid, frustrating thing.”
“You’re frightened by it?” Sherlock whispers. He shifts a bit. They’re closer now. John feels Sherlock’s breath against his cheek.
John thinks for a second. “No,” his knee wanders, brushes against Sherlock’s thigh, “It makes me feel a bit empty.”
“I assume you mean that in the metaphysical sense.”
John laughs softly, “Yes. Still feels real when it’s happening, you know.” Sherlock lifts his leg a bit, allowing John to slot his through the opening, they shift closer together, mouths nearly touching.
“That’s unfortunate.” Sherlock radiates heat, he’s the brightest thing in the shroud of eventide, the burning sun at the heart of the man, captivating John into his orbit.
“The other night, when we, afterward..” John starts, sighs, “I was wrong, to run out like that. I just needed a moment to process--”
Sherlock brings himself flush against John, whispers, “Hush,” against his lips.
This kiss isn’t the quick snogging of two people fueled by adrenaline and the immediate need for gratification. It starts slow, with tender trepidation, the edge of hunger containing itself in John’s very teeth. Sherlock shivers at the first stroke of their tongues together, just the tips, barely colliding. John brackets Sherlock’s head with his hands, cups his palms over Sherlock’s ears.
“God,” he murmurs against soft lips, “Sherlock, your mouth,” John kisses him harder, uses his hand to draw Sherlock’s leg higher up onto his hip, they thrust lightly, slowly, against one another. Feels fucking sexy, this fully clothed rut, reminds John of the first experience he ever had with another male. Fifteen and absolutely confused about his sexuality. Joseph Dabney, his best mate on the rugby team, rooming together during a summer camp. He was Scottish and ginger, and in an act of after-school-special proportions, a friendly wrestling match turned into a friendly oh fuck, oh shit, dry hump on Joseph’s bed.
Sherlock rolls, long arms around John’s waist, pulls John on top of him.
John’s hands under Sherlock’s night shirt, rucking it up, breaking a kiss in order to divest him of the thing. Sherlock returns the favor, does so slowly, his fingers moulding over the notches in John’s spine, coming to rest over the knot of scarred flesh at his shoulder. He doesn’t press into the scar tissue, merely traces the the jagged bands that stretch outward from its gnarled core. Fingertips light against the fibrous tissue, curious, but careful not to activate the sensation of prickly numbness. A result of ruined nerve endings. John feels Sherlock shake his head before the man surges up for a searing kiss that leaves John panting against his lips.
“I almost never met you.” Sherlock whispers into the darkness. His tone neither forlorn, nor indifferent. He says it as if he’s bewildered by the thought. Statement and question all at once.
John has no idea what to say to that. He kisses Sherlock instead, dips his fingers just under the waistband of pyjama bottoms, begins tugging them down. Sherlock arches upward, so the fabric can be slid free from underneath him. John takes the opportunity to do a thorough grope of the swell of Sherlock’s arse. And Christ, isn’t that beautiful?
Moonlight and the gas lamps from the street filtering through the open door, pale illumination casting itself against even paler skin.
Something not quite a whimper, not quite a groan, makes it way out of John’s mouth. He lays himself down on top of Sherlock, doesn’t even attempt grace or technique. He rubs against him, grinds the palms of his hands into the hollow of Sherlock’s hips, mouths at that throat, bites softly against the slanting jawline. Sherlock writhes into John, under him. All around him.
Sherlock presses a hand against John’s hip, applies an implicative sort of pressure there and John rolls. Sherlock, in a nearly unprecedented amount of coordination, manages to drag John’s flannel pyjama bottoms down past his thighs in the process, only to be annoyed by the unseemly fact that tonight, of all nights, John wore pants underneath.
“Why would you do this?” Sherlock accuses, as if John has done this thing, too him, for the sake of arbitrariness. “Your proclivity for layering clothing is ludicrous in the extreme.”
“I could say the same about your proclivity for whinging,” John begins, only to have his breath cut away into a hiss. Sherlock begins to mouth his way down John’s throat, nipping lightly at a nipple, coaxing it into hardness.
John can feel Sherlock’s cock, hot and damp against his stomach, trailing down toward his hip.
“What are you doing?” John asks him. It’s obvious. John just wants to hear him talk, if sex had a voice, it’d be Sherlock’s. He strokes an angular cheek in anticipation.
“Sort it out.”
Sherlock gives a damp lick through the barrier of John’s cotton boxer shorts. There might be cloth in the way, but John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s tongue. Feels it everywhere.
“Christ.”
Another wet lap, this time to the head of his cock, straining against his tented pants. Sherlock continues on like this for another minute, soaking John’s shorts with his tongue and saliva, only giving the tiniest bit of suction to the head. It’s the hint of friction, and it’s enough to drive John mad.
“I could make you come in your pants again, the symmetry would be--”
“Take them off,” John interrupts. Symmetry be damned.
“But I--”
“No, fuck,” Sherlock nibbles down the side of his cock, teeth covered by lips, “God no. Terrible idea. Off.”
Sherlock huffs, extracts John from his soaked pants. Finally.
He lies down between John’s legs, warm hands hold him at the hips, a thumb charts over his iliac crest..
For all of Sherlock’s abrasivity, there is something definitely bordering on gentleness in the way he touches John.
Sherlock licks slowly up the length, sparks thread themselves at the base of John’s spine. John can’t see the detailed version of this through the dark, but there’s enough moonlight to observe the graceful turn of Sherlock’s head, the nudge of his nose against the head of John’s cock. He licks at the slit, perfect, glancing swipes, a thumb leaves John’s hip to stroke at his frenulum. Feels amazing. Then John’s cock is being sucked into soft, wet, heat.
John thrusts up a bit, moans, Sherlock hums his approval. A musical noise that ends far too quickly. It’s a tease, but it’s a very good tease. Sherlock reaches up, grabs John’s hand, positions it in his mess of unruly curls. John doesn’t push hard, just follows the bob of Sherlock’s head with faint pressure. And holy shit, Sherlock has deft tongue.
Another firm lick to the underside, an engulfing suck, and Sherlock shucks himself off John’s prick. John bucks up, seems like an involuntary movement, chasing heat back to its source. He almost hisses a complaint, almost uses the hand that Sherlock placed in his hair to shove him back down. All objections are immediately cast away when Sherlock climbs back up John’s body, bites the lobe of his ear, and murmurs, “Do you want to fuck me?” John wouldn’t have heard the question if Sherlock not been right there, sending the words straight into him.
An embarrassingly gravelly version of, “Oh my God,” escapes John’s throat.
The answer is yes, a resounding anthem of yes that John tries to contain in order to avoid sounding overwhelming eager. He gulps, takes a deep breath, and another, the mere thought making his cock leak, “Do you have anything..?” He assumes Sherlock has experience here, he seems to know what he wants, and certainly knows how to touch, but John is also fairly confident Sherlock hasn’t invited lovers (men? women? both?) into his bed since John’s arrival into his life.
Sherlock moves to the side, opens the top drawer of the nightstand where one would typically stash such items, he tosses a box of condoms at John. Unopened. John grins a little, tears into the box. “Confident, were you?”
“I admit I was somewhat perplexed by your initial reaction.” Sherlock squeezes lube onto his own fingers, John pauses at tearing the foil package open, watches rapt as Sherlock smears his fingers together, coating them. “But then I caught you staring. I thought it best to err on the side of safety. In case.” He flops down on his back, and begins easing his fingers into himself. Slick, wet sounds. Head straining backward onto his pillow. John gathers in close enough to watch the angle of Sherlock’s wrist change, and hears a panting, “Oh.”
“God, that’s sexy,” and John can’t tear the condom package open quickly enough. Strokes himself indulgently a few times, watches as Sherlock fingers himself, then he rolls the condom over his erection.
Sherlock reaches, uses lubed fingers to slick up John’s cock, he gets carried away and starts to jerk John off, still fucking himself with his fingers. John angles his body, leans an arm against the headboard of the bed, hips thrusting instinctively. He would be thoroughly impressed by the display of multi-tasking, and Sherlock makes the most incredible noises. Deep, elongated vowels, John’s name twisted around sibilations, and electricity builds deep in John’s abdomen. His hand shoots down to where Sherlock is wanking him, firmly grabs the elegantly boned wrist.
“If you keep doing that, I’m going to come,” John manages to rasp out, voice shaking as he manages to keep orgasm at bay.
“Yes,” Sherlock sounds equally as strained, “I-- me too,” all eloquence lost.
John gives a quick glance over that svelte body, deciding how he wants to take Sherlock. Climbing on top of him holds an obvious appeal, having access to that mouth while rutting into him, lovely. But, then again, there’s that spot behind his ear, the line of his spine, the well-defined outline of his trapezius muscle.
And the fact that John wants to hold Sherlock as close as possible. Chase away the images of that dream with every pound of his hips.
John lets his body fall down alongside Sherlock, “Lie down on your side, c’mon,” he snakes his arm down to Sherlock’s hip and pulls to maneuver him into a spooning position.
“Like this?” Sherlock’s arse lands in John’s lap, the slick from his arse rubbing the excess onto his cock.
“Yeah,” John kisses across Sherlock’s shoulder, sucks his ear, “Have you not done it this way before?” He runs his hands down to his cock, lines it up against Sherlock’s arsehole.
“No. My experience does not include anything quite so..”
“Intimate?” John supplies, frowning a little. The thought of Sherlock being treated like a quick fuck lights an angry flame inside John, so he hopes it was the other way around.
“Mmh,” is the response, lilting into the affirmative.
John wraps one arm low on Sherlock’s waist, holding him still, places a trail of kisses down his spine. He pushes in slowly, ear to Sherlock’s back, listening to his skittering heart and stuttered breaths. John takes his time in getting fully seated, works in an inch at a time only to pull out and start again. A little deeper, a little deeper, shit, so tight. Sherlock’s moans (and John’s own) becoming more audible with every push.
At last he’s completely sheathed and John takes a moment to pause and wallow in the feel of it. He grabs Sherlock’s arms, pins them to his waist, and just holds him.
“Oh,” Sherlock breathes out, “Oh,” he wriggles a bit and turns his head back to take a kiss.
“Yeah?” John asks between kisses, moving his hips in small, lazy thrusts before moving one hand to rest at Sherlock’s hip, the other over his shoulder. Leverage.
John begins to pick up the pace of his hips, starts to find the rhythm. He presses Sherlock’s back, he leans forward a bit, gets the angle right and there, perfect, John finds the spot that has Sherlock making those noises again. Sherlock reaches a hand up to the headboard to keep himself from slipping away from John’s rut, spreads a leg up into the air a little. The sight of it drives John mad, moonlight and milky flesh. Everything about Sherlock is sex to John, from his cutting tongue, to his brilliant mind, to the way Sherlock scrubs his hand through his hair during bouts of expression. And oh look, he’s doing it now!
“John,” Sherlock’s voice shakes with the John’s momentum. The hand from the headboard reaches down and runs quickly through the sussorous of black waves, and back to its original post.
John holds him at the shoulder, uses his bicep and elbow to keep them lined properly, and reaches around to pull at Sherlock’s prick. It’s absolutely wet with precome, John’s thumb circles the slit. Immediately, Sherlock’s hand shoots down to join in the effort, closes over John’s hand. Their mutual grip builds in speed, John fucks into Sherlock, unintentionally mimicking their movements as they work together to jerk Sherlock off.
And oh. Oh God.
“Jesus,” John groans into Sherlock’s back, “Sherlock,” oh but Christ, dear, that feels amazing. John’s grip on Sherlock falters as he begins to fall apart. He digs into Sherlock’s hip when his thrusts go quick and erratic, cock making filthy wet noises as he drives into Sherlock’s arsehole. Sherlock’s breathing frays off, ragged in anticipation of John’s climax.
“Yes! Oh fuck,” the curse drags out with the pulsing of John’s orgasm, John’s prick buried as deep as it can go, holding Sherlock as close as he can get him. Fitting himself there, belonging there.
During the final, darker ebbings of orgasm, John puts his hand back to Sherlock’s cock, wants to feel him come. He finds Sherlock’s fist moving very fast, and Sherlock is a shaker. His whole body trembles and quakes like the man is an actively shifting fault line. It might be the hottest thing John’s ever felt against his bare skin. He lifts his chin and bites down on the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock goes rigid for a split second, and then he comes, a strangled cry of nothing resembling the English language leaving his lips. It’s loud, Mrs. Hudson probably heard, but fuck it. Fuck modesty. Sherlock’s orgasm causes him to twitch around where John is still inside. Arched back, and slack mouthed, it’s better than Christmas.
“That’s gorgeous, Oh my god,” John strokes the palm of his hand down Sherlock’s back, waiting a moment before pulling out slowly. While Sherlock catches his breath, John slips off the condom bins it, then locates the nightshirt he was stripped of. It’s old and threadbare anyway, he uses it to clean Sherlock and himself off before tugging at Sherlock’s arm. They switch positions, this time with all the endless limbs of Sherlock draped around John like an affectionate octopus. John turns his head and they kiss lazily, John faces forward again and closes his eyes. Sherlock snuffles his way into the crook of John’s neck.
“You should sleep here. Perhaps your subconscious will register my proximity and you’ll have less upsetting dreams.”
John smiles, threads his fingers through Sherlock’s. “Mhh, all puppies and kittens then?”
“I had recurring nightmares about velociraptors when I was a child,” Sherlock says, unable to keep the laugh out of his voice. John snorts.
“Tell me about them.”
“Tired.” Comes the faint answer.
There’s no running off this time, only the same sort of cohesion that wraps around the two of them in its welcome familiarity.
John presses back into Sherlock, hums his contentment. Feels the beat of his heart, the hum of life inside of his chest.