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Anomalies	By : Harpling Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3513 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sherlock, the BBC, or any of the characters mentioned herein, nor am I making any money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 16
- 17
- 18
Title: Anomalies
Author: Harpling
Rating: NC17
Warnings for this chapter: Full-on nekkidness and hawt sexy manly man love
Beat's by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked

John seemed frozen in time, his hands stilled where he had been sorting through a pile of mail on the table. Warily, Sherlock held his gaze, afraid to make any sudden moves for fear of startling John into leaving again. He drew in a deep breath, and another, trying to calm his racing heart. Adrenaline, he thought absently. Fight or flight reflex when confronted with a potential confrontation. Behind the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears, Sherlock could dimly hear Jamie and Doctor Bell and Mycroft, all telling him not to mess this up.
Finally, John broke the silence. “Sherlock,” he said quietly. His voice didn’t quite shake, but he had resumed his stiff military posture. His left hand was absolutely still. Clearly, he was feeling his own rush of adrenaline and uncertainty. Sherlock waited for him to continue, but John seemed to have run out of words. (No suitcase visible, shoes off, computer plugged in on the table: John had returned approximately half an hour ago.)
Sherlock tried to think of something to say. John, I’m sorry. John, please don’t leave me again. John, you’re more than an experiment. John, I can’t function without you. John, I don’t think I’m really a sociopath, because I think I may actually be in love with you. But all that came out was, “They’re not really Russians.”
John frowned. “What? Who isn’t Russian?”
“The smugglers. Bringing guns into London. They’re not really Russians. It’s a red herring, a ploy to distract us.” Oh, this was no good. Why did his brain have to stop functioning precisely when he needed it the most? John was turning away again.
“Oh. Right. Well, who is it really?” Despite his words, John was clearly not interested. He was already heading out onto the landing.
“I don’t know yet. I need more data. The gun oil residue and Karolinski’s clothes. We can have another look at them, see if they match up with any of that.” He gestured to the wall where everything else was tacked up, but John was gone. Again. His footsteps on the stairs were uneven. (Lack of confrontation, direct danger passed: return of psychosomatic limp.)
Sherlock slumped in his armchair. It was all wrong. He had ruined everything. How could he make John see what had changed? The skull grinned at him from the mantel, but offered no helpful suggestions. Jamie had left her lacy orange knickers draped jauntily over one empty socket. Overhead, he could hear John’s limping footsteps as he moved about his bedroom. Drawers opened and closed, the closet door opened but stayed open. Either he was unpacking from his trip, or he was packing everything to move out of the flat.
After only a few minutes (not enough time to pack everything), John came back down. “Sherlock, has someone been in my room? Things are all moved about from where I left them.”
“She said you wouldn’t mind. I tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t listen,” Sherlock replied, not quite paying attention. He was still focused on the problem of convincing John to stay.
“Who wouldn’t listen? You had some woman sleep over while I was gone? And what’s that on your skull?”
“Jamie must have put them there after I left this morning. And she insisted on sleeping in your bed. Said she used to do it all the time.”
“Jamie Wilson? You invited Jamie Wilson to stay here? I thought you two would hate each other on sight.”
“I didn’t invite her. She coerced Mrs Hudson into letting her in and then refused to leave. I was helping her with a case, and the police wouldn’t let her back into her flat.”
John stared at him in amazement. “You spent the night with Jamie Wilson, and you two didn’t kill each other?”
“No, we got on rather well, actually. Had a very nice … chat.” The memory of what had been discussed in that chat brought a rush of heat to Sherlock’s cheeks, which he hid by opening a book and pretending to read.
John muttered to himself, “Now I know the world is coming to an end.” He leaned over the sofa to look at all of Sherlock’s notes and reminders from the case. Since it appeared he had no immediate plans to move out or to force a confrontation, Sherlock allowed himself to relax a bit. Over the top of his book, he watched John read through everything on the wall. One hand reached up to rub idly at the back of his head, the other braced against the hideous wallpaper. After a few minutes of staring, he cocked his head slightly and leaned in closer. Without a word, he retrieved his laptop from the table. His gait was now entirely even.
What was he looking at? What had he noticed? Sherlock held his breath as John started up the computer. From where he was sitting, he couldn’t see exactly what John pulled up on the screen, but he had a fairly good guess. Slowly, John traced his finger over whatever he was reading on the screen in front of him, glancing up frequently to compare with what was on the wall. Finally, he turned back to his flatmate, who had lost all ability to breathe.
“Sherlock,” John said, “I had a very strange email waiting for me when I got back. Do you know anything about this?”
“Yes.”
“Did you write it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you use a smuggler’s secret code system to write it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you mean it?”
He had to close his eyes before breathing out, “Yes.”
“So: John I’m sorry. You are worth far more to me than I let on. I miss you. I think I may be in –“
“Yes. Yes, yes, all that. Congratulations, you figured out the code. Impressive, considering your limited intellect. Didn’t strain yourself thinking too hard, did you?” Sherlock threw down the book and started pacing furiously around the room, unable to meet John’s eyes. There was nothing in the doctor’s voice to give away what he was thinking. John’s face would show everything. What if it showed anger? Or disgust? Or fear? Or any one of a hundred other emotions that ultimately spelled the end of Sherlock’s hope.
“Then, is that what was going on back when, uh, in the kitchen? But you said it was just –“
“I know what I said, John. I didn’t have all the data at that point. That’s why forming conclusions prematurely is such a dangerous thing. I twisted the facts to suit the theory rather than the theory to suit the facts. From what I had deduced up to that point, that was the correct course of action. I was missing key evidence.”
“Mm-hm. And what was the new evidence, then?”
“It was, well,” he stammered. Why was this so difficult? “Your friend Jamie informed me of what I had been missing. Doctor Bell corroborated. In light of this new data, I was forced to re-evaluate my … interpretation of events.”
“Right. And what interpretation would that be, then?”
“Do I really have to spell it all out for you?”
“I think you do, yeah. Since my intellect is so limited and all.”
“Fine,” Sherlock spat. He flung himself lengthwise on the sofa and turned his face to the wall, still not meeting John’s eyes. “The physical attraction was obvious, easy to measure. Your reciprocating attraction was also easily verifiable. There are some benefits to male anatomy. Since that was the most identifiable motivator, I placed undue emphasis on it, ignoring or finding specious justifications for all other motivations. My desire to leave Karolinski’s hospital room was attributed to a subconscious premonition of personal threat rather than jealousy. I told myself I was willing to leave the scene of our assault in Earl’s Court because there was nothing more to be seen there, not because you were cold and obviously uncomfortable. The idea that my desires were wholly sexual was pretty well put to rest when I realized that I have been unable to achieve any level of arousal from another partner, whether physical or imaginary. Even when I played my violin, I convinced myself that I was choosing repertoire based on what would help me think rather than what would help you sleep. And this whole time you’ve been gone, I haven’t been able to focus on anything other than your absence. I’ve missed clues; I’ve ignored obvious patterns. I even started making false assumptions! I can’t think, John. What am I if I can’t think?
“I was perfectly happy as a high-functioning sociopath before you came along. Now, I’ve got all these emotional entanglements and illogical thoughts cluttering up my head and getting in the way of my Work. Why did you do this to me?” He jumped up and grabbed John by the shoulders, shaking him with all the frustration of the last few weeks.
John raised an eyebrow. And smirked. And chuckled a bit. “Is that your way of telling me that you’re madly in love with me? Not the most flattering confession I’ve ever heard, but I suppose I shouldn’t expect anything less from the World’s Only Consulting Detective. Only you could make something like this sound so bloody insulting.” He raised one hand to comb through the disarray of Sherlock’s hair. “At this point, I’ll take it as a compliment.”
Sherlock had to close his eyes against the intensity of John’s gaze, so close. “Then Jamie was right.”
“Of course she was. She usually is. She won’t ever let me forget it, either.”
“And you are…?”
“Yeah. All that.”
“But Doctor Sawyer?”
“I broke it off with her. I was trying to get over you. Thought I didn’t have a chance, after what you said… in the kitchen. I wanted to make myself think about someone else.   Someone nice and normal, who didn’t see me as an experiment. It didn’t work.”
John’s mouth was much too far away. Sherlock leaned down with the intent of pressing his lips to that particular corner that was still smirking, but John’s hand on his chest stopped him. “Sherlock, if we’re going to do this, it’s going to be for good. I’m not some case study you can run off and forget when you get bored. I’m not a puzzle for you to solve. And I’m definitely not a rent boy here to make you feel good whenever it’s convenient. You know that, right?”
Sherlock breathed in the scent of John’s skin and cheap airline soap before replying, “John, you are the only person I have ever met with the ability to distract me from my Work. You are also the only person I can’t predict and can’t figure out. I want to learn every part of you. I need to know what goes on in your mind. And I intend to spend the rest of my life peeling back every layer of you to find out what goes on underneath.”
John’s breath was coming more rapidly now, his hand fisting in the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt. “I should find that disturbing. I really should.” He leaned up on his toes to close the gap.
It was tentative at first, the soft brush of lips against lips, but neither could hold back for long. With a low hum, Sherlock slid his hands down from John’s shoulders to map the contours of his back, tracing the trapezius, the deltoid, down to the latissimus dorsi and back up to play along the edge of the scapulae. John responded by taking Sherlock's lower lip between his own and biting, gently at first. When Sherlock tried to reciprocate, John took advantage of his parted lips to sweep his tongue in, seeking out every crevice and hidden secret. All of Sherlock's considerable powers of observation immediately shut down in the face of the invasion. Everything else faded away, his world narrowed to John's hands clutching his shoulders, John's lips yielding, John's hips pressing against his, John's breath coming out in rapid puffs of heat against his face. The slight rasp of stubbled cheeks drew his focus to the tanned face so close to his own. The insistent tugging of fingers in his hair made him hone in on the sensation of being pulled closer and tighter in to John's mouth. John was everything, and it wasn't enough. Sherlock needed more, but he wasn’t sure what else he needed or how to get it.
John was doing something with one hand, those nimble doctor’s fingers dancing a line down between them. Ah, he had unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt. Impressive, really, that he could manipulate all those tiny buttons without seeing them and while still maintaining the incredibly distracting rhythm of teeth and tongue and lips and… oh! At the sudden assault of John’s hands on the sensitive skin of his chest, Sherlock found himself unable to complete a coherent thought. Every brush of fingers, every stroke of palms or flick of wrists sent lines of heat shooting through his body, adding to the molten core already forming in his groin. All previous experience with his own skin hadn’t prepared Sherlock for the heightened sensitivity in places he had not known could be erogenous zones. The caress of a thumb across his clavicle made Sherlock’s knees shake; the slide of a palm across the external oblique to the rectus abdominus made Sherlock’s breath hitch. But it was the whisper of touch against the nerves clustered at his nipple that made him moan into John’s mouth and his entire body shudder.
Sherlock could feel John’s lips quirk against his as he repeated the move, sliding broad, calloused palms across the sensitive tissue. It was too much. It was not enough. He felt himself at a disadvantage, as John was still wearing his shirt. Tentatively, Sherlock tried to slide his hands in and find skin, but the doctor was wearing a t-shirt. No buttons. With the majority of his brain completely absorbed by John’s continued assault, Sherlock couldn’t figure out how to remove the offending garment, pulling futilely against the hem. John stopped and pulled away. Why did John stop? Sherlock opened his eyes to see what was wrong and was greeted by the sight of a tanned, scarred, perfectly formed torso being revealed as the shirt was lifted overhead and tossed aside.
He only had a moment to marvel, though, before John pressed in again, his lips latching on the pale throat this time, his hands slipping below the waistband of perfectly tailored trousers, his skin – oh god his skin – hot and damp and perfect against Sherlock’s chest. Fingers made dexterous by hours of surgery slid delicately along the sharp hipbones displayed so prominently. This light touch made Sherlock buck his hips and let out a very undignified sort of groaning noise. With his head tipped back to allow John better access to the pulse leaping in his throat, pelvis thrust forward to invite more of the teasing fingers along the bone of his hip, his shirt flung open to allow John full access to the coil of nerves being gently massaged in his chest, Sherlock felt he understood something of how his violin must feel. His body was a finely-tuned instrument, being played with the skill of a virtuoso.
He wanted to reciprocate, to observe John’s reactions when his own defences were stripped away and he was left trembling and open. Sherlock regained enough control over his limbs to fumble open the button of John’s denims and slide them down to catch around his knees, baring the slightly faded boxer-briefs straining to contain the evidence of his excitement. Hesitantly, Sherlock raised one hand to trace the outline of the fabric stretched against insistent flesh, feeling the heat radiating through the thin cotton. It was enough to make his mouth go dry. John took advantage of the momentary distraction to continue disrobing his flatmate. When Sherlock’s trousers slid off his hips, leaving him completely bare, John leaned back in surprise, saying, “Oh, god, Sherlock! Commando?”
The movement overbalanced him, and he fell back to land on the sofa, pulling Sherlock after to land in an untidy sprawl among the cushions. Their position was not entirely ideal, with legs dangling awkwardly off the end and heads pressed against the unyielding wall, but it did create the rather pleasant effect of pressing their groins tightly against each other. Sherlock whimpered when he felt the sudden friction sliding along hypersensitive skin. He rocked his hips forward, seeking more of the same, but John’s quiet laughter stilled him.
“Eager, Sherlock? Maybe we’d better adjust a bit before you go slamming my head through the wall. I don’t think Mrs Hudson would appreciate another hole in the paper.” He shifted to lie full-length along the sofa, each movement bringing new bits of him into contact with his desperately hungry flatmate. When they were both positioned more comfortably, John drew Sherlock down to meet his lips again. At the first slide of his erection against John’s, Sherlock groaned obscenely. Naturally, John noticed and repeated the move, thrusting his hips forward to rut against Sherlock.
But the fabric was still in the way. Sherlock reached down to push John’s pants off, but he got hung up on the elastic, trapped tightly against his stomach. Again, the feeling of John’s soft chuckles vibrated against his lips. One of John’s hands drifted down the long, pale chest to assist. The back of his knuckles just brushed against Sherlock’s frenulum, causing something like a small nuclear explosion behind his eyes. At the sound of the strangled cry, John drew back to lock eyes with Sherlock again.   Slowly, he laced their fingers together, fitting both their hands around heated flesh, pressing silken skin together to feel the hard heat beneath. As he started to slide their joined hands along the lengths squeezed together so tightly, John stared avidly into his face. Sherlock tried to keep his eyes open, tried to watch John’s reactions, but the sensation was too much. There was so much data flowing into his mind simultaneously that he had to block some of it out.
However, the lack of sight only heightened his awareness of the sound of John’s breath against his face, the warmth of John’s chest under his fingertips, the smell of John’s body so close under his nose, the taste of John’s skin lingering on his tongue, the feel of fingers and palms and soft hard skin rubbing against his most sensitive parts. Everything built to a roaring crescendo in his head, driving out any other thought that might have intruded. When John leaned his head closer and began to suck and then to bite just at the spot where the neck met the shoulder, Sherlock felt the circuits of his brain begin to overload. But it was the firm scrape of John’s nails against the already peaked buds of his nipples that caused a total shut-down of his hard-drive. He may have screamed. He may have thrashed. He may have exploded into a million shining sparks and been reassembled in a slightly different pattern. He didn’t know. All he knew was the heat and blinding light and deafening roar as his world fractured and splintered and erupted.
When the air stopped shimmering and he could breathe again, Sherlock opened his eyes to John’s face, just in front of him. The blue eyes were completely unfocused, staring with a glazed sort of relief in the general direction of the ceiling. Both of them were still breathing in short, harsh, panting breaths, lips so close that the air rushed between them from one pair of lungs to another. It was a strange sort of communion, but Sherlock thought that he rather liked it.
After a few moments, John seemed to collect himself and come back from whatever blissful place he’d been visiting. His eyes refocused and locked on to the brilliant blue orbs of his flatmate. He swallowed a bit nervously before saying, “God, watching you like that was the hottest thing I think I’ve ever seen. That was incredible. Did you… uh, I mean, I know you… well…”
“That was far more intense than anything I’ve been able to achieve the few times I tried it. I suppose the participation of another person adds an element of unpredictability that one cannot obtain alone. Well, that and the release of so much built-up tension. The hormones currently flooding our systems, prolactin and oxytocin and floods of dopamine are a very pleasant after-effect.”
John let his fingers play along each delicate rib, identifying more sensitive zones Sherlock hadn’t know he’d had, before carefully asking, “Are you telling me that was your first time having sex?”
“What did you expect, John? I told you when we first met that I had always thought of it all simply as transport. Aside from a few, inconvenient experiences when physical needs demanded to be met, mostly during adolescence, it’s been more convenient for me simply to ignore it. Mental activity was always more satisfying anyway. Well, until now, that is. What you just did, that was… that was good. Remarkable, even. I may understand now why people spend so much energy pursuing sex. On the whole, that was far more exciting than the most complicated case I’ve ever had, even Moriarty.” He blinked, amazed by this conclusion. “John, I think that was better than cocaine! The after-effects are decidedly more pleasant, even if the result is a bit… messier.”
The small pool of their combined ejaculations was cooling in the hollow of John’s stomach. Sherlock knew what his own semen tasted like, having determined that after his first nocturnal emission at age fourteen, but what did John taste like? Curious, he slid his finger through the puddle and raised it to his lips. Fluxuations in diet and hormone levels would, of course, cause the chemical makeup to vary somewhat, but he thought he could still detect a slightly different flavour. Interesting. A strangled whimpering noise stopped his further research. John was watching the movement of his lips and fingers and apparently seeing something enjoyed very much, if the evidence nudging again at Sherlock’s belly was to be believed.
“I was under the impression that men required a certain window of respite before being able to ‘go again’ as it were.”
“Under normal circumstances, yeah. But, Sherlock, I think we’ve already established that there is nothing normal about you. Still, inspiring as you are, it’ll still be a bit before I’m up for another round. Sorry.”
“Mm. And how would you recommend we spend that time?”
“Uh, well, there’s the usual things: telly, shower, comparing notes on past experiences, awkward conversations. You know, that sort of thing.”
“None of those sound particularly appealing. I think I’d rather memorize the taste of every inch of your body, if you don’t mind.”
John’s answer was decidedly less coherent as Sherlock began doing exactly that, starting with the previously noted area just at the back of the jaw, below his ear. “Yeah, ok. That’d be, um, ok. Good.”
His explorations were interrupted by the insistent tones of his mobile, beeping rather intrusively from the pocket of his trousers. Sherlock was in favour of ignoring the obnoxious thing, but John stilled him with a gentle push to his shoulder. “That’s second time it’s gone off, now. Probably Lestrade.”
“I don’t remember it ringing before.”
“Yeah, well, you were a bit blissed at the time. Might want to check it, though. It’ll give me a chance to recover before Round Two.”
Grumbling, Sherlock reached down to where his trousers had been discarded in their frantic dance earlier and fished out the blinking device. Murder-kidnapping. Your number in victim’s flat. Better come have a look. Lestrade
The victim knew him somehow? No, that was unlikely. His mobile number was posted on the website. If this person had somehow known him, he would already have contacted Sherlock. Far more probable that the victim had intended to contact Sherlock, if the number was written out and left somewhere visible for the police. But if this person had been to the website and found the number, why had he or she not attempted to contact him via the forum? He didn’t recall anyone posting anything noteworthy recently. Perhaps it was that man who couldn’t make out that his girlfriend had dumped him. Interesting. Something else must have come up with that one. Sherlock was already up and halfway to the door when John’s hand stopped him.
“I don’t think you’ll get much detecting done looking like that. You’re liable to give Lestrade a stroke. Might want to clean up a bit.”
Sherlock glanced in the mirror. His hair was in wild disarray from John’s clutching fingers; his lips and cheeks were reddened where the scrape of John’s stubble had rubbed. Just at the base of his neck, a large bruise was quickly forming where John’s mouth had marked him. And he was naked and still covered with traces of semen. He smirked at John. “I don’t know. Might be useful having Sergeant Donovan speechless.”
“No,” John positively growled. “You’ll not be prancing about in your skin where anyone else can see you.”
“Jealous, John?”
“A bit, yeah. Now go and clean up so we can look at dead bodies.”
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Anomalies