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Perihelion	By : darkangel1210 Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 13557 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or any of the characters, nor do I make any profit from writing this. Just too inspired by the show that I had to borrow them.

Chapter List
- 12
- 13
A/N: God, it's good to be back!
This chapter has been through at least five re-writes, including additions, omissions and generally me battling writer's block with every word. But we're getting there!
Thank you to everyone for your support; I'm not sure I could do this without you!
Enjoy xxx
Part Thirteen
Christmas Eve – late evening
"Do you think Greg's figured it out by now?" John called into the living room, just about registering the sound of Sherlock's dismissal. "Because I wasn't exactly subtle today, you know," he continued, finishing their tea and taking the cups into the living room, setting Sherlock's on the coffee table when he saw the detective had sprawled himself along the couch with nothing but his dressing gown on. The tartan one rather than his blue silk one. It must have been in the wash.
"Lestrade isn't that observant," Sherlock said, a sliver of colour emerging as he watched John take a sip of his tea. "And even if he was, I doubt he'd be able to handle the reality of the situation and would therefore be more inclined to believe our little fabrication."
John put his cup down and nudged Sherlock's legs to persuade him to budge up. "Greg's not that bad; he picks up more every time we go to a crime scene. So are we going to talk about this?"
Sherlock closed his eyes again, pulling his legs up enough to allow John to sit down before promptly dropping his bare feet in John's lap and wriggling his toes. "Talk about what?"
John recognised the toe wriggling for the request it was and took Sherlock's left ankle in his hands, experimentally pressing the pads of his thumbs into the ball of Sherlock's foot and giving him an impromptu massage. He knew he didn't have to worry about his technique when he glanced up and saw the relaxation beginning to spread on Sherlock's face. "Oh I don't know. How about you shagging me blind at the Yard and possibly coming out to Greg at the same time?"
Sherlock smiled, the tilt of his lips bordering on smug even with his eyes closed. "The shag was extremely satisfactory."
Satisfactory wasn't the word that John would have used. Mind-blowing, fantastic, endorphin-laced bliss were more accurate terms for what had happened at the Yard, but he wasn't about to let Sherlock change the direction of a conversation he clearly wanted to avoid. "Stop trying to change the subject. This is important, Sherlock."
"I don't see why," Sherlock said, a small groan hitching the words when John pressed his fingers just so. "Why does it matter if people think we're a couple or not? Everyone thinks we're together anyway."
John couldn't argue with him there, not when half the Yard and John's own work had not-so-secret bets on which concerned a part of their relationship that hadn't existed until after the club. It still wasn't the point though. "I was hoping that we could be a bit more subtle about it. You know, tell people close to us first before it becomes public knowledge."
"And since when have we ever been subtle about anything?" Sherlock asked. "We go to crime scenes where I denounce the ability of the police to do their job, often publicly, and you write about it on your blog which has grown in followers at the same rate as the demand for our expertise." Another breathy moan, one which had John trying to replicate the move he'd just done so he could try and get another one just like it. "The reality is; we are anything but subtle."
Sherlock was right, of course. They hadn't exactly tried to stay away from the media attention the cases had brought them, which had led into more publicity and more cases; a fact that neither of them had complained about. And it wasn't like John could say this wasn't how he imagined a relationship with a man would be because he hadn't given it any thought before. He hadn't been gay (still wasn't, not really) and was in his first relationship with a man who was the most extravagant, pompous, perfect human being he'd ever had the privilege to meet.
Even if he was an arrogant git half the time.
Sherlock didn't voice any protest when John told him so, but it may have been down to the press of John's fingers into the arch of Sherlock's foot that forced any thoughts in Sherlock's head to careen off his mental roadside. John smiled at the expression on Sherlock's face, sighting an opportunity to lull the detective into accepting tomorrow's festivities. "I'll wear the suit you bought for me," he said, pressing his thumb into the curl of Sherlock's toes and extending them with a gentle push. "The one from the club."
Sherlock's eyes opened and locked onto his, perhaps looking for any sign that John might be teasing him. Satisfied, he closed his eyes again, curling his right arm under his head while his left settled over the knot of his dressing gown. "Acceptable."
A comfortable silence followed and John was just debating whether to turn the telly on when Sherlock pushed himself up onto his elbows and took a hold of John's jumper, tugging on it insistently. "What?" John asked, taking his hands away from Sherlock's feet and leaning across as much as his current position would allow.
Sherlock didn't elaborate beyond his tugging and eventually John just followed Sherlock's directions, resulting in him lying half of top of the man with his left leg pressed between Sherlock's thighs. "Mmmm, much better," Sherlock said and John felt the rumble of that voice travel from his sternum to his pelvis at a shocking speed.
Glancing down their bodies, he saw that Sherlock's dressing gown had parted below the knot, exposing bare, creamy thighs and was just shy of uncovering Sherlock's groin. Back in a clean pair of jeans, John was keenly aware of the contrast between his clothed body and Sherlock's pale skin, wondering if he parted the rest of the gown how much it would reveal. Was Sherlock naked? Was he hard?
"So what did you want to do tomorrow?" he asked, attempting to divert his mind from the physical for ten minutes before they ended up having sex on the sofa.
Sherlock's right hand slipped around his neck, pulling him down into a soft kiss. "I want to give you your present," he said and that prompted John to look under the branches of the tree, spotting a large rectangular box that hadn't been there before.
When he looked back at Sherlock, he knew he'd just correctly guessed his present by the gleam in Sherlock's eyes. "Am I allowed to guess what it is?" John asked, smoothing his fingers through Sherlock's curls and encouraging the ringlets to wrap around his fingers. Fresh from the shower, Sherlock hadn't bothered to tame his hair by adding any products and it allowed the curls to drop down around the soft skin at the back of his neck, by his ears and, perhaps the most arresting of the three, his eyes.
John purposefully pulled on Sherlock's fringe, arranging it so Sherlock's eyes were just visible, and leant back to survey his work. Sherlock huffed a breath up, causing his fringe to move slightly before it settled back into position, and John's amused grin earned him a quiet smoulder. "You could," Sherlock said, tipping his head back so his neck was bared in an inviting stretch. "But that would rather ruin the whole point of this ridiculous holiday."
"S'not ridiculous," John murmured, pressing his lips to Sherlock's throat. "It brings people together for at least one day of the year for-"
"Food, drink, the tradition of trading last year's unwanted gifts and a frankly obscene amount of sex," Sherlock interrupted, wrapping his arms around John's back and burying his fingers under the waistline of John's jeans.
"Sounds good to me," John agreed, slipping his left hand through the V of Sherlock's dressing gown to stroke across his chest. "I don't think there is such a thing as too much sex with you though."
Sherlock's eyes crinkled at the corners, his lips curving into a small smile. "True. Although your body might have something to say about that." A hand pushed into John's boxers and cupped an arse cheek, squeezing the muscle experimentally.
John made a throaty sound that could have been described as a purr and buried his face in Sherlock neck again. "Just means you've been giving me a good workout," he murmured, clenching his buttocks under Sherlock's fingers. "And sometimes it's nice to be a little sore afterwards. For wanking material."
"'Wanking material?'"
"Yeah. Sometimes reliving the memories of fantastic sex can be just as good as the actual thing."
Sherlock pinched the skin under his fingers in retaliation, making John wince. "If that's the case I'm not doing it correctly."
"Or," John said, taking a moment to swirl his index finger around Sherlock's right nipple and feeling it pebble under his touch, "it means you're bloody amazing and I can't wait till we do it again."
"Also acceptable," Sherlock said, coaxing John into another kiss; a slow, more sensual one that had John's toes curling in their socks.
"I have a question," John murmured against Sherlock's lips when they parted for air, panting gently against each other. "If you're so against the party tomorrow, why did you want to have it at three o'clock rather than in the evening?" Sherlock had been quite adamant on that account, stipulating that if they were going to host a Christmas gathering again this year then it would be on his terms. No sooner than three o'clock and no later than seven. John had been curious but hadn't thought to question it; now, with no work and seemingly unlimited time, it was the perfect moment to voice that curiosity.
"It's taken until now for you to ask that question?" Sherlock asked. "I'm surprised, John."
"Well, I figured you had your reasons," John said, getting himself comfortable and resting his head on Sherlock's left shoulder. "Feel like telling me now?"
"Mmmm," Sherlock mused, distractedly running his fingers through John's hair. "And what makes you think I should tell you?"
John smiled, his eyes closing as Sherlock fingertips sent pleasant tingling sensations across his head. "Because I'm genuinely curious and I've got presents under the tree." Let Sherlock figure that one out.
It only took a moment and a huff from the man beneath him. "Your poorly hidden reference to being a 'good little boy' because an old, hairy man in a red suit decided to bring you presents is the most ridiculous reason I've ever heard."
John laughed, smothering the sound into Sherlock's shoulder. "It's a good thing it's true."
"I suppose at least one half of your statement is correct," Sherlock relented, resuming his stroking of John's hair. "I was going to wait until tomorrow to tell you the reason why, but this way you will get some notice before everyone else does."
John frowned; that sounded ominous. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"
Sherlock didn't say anything for a long minute and finally gave a deep sigh. "I have yet to tell Lestrade that I am officially unavailable for cases until further notice."
Wait, what?
"But you've never been unavailable for cases," John said, lifting his head up to look at Sherlock properly.
"Yes, I know," Sherlock said, meeting John's eyes. "It won't be for very long. Just a week or so."
Even a day without any cases was too long for a Sherlock who was in one of his moods. John could attest to that. "And what will you be doing during this week off?" he asked, lightly stroking the fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown.
"Correction; what will we be doing?" Sherlock said, sliding out from under John and walking to the bookshelf, pulling out a slip of paper for John to read.
John took the paper, curious, his eyes taking in the address written on it. "Sussex?" He looked back at Sherlock in confusion. "What's in Sussex?"
"Just a little getaway," Sherlock said, plucking the address from John's fingers and sliding it back into place on the bookshelf. "You haven't had a holiday since you returned from Afghanistan and our trip to Baskerville doesn't count. I want a week away with you, no distractions and no interruptions."
John stared at Sherlock's back, completely baffled and surprised all at once. He wouldn't have guessed that this was something Sherlock would want to do with him, since the Work almost always came first, or that this was even a thing. Was this a Thing? "So when were you planning to go?"
"After the Christmas party; I want us there tomorrow night if the snow will let us."
John grinned, feeling a little overcome as he imagined a quiet little cottage out the in the middle of nowhere; the epitome of Britain on a Christmas card with all the snow, frosted glass and a roaring fire in the hearth. Maybe they'd even see a robin or two. "That sounds bloody fantastic!"
"Good." The paper now safely put away, Sherlock made his way back to where John was lying on the sofa, sitting on the edge of a cushion so he was leaning over where John was now lying on his back. "Now, my dear doctor, I do believe there's a British tradition we are missing out on this Christmas Eve." One artfully delicate hand reached for the remote and turned the TV on, flicking through the channels until the opening music of 'A Muppets Christmas Carol' resounded through the speakers. "Namely, the one where we watch a dreadful Christmas film celebrating the supposed goodness of humanity and hope tomorrow doesn't turn into as much as a ball's ache as we think it will."
John scoffed, pushing himself up so Sherlock could lie against his chest for a change. "Muppets Christmas Carol is the best Christmas film ever, Sherlock Holmes, and I'll give you a list of reasons as long as my arm to prove it. Number One…"
It would be a while later before they remembered their tea.
oOo
Christmas Day - morning
"You know, most people have been up since six and opened all their presents by now," John said around a mouthful of toast. Waking up after nine on Christmas morning was a bit of a surreal experience, to be honest. Already well into his late thirties, John had assumed he'd be married with a couple of kids and a dog by now, but he could honestly say that he didn't envy those parents that had children banging open the bedroom door to try and persuade mummy and daddy that four in the morning was a brilliant time to get wrapping paper all over the living room floor.
In stark contrast, a warm and snuggly Sherlock was by far the preferred alarm clock, especially when he was just stirring from his REM cycle so John could watch the moment when those gorgeous eyes peeked beneath sleep-heavy lashes.
"Yes and most of those people also have their two and half children, a dog and a picket fence," Sherlock said, peering over the top of his newspaper to glare at John. "Boring."
"Dreadfully," John agreed, pretending not to notice Sherlock's small smile as he stood up to go to the kitchen, finishing his breakfast along the way and snagging his tea on his return. "Although it'll be interesting to see how many you guess correctly before we open them," he said, settling into his armchair with a sigh. "Try and beat your score from last year; what was it? One out of thirty wrong?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. One out of forty-six." The detective had built up a significant fan-base from John's blog, mostly made up of women and a few men who wanted to show their undying love by sending him trinkets they thought he would appreciate.
All of them had been binned after they were opened.
Except for the poisonous ones, which had been carefully stored so they could be examined later, and the paperweight with an extinct species of insect buried in amber. That had stayed too, although not for the reason the sender originally intended. John had yet to figure out what Sherlock wanted to do with it, fervently hoping that a rewrite of Jurassic Park wasn't on the cards.
Sherlock closed the newspaper with a flourish and set it down to one side. "Why the sudden interest? You normally tell me off for deducing presents ahead of time." A light seemed to switch on behind Sherlock's eyes and he smirked. "Oh I see. Lestrade has a bet with you."
John shrugged. "He wants to see how many you get wrong. I owe him twenty quid for each one you guess incorrectly. If you get them all right, Greg owes me fifty."
Sherlock stood, adjusting his suit jacket before he knelt down beside the tree and rooted underneath it through the decorative parcels. "The bet can wait. There's something I want to give you first." John watched in amusement as over half of Sherlock's presents still were deduced before being discarded without being opened, shaking his head when Sherlock brought back the gifts he considered the most important.
The ones from the both of them, obviously.
Sherlock passed him the large box he'd seen the night before and John kept its heavy weight balanced on his lap as he watched Sherlock try to deduce his own present, a wrapped up tube about the length of a man's arm. "Well go on then," he said, unable to keep the grin from his face as Sherlock tried to rattle the present inside with no sound at all. "You may as well go first. The anticipation will kill you otherwise."
Sherlock didn't need any further excuses and tore the wrapping paper from one end, popping open the lid with a look of intrigue on his face. John tried not to fidget as Sherlock reached a hand inside, feeling around the tube and pulling out a single sheet of A2 card, the highest quality that John had been able to find. Sherlock put the tube down to one side and unrolled the card, his eyes immediately darting to the pictures John knew would be printed on the other side. The sharp intake of a surprised breath told John everything he needed to know.
"I decided on this ages ago," John said, putting his present down carefully and coming to Sherlock's side so they could look at the pictures together, John perching himself on the armrest of Sherlock's chair to get a better look. "But I wasn't sure how many I should make so I decided on the full course, so to speak."
"John…" The word was scarcely breathed, Sherlock's fingers reverently touching one of the pictures and stoking around a highlighted area. "Are these…?"
"Yeah, those two are joy," John said, motioning to the relevant MRI scans and smiling at the wonder on Sherlock's face. "I was thinking about the last time you fell in a pond for a case and I kept getting told off because I couldn't stop shaking inside the machine."
A flicker of a smile appeared on Sherlock's face; he remembered too. "And these ones?" Sherlock asked, pointing at another set of scans.
"That's fear," John murmured and Sherlock looked up at him with something akin to shock. "From when I thought you'd been stabbed outside The Six Bells," John explained. "Turns out even us war veterans can still get scared sometimes."
Sherlock looked back at the pictures in their matching sets, saying the different parts of the brain where the highlights were as though reciting them to memory. John mentally went through the names of each emotion in time with Sherlock's words and, although Sherlock more than likely knew which areas corresponded to which emotion already, John hoped that he would be able to tell Sherlock in the future what each of them meant purely because of the experiences that went with them.
Long moments passed before Sherlock rolled the card back up and put it back in its tube with a care he usually reserved for his experiments, ensuring the lid was secure and holding the tube steady in his hands. "Thank you, John."
Any response John thought he could make fled at the gratitude in Sherlock's voice; in the face of such honesty, a simple 'you're welcome' would never have sufficed. He nodded instead and leant across to press a gentle kiss to Sherlock's temple, paying silent homage to the mind that embodied Sherlock's very being.
"How long did it take you to get them all done?" Sherlock asked after a while, smoothing his fingers along the tube now free of any wrapping paper.
"Just over six months," John said. "I wanted to work myself up enough for each emotion so it would register clearly on the MRI scan."
"So any experiments that incited anger in you were remembered for later use?"
"Yes but that's no excuse for you to try and replicate it," John said firmly. "Besides, I don't think the hospital is going to let me get another MRI again."
"Shame," Sherlock said, putting the tube down beside his chair and tugging John into his lap, pressing his face into John's neck. "I'm wondering how it will look when you're experiencing orgasm."
John smiled, pressing his lips to Sherlock's hairline. "Then you'd have to find a very open-minded doctor. I can't think of anyone who'd be happy to let you blow me while I'm having the scan done."
"But it's for science, John! Just think of how much we'd be able to test." Sherlock's voice was teasing but John didn't doubt that he'd leap at the opportunity if given the chance.
"Good luck trying," he replied, kissing Sherlock's forehead. "So should I go and open my present now?" he asked, pushing himself off of Sherlock's lap and gently disengaging Sherlock's arms when they attempted to keep him in place. "I'm wondering if it'll trump my present to you."
Sherlock smirked, crossing one leg over the other as he watched John pick up the gift again. "Don't let me stop you."
John read the label attached to the paper and laughed at the words; there weren't any wishes of merriment, just a simple instruction not to shake the box as the contents were fragile. "Now I'm curious," he said, tearing open the paper and revealing a heavy oak box. The stain on the wood was a deep red colour, almost black, and there was a gorgeous design stencilled onto the lid that he was immediately enraptured by. Looking at the picture carefully, John could see the outlines of a violin within the swirling mass of gold lines and there was an open book with a pen lying across the blank pages. Two symbols deeply entwined by the lines which looped and curled around them, binding them together almost as surely as they were bound by their owners.
"Sherlock, this is amazing," he said, looking back up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Did you design this?"
"Not completely," Sherlock admitted, resting his hands on his bent knee. "I gave a verbal indication of what I wanted to an expert who perfected the end result."
"Beautiful," John murmured, stroking a finger across the violin before flicking open the gold-plated clasp at the front and opening the lid to reveal the contents.
He was unprepared for the shock that rocketed through his system, a gasping noise ripping its way from his throat when he saw what was inside the box, his hands clutching at the sides with trembling fingers. He heard Sherlock shifting in front of him but no words were spoken. John didn't think he'd have heard anything Sherlock said at that point; he was utterly fixated.
The inside of the box was lined in black velvet, soft to the touch when John stroked his thumbs along the sides, unable to take his eyes away from the items which had been carefully compartmentalised in a top tray. Along two thirds of the box's width, a single layer of white paraffin candles were side by side, along with a strip of black silk which had been folded to take up the rest of the space. There were ten candles in total, about thirty centimetres long, and he stroked along one of them with a finger that still shook. 'Oh my God…'
There was only one reason Sherlock would be giving him these and he'd had no idea that Sherlock wanted to try this with him. There hadn't been the slightest hint towards a discussion about hot wax play or even a passing comment from the detective about his internet history, but leave it to Sherlock to deduce his darkest fantasies without telling him. His face flushed with the possibilities of the scene, wondering what had been going through Sherlock's head when he was buying them, placing them into this very box for future use. There were only ten candles so they would need replacing depending on how Sherlock used them; would he let the wax pool at the wick before he let it flow in a stream onto John's skin? Or would he tilt the flame so the wax fell in rhythmic drips, letting the heat melt the candle on one side so the other half remained untouched?
The tray holding the candles and silk was removable and, when he lifted it off, the bottom of the box was also lined in the same black velvet and enclosed very different items. Glimmers of shining metal reflected in the morning light as he reached inside one to pull out four chains, the links barely half a centimetre thick and clinking together as he tested their strength. John might have misheard it, but Sherlock's breath seemed to catch at the sound from the chains, no doubt imagining what they would look like when used, and John realised they were long enough to keep his wrists and ankles bound and spread to each corner of a bed, each chain having double-ended snap hooks at either end so they could be attached to other things.
Like the black leather cuffs which remained.
Fleece lined, there were two sets of cuffs and they were beautiful. The leather was soft and sturdy under his touch, his fingers teasing at the D-links attached to each one and having an idea of where the chains were meant to go. He took another deep, shuddering breath, unintentionally holding it at the sight of the leather and the soft fleecing, imagining how they would feel around the tender skin of his wrists and ankles. These wouldn't burn or chafe him after prolonged use, not like some of the others he'd seen bandied around in Ann Summers when an ex-girlfriend wanted to buy herself some new underwear, but these didn't look like they'd been made by Ann Summers.
None of the items did. All of them were of an exemplary quality and he was willing to wager that each of them had been hand-selected by none other than Sherlock himself.
Footsteps echoed in ears that felt like they'd gone hollow. Every sound seemed far away as John stared at his gift, wondering if he was experiencing the onset of tunnel vision. Slender fingers placed the opened box on the floor to one side and took the cuffs from him, pushing back his left jumper sleeve and undoing one cuff before slipping it around his wrist and tightening it until the buckle could be fastened. After the cuff was secure, Sherlock's fingers stayed put, gently stroking the skin left exposed and dipping the tips underneath, testing the give to make sure it fitted properly.
John wanted to say so many things. Words like 'thank you' seemed appropriate given the nature of Sherlock's gift to him, but everything seemed dim and unimportant in comparison to the question he really wanted to ask. "When?"
Sherlock finished his inspection of the cuff and seemed satisfied, undoing the buckle. "Not yet."
The cuff was taken from him and placed back in the box with the others, along with the chains, candles and silk, and his wrist suddenly felt naked. He wrapped his other hand around it, trying to replicate the feeling of the cuff and failing miserably. "Today?" he asked.
The clasp was shut on the box with an air of finality and lifted away, placed on the table close to the window; John couldn't take his eyes away from it. "This evening if we can manage it," Sherlock said, coming back to his knees in front of him and curling his fingers around John's wrists, perhaps to mimic the feeling of restraint; as long as it was Sherlock's hands on him, it didn't matter. "Once we're at the cottage."
"But we might not get there until midnight," John whined. (Was he whining? God, he hoped not, but he really wanted to try his gift soon. Now preferably).
"We might not," Sherlock said, releasing his wrists and tugging John's sleeves back down. "But the anticipation of the event should provide a suitable build-up."
"I don't need any more anticipation," John said, catching Sherlock's hands with his own. "God, Sherlock, it's been ages since we last played."
"We played yesterday," Sherlock said reasonably, leaving John with the suspicion that Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about.
"I don't mean the sex," he elaborated. "Or even the power play, although that's a major part of it. I… I need you to hurt me." The last few words came out in a rush, tripping over them in his haste to get them out, but they left behind a fire in his chest that refused to go away. He remembered the pinch of the nipple clamps; the searing heat on the skin of his buttocks as Sherlock spanked him; the pain inflicted on him without malice or violence not only because it was an integral part of what he was but also because Sherlock needed to give it to him.
Fingers curled under his chin, encouraging him to tilt his head up from where he'd dropped it to hide his face, to hide his embarrassment over the admission. "Never be ashamed to ask for something you need," Sherlock said, dropping his hand when John kept his head up.
"I'm not ashamed," John said, shifting under Sherlock's intense scrutiny. "I'm embarrassed, but I'm not ashamed."
"The two aren't so different," Sherlock said quietly, rising to a standing position and urging John to do the same. "Now listen to me carefully because I am only going to say this once; if you want me to hurt you, you just need to ask me. All right?"
John nodded, relieved that Sherlock understood and was making an effort to make sure he knew it to. "I know," he said, pushing his shoulders back from their slouch with his head held high. He should be proud of this. He was proud of this. "Thank you for my gift." Words had never felt so useless, couldn't possibly describe the high he was feeling at that moment and yet Sherlock didn't seem to have any trouble reading it on him.
Sherlock pressed a kiss to the one corner of John's mouth in reply and glanced at the clock on the wall before wandering off towards the kitchen, shedding his jacket as he went. "Come along, John. The Thai red curry isn't going to make itself."
oOo
John stood in front of the mirror above the fireplace, adjusting the lay of the jacket on his shoulders and straightening his cuffs in preparation for their little Christmas Do. Comfortably full from the rather untraditional Christmas dinner, they had a few minutes left to make themselves presentable before their guests arrived, but John was a little too busy giving Sherlock the eye to worry about any time restraints.
The detective was his usual dashing self and the black fabric of his suit was truly a work of art when combined with Sherlock's natural elegance. He carried the outfit beautifully and John was convinced the man had left an extra button open on his shirt just to tease him. Every time Sherlock moved, John caught glimpses of skin usually covered up; a smooth chest contrasting against the sharpness of those collar bones and John didn't know how he was meant to keep his hands off.
But that was probably what Sherlock was aiming for.
"I must admit," Sherlock said, coming up behind him to lay a hand on John's shoulder, "this particular cut suits you very well. Do you know the shirt enhances your eye colour?"
John met Sherlock's eyes in the mirror and almost flushed under the intense pride Sherlock was emanating, but it may have been down to his choice of suit rather than the way John was wearing it. Possibly both. "Does this mean you were looking into my eyes before we got together?" he teased.
Sherlock pretended to brush imaginary lint off of John's shoulder. "Unless I have been terribly misinformed, I believe it is customary to make eye contact when addressing another person directly. Taking into consideration our living arrangements and the numerous occasions where we have been in close proximity during a case, it would have been a statistical improbability for someone as observant as myself not to see what colour your eyes are."
In other words, Sherlock had known all along what he was doing when he bought John's outfit, possibly wanting to show off to the other Doms that he knew how to dress his sub better than they did, but John didn't think it was deliberate in any other way. Sherlock wasn't a man to side step awkwardness, preferring to dive headfirst into it, so, if he had harboured any feelings towards John in that way beforehand, he would have very likely made it clear to John from the start. "I always knew you had a romantic streak in you," John said, catching the hand on his shoulder and pressing a kiss into Sherlock's thumb joint.
Sherlock turned the action on him, using that same hand to curl his fingers under John's chin. "If by romantic, you mean ensuring your continued sexual availability as and when I desire it, then yes, I would be inclined to agree with you."
God, the man really was insatiable. John felt like he was being given a run for his money or like his own reputation was at stake, which was utter nonsense because this was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He'd been looking for a partner whose appetite could be as voracious as his own; he just hadn't expected to ever find them. "I'm sure I can work something out," he murmured, leaning towards Sherlock to lick at the hollow of Sherlock's throat.
The bitten off groan Sherlock made was music to John's ears, a pooling in his stomach signalling his body's first tentative steps towards arousal, but now wasn't the time. As if on cue, the front door rapped three times and Mrs Hudson's bustling footsteps could be heard up the stairs as she went to answer it, the voices of well-wishing and Christmas cheer echoing through the flat's open door.
Sherlock grimaced at the noise and John was hard-pressed not to match it, but this was more than an obligation to host a party after they'd already agreed to it earlier in the year. This was a gathering of friends to celebrate the season and John prized himself on his ability to keep his friends happy, keeping in touch with his old army buddies via email and the occasional rugby match after work long after he left the armed forces. So a last minute cancellation because he wanted to spend the next week shagging Sherlock's brains out was out of the question; no matter how desired it was on their side.
The noises downstairs gradually became louder as the group moved towards Mrs Hudson's flat; she was giving out drinks and nibbles before preparing to move upstairs, so they had two minutes alone before they had to separate. John tugged Sherlock close, breathing in the scent of his aftershave when a wicked idea sprang to mind. He pushed up onto his toes so he could reach Sherlock's left ear, bringing his lips as close as possible so Sherlock would hear every single word. "If you behave yourself today, I'll blow you in the car on the way to Sussex."
Sherlock made a noise that was almost inhuman, a cross between a snarl and a growl, before pulling back and crushing his lips against John's. It was a brief moment of hard, possessive nips and dominating tongues until John realised they were desperately clutching at each other, hands buried in hair and twisting this way and that, trying to force each other into submission. Christ, it felt so good to finally give as much as he was getting, pulling Sherlock's hair just to feel him gasp against John's mouth and surge against his body. Only the sound of a single set of footsteps on the stairs was enough to force them apart, breaking away harshly and panting as they each fought to gain control of themselves.
John headed straight to the kitchen, vaguely hearing the sound of Sherlock opening his violin case as he ran the cold tap to splash water on his face. When he turned around, Sherlock didn't look the tinniest bit ruffled to the untrained eye, but John could clearly see where his fingers had dishevelled Sherlock's curls and he knew that one other person would definitely see it as well.
Speak of the devil…
"Sod off, Mycroft."
The raised eyebrow Mycroft gave Sherlock at that little remark didn't surprise John in the slightest. "I see the merriment of the holiday season hasn't affected you at all," Mycroft said, twisting the tip of his umbrella into the carpet. "I'm relieved, quite frankly. God knows what would happen if you suddenly considered being an appropriate human being for once; the world would be a considerably duller place, no doubt."
Sherlock chose not to respond verbally, drawing the bow across the strings of his violin sharply to create a grating, scratching whine. John winced, often worried about the Strad's mistreatment at Sherlock's hands when in one of his moods; Mycroft never failed to send Sherlock straight into one.
"As much as you know I enjoy your company," Mycroft said, speaking in the breaks in Sherlock's playing, "I am only here to give you this." In his right hand there was an envelope which he passed to John when Sherlock made no move to take it.
"Thank you," John said. They didn't need to worry about Mycroft's gift; that had been specially delivered to Sherlock's brother a week ago, courtesy of Sherlock's own credit card. Not that Sherlock knew about that.
Opening the envelope, John was surprised to see just two black cards inside. Much like a credit card, each one had a beautiful design on it along with their names and some numbers. Membership cards of some kind but, in the absence of a name, John had no idea what they were for.
"What are you playing at, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice was sharp, his violin forgotten on his shoulder. His eyes were fixed on the cards in John's hands.
"Merely ensuring my brother's continued happiness and that of his partner," Mycroft replied, putting one hand in a trouser pocket while he leant on his umbrella with the other. "These cards entitle the both of you with unlimited VIP access to the club you infiltrated on the second of December."
John felt his mouth drop open; the second of December was the start of 'The Forced Submissives' case, the night John discovered his BDSM kink. Torn between the fact that Mycroft knew about them and the one where Mycroft knew what the basis of their relationship was, John settled for a mixture of the two, staring at Sherlock's brother with bewilderment.
"Life is rarely so generous that it grants you every unspoken wish," Mycroft explained. "Think of this as an extension of that generosity."
"What makes you think we'll even use them?" Sherlock said, walking over to John to inspect the cards more closely.
"You may dispose of them in any way you see fit, should you make that decision," Mycroft replied, and suddenly John couldn't imagine anything worse.
John's mind swiftly turned inward, picturing the faces of Will and Eric and the compassion they'd shown him when he was left floundering in the dark, unable to see and unsure what it was he wanted. To have unlimited access to that, to the two people who understood what he had with Sherlock and had their own relationship, their own lifestyle… The possibilities seemed endless. "Thank you, Mycroft."
He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him in his peripheral vision and he let all his gratitude show on his face for Sherlock to see. It wasn't that John thought they needed help with their exploration of each other, least of all from Mycroft, but these cards were more than they appeared. They wouldn't help them grow as a couple, but maybe they could be an asset to that same end. Whatever Sherlock saw was enough for the detective to calm his ire at Mycroft's presumptuousness, huffing and twirling away to resume his playing.
It was also enough for Mycroft, recognising a dismissal from Sherlock for what it was. "I have asked for your guests to wait two more minutes after I leave," he said, turning towards the door. "To give you both time to compose yourselves."
John watched Mycroft's departure with wide eyes, the cards in his hands feeling like lead weights even after the other man had left. Sherlock had yet to resume his playing, his silhouette defined against the afternoon light, and a deep pang of something echoed in John's ribcage, making it a little harder to breathe. He remembered Will's and Eric's show to the last second, imagining himself in Eric's place and wishing for a split second that he could have been there instead with Sherlock standing over him, flushed with exertion as he expertly wielded a flogger or crop onto John's back, arse and thighs. It hadn't even been on his radar, the idea had seemed so far-fetched that he barely considered it. Now though…
"Do you want to keep them?"
Sherlock's voice wasn't resigned. Just inquisitive, as if he was also considering the possibilities now open to them. What would Sherlock do to him, what would they do to each other having been given this new freedom?
John wrapped his fingers around the cards, already memorising the feel of the numbers against his skin. "Yes." He didn't think he'd ever let them go.
Sherlock turned towards him, lowering his violin and taking in John's expression, his eyes glimmering against the light from the window. "Then we'd best prepare for that eventuality." John watched as Sherlock put his violin down and walked to the kitchen, pulling out two tumblers and opening the bottle of sherry bought for the party, pouring small measures into each glass. Without missing a beat, the bottle was re-stoppered and the glasses taken back into the living room, one pushed into John's free hand with Sherlock keeping the other poised in front of his face. "To the fulfilment of unspoken wishes," Sherlock said.
On the table close to the windows, the oak box containing John's presents hadn't moved since Sherlock had placed it there earlier in the day. John couldn't speak around the lump in his throat, could barely swallow the sherry after they'd clinked glasses, but the burn from the alcohol was potent; made all the more sharp by the promise in Sherlock's voice and reinforced by the gift from his Dom.
To unspoken wishes indeed.
To be continued
A/N: If you'd like to see what John's new present looks like, please see this link:
http://www.leatheretc.com/fetish/5539-40Blk_Cuffs.html
(Almost wish I had a pair... *sigh*)
- 12
- 13
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