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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
- 18
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- 20
Title: Anomalies
Author: Harpling
Characters, Pairing: Sherlock/John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Mrs. Hudson, OC
Rating: NC17
Summary: Sherlock Holmes was a man accustomed to anomalies. Things out of place formed the bulk of his work, after all. But why was he so slow to notice them in his own behaviour?
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, and I am making no money from them.
Warnings: Manly man love, quite explicitly
Beta’d by the extraordinary Lynn Maxwell and not yet Brit-picked.

The need to finish what they’d started in the lift became very urgent. Before the front door had swung shut, Sherlock had John pushed up against the back, filling his hands with broad shoulders and his mouth with the sound of John’s gasping breath. Apparently, John was just as eager, fisting his hands in dark curls to pull Sherlock’s mouth down and stretching up. At the feel of John’s body pressed against his, Sherlock groaned and stepped in closer, one of his long legs fitting in between John’s. It would seem that John approved of this arrangement, as he began rocking his hips on the slim thigh, hard and hot even through denim and cotton and wool. Not that Sherlock was complaining; he rutted his hips forward like an animal in a mating frenzy, desperate to achieve more friction, more stimulation. One of them moaned, he didn’t know who, the primal, animal sound filling the entryway and shivering down his spine.
He had been intent on doing something. What was it he had intended to do? All he could remember was the desperate urge to be closer to John Watson, to open up his skin and melt inside. Bed. That was it. He wanted to drag John down someplace where there was enough room to explore without falling off the sofa. Bed was impossibly far away, though, and John was right here. Sherlock dragged his hands through the short, blonde silk of John’s hair and tilted his head to gain better access to all the secrets John was hiding behind his teeth.
Footsteps behind him didn’t register through the fog in his brain, but Mrs Hudson’s concerned greeting brought him up short. “Sherlock, I thought I heard someone come in. Is everything all right, dear? It sounded like someone was in pain just a moment ago. Oh, is that Doctor Watson come back? We’ve missed you round here these past few weeks, Doctor Watson. Sherlock got into such a strop while you were away. Did you have a nice holiday, then?”
Sherlock had never hated his landlady more. John stared up at him, his pupils blown wide and his lips reddened and full from their recent ministrations. Slowly, subtly, John shifted and drew back his hips, and Sherlock almost cried out at the loss of contact.
Finally, in a choked voice, John ground out, “Just fine, Mrs Hudson. We’ll be – I’ll just be going up to bed, then. Good night.”
“Oh! Well, er, good night, then, Doctor Watson. Sherlock.”
The soft padding of her slippers retreated down the hall, leaving harsh panting breaths to fill the silence once more. John pushed gently against Sherlock’s chest, saying, “Maybe we should take this someplace more comfortable. And, uh, private.” The soft growl in his voice made Sherlock start to pin him against the door in a renewed assault, but John ducked beneath the long arms and headed for the stairs. Sherlock couldn’t help but follow, like an iron filament drawn to a high-powered magnet. He followed closely enough to appreciate the subtle shifting of muscle in John’s backside as he climbed each step.
Sherlock paused to open the door to his bedroom, but he realized that John was walking away. That wasn’t right. Why would John walk away now? “John, are you… I mean, we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to. Don’t leave again.” He murmured that last bit so quietly that he wasn’t even sure John had heard. But John was turning back, still a step above, to pull Sherlock into his arms again.
He licked a fiery line up the pale throat, each swipe of his tongue sparking sympathetic vibrations much lower, before saying, “Don’t be a sodding git, Sherlock. I’ve wanted this, wanted you, since I first moved in here. But I’ve got all the necessary supplies up in my room. And it’s two floors above anyone who might hear.” He latched those delightfully clever lips back on Sherlock’s, the new angle providing a whole new set of data to process. With John higher like this, their bodies were aligned in intriguing new configurations. Sherlock experimentally rocked his hips forward, sliding his erection along John’s eager shaft. It was incredible, the feeling indescribable. He tried to repeat the motion, rocking back on the stairs, completely lost in the novel sensation, but John stepped back. “Ease up a bit, Sherlock. If this is your first time, we’re going to have to take things slow and careful. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He clutched the tips of Sherlock’s fingers in his own and drew him up the stairs, never breaking eye contact. Sherlock swallowed nervously under the intensity of that gaze. “All of my research indicated as much, though I haven’t yet been able to perform any practical experimentation.”
The corner of John’s lip quirked, an involuntary muscle movement. “Research, Sherlock? You researched how to get off?”
“Is that not good?”
“Oh, it’s, uh, yeah. I think we’d better get out of the hall before I tear all your clothes off on the stairs and embarrass Mrs Hudson again.” He pulled Sherlock into the darkened bedroom and said, in a voice a whole register below normal, “Strip, before I ruin that fancy shirt of yours by ripping it apart.” John followed his own instructions by wrenching his own clothing off so quickly that Sherlock barely had time to follow the movement of reaching limbs and disappearing garments before John stood before him, completely and unabashedly nude. Sherlock’s fingers stilled on the buttons of his shirt as he drank in the sight of the body before him. Vaguely, he reflected on the influence of close military quarters on levels of modesty, but John’s skin beckoned him for a closer look.
There was so much to see and observe, so much of John’s life story reflected on his body. As John lay back on the bed, Sherlock crawled over him, intent on solving every one of the puzzles laid out before him. The well-developed muscles in the upper back and thighs, evidence of all the hours spent playing rugby. The scar just below the left knee, where an abrasion had gotten infected before healing, back before John hit puberty. The faint irregularity of the bones in the right wrist from a Colles fracture about ten years ago. The line of tanned skin against pale at his hips, where his swimming trunks rested in New Zealand. The puckered scar on his shoulder left by the bullet in Afghanistan that had ultimately brought him back to England. To Sherlock.
John’s eyes drifted shut under the soft brush of Sherlock’s exploring fingers. His breathing slowed slightly and became more regular, but the hard weight of his erection didn’t flag in the slightest. Finally, Sherlock found himself drawn back to this particular region, noting the subtle change in John’s breathing patterns at the approach. Slowly, he threaded his fingers through the blonde curls that couldn’t hide the engorged shaft rising so prominently. The hair was softer than expected, springing back after the lightest of touches. When his long fingers finally clasped the silken-hot skin, the breath left John’s chest in a rush. Under closer inspection, Sherlock could see the skin of the testicles moving and drawing around the glands within, constantly shifting like a swirling fingerprint. At the feel of breath puffing out hot against the sensitive skin, John’s length twitched and jerked in his hand. The smell was intriguing, much more pleasant than Sherlock had anticipated. It was faint, most everything washed away by the shower earlier, but Sherlock could still pick out soap, sweat, warmly musty smells underlaid with an indefinable scent that spoke of John and all that he promised.
The taste of John in his mouth was much as he had expected, but John’s reaction to the sudden application of lips and tongue to hypersensitive skin was much better than anticipated. At the first swipe of Sherlock’s tongue, John sucked in a harsh breath and scrabbled his fingers in the sheets below him. When Sherlock bent his head and took the entire length in his mouth, John’s hips thrust forward involuntarily, arching his spine off the bed as if seeking blindly to absorb more of what Sherlock was offering. Hastily, Sherlock cast about in his mind for other sensations he could create with his mouth. His only prior experience had been so unpleasant that he didn’t think he’d better try recreating any of Kevin’s techniques with John. Cautiously, he pulled his mouth back, applying suction as he would if drawing the poison out of a bee sting. John’s sudden cry sounded very encouraging, so he repeated the manoeuvre. Several times.
Before he could find any sort of a rhythm for moving, John’s hands in his hair stopped him. “Sherlock, I think you’d better give that a rest if you want this to last any time at all,” he said as he tugged gently to bring Sherlock up on the bed next to him.
“Is something wrong?”
“No, no, not wrong.” John paused and breathed deeply, closing his eyes. “I’ve been building up for so long that I’m afraid this’ll all be over too quickly if you don’t ease up a bit. Even after what we did this afternoon.” His soft lips offered an apology to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, but then he was gone, sliding away and down. He removed the shirt from where it was still clinging to Sherlock’s shoulders, then reached down to undo the fastenings of his trousers, standing back to strip the offending garment away.
Before Sherlock had a chance to protest the loss of contact, he felt the first rush of John’s breath against his hip. As John licked a slow, tortuous path across the prominent bone, he ghosted his palm in an answering line above the hard length lying against Sherlock’s stomach. John repeated this move several times before moving to the other hip and performing the same delightful torture there. Sherlock tried to stay still, but the first brush of John’s lips against his erection had him squirming and making noises that had him very glad they were on the second floor.
Slowly, with his fingers still tracing out distracting patterns on hips and thighs, John slid his tongue around the Sherlock’s erection, tasting every inch with deliberate precision. He stroked firmly against the cluster of nerves, used lips to pull back the foreskin, lapped briefly at the tip. Before Sherlock could begin to adjust to one set of neurons sending fiery signals up his spine, another sensation would take their place, leaving him off-kilter and completely at John’s mercy.
When John finally engulfed Sherlock in his mouth, the resulting overload of stimulation had him arching off the bed, thrusting futilely. John backed off a bit, just enough to allow Sherlock to regain some of his higher brain functions, before renewing his efforts. Through this repeated cycle of sensation, Sherlock was just barely aware of John, without faltering the rhythm of his lips, reaching into the bedside table for something. Surgeon, he thought, vaguely trying to regain some form of mental control. Trained to be ambidextrous and multi-ta… The rest of the thought was drowned out by a whole new set of nerves demanding attention. One of John’s clever fingers was pressing a slick path inside of him. It was odd and uncomfortable, not the way all those websites had described it, but any discomfort was easily outweighed by that thing John was doing with his tongue.
One finger was soon joined by another, filling him and stretching him in ways that were not quite pleasant but not wholly unpleasant either. John’s thumb was firmly stroking along his perineum, pressing up just enough to make something inside tingle. He was surprisingly sensitive in that area, and the juxtaposition of stimulation was altogether overwhelming. All too soon, John removed his hands, his mouth, his fingers, his hot breath, and crawled up the bed to loom over him. Sherlock tried to recover his breath, but made the mistake of opening his eyes. John’s face filled his vision, the evidence of his recent activities clear in the swollen lips and dilated pupils. The sight was entrancing, and Sherlock had to lean up to capture those lips in his own, tasting himself on John’s tongue.
“Sherlock,” he breathed. “I really don’t want to hurt you, but you’re so bloody tight that I don’t know I’ll be able to help it. We’ll go slowly, but you tell me if it’s too much.” One hand danced feverish circles across the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s chest while the other was busy rolling on a condom and covering it with lubricant. Sherlock had reason to be profoundly grateful for his natural flexibility when John drew his knees toward his chest, tilting his hips up. “Relax. Trust me,” he whispered into Sherlock’s mouth.
He didn’t think John would ever be able to fit. Everywhere was resistant, despite the stretching and the lubrication slicking the way. And it burned as John pressed forward. The discomfort must have shown on his face, because John paused and started to pull back. Sherlock realized then that he wanted this, even if he didn’t quite know what to expect. He wanted to feel John inside of him, wanted John to possess his body as thoroughly as he now possessed his mind. With a deep breath, Sherlock grabbed tanned hips and pulled.
The pain was intense but fading by the moment, replaced in his mind by the look on John’s face, the sound of John’s muffled groan, the feeling of John’s body buried deep. When the burning had lessened to a dull throb, Sherlock tentatively rocked his hips back, delighting in the sounds this caused John to make. It was extraordinary, really, the effect he could have on this man, this stoic, steadfast, stolid soldier falling to pieces above him. Physically, Sherlock was a little disappointed by the lack of stimulation; his sources had been quite specific about the role of the mechanoreceptor nerves on the surface of the prostate in achieving orgasm. It would seem that they had exaggerated somewhat: the sensation, while mildly pleasant, was nowhere near as enjoyable as that caused by John’s mouth and hands on his erection.
Still, John seemed to be enjoying himself. His face (jaw slack, brow furrowed, eyes squeezed shut) bore a look of intense concentration, his breath coming short and fast. “Oh, god, Sherlock,” he groaned. “You’re so… uh… wow…” He moved slowly out, sliding his hips back smoothly before jerking forward again. John’s hands resumed their maddening dance across his chest, lighting up every nerve ending along the way, sending lances of heat straight down into his groin. That was good. That was better than good; that was magnificent. But then John leaned forward and dragged his tongue up the line of Sherlock’s throat, scraping gently with his teeth. The extra stimulation made Sherlock jump, his hips jerking up against John’s.
Stars. There were stars exploding in his mind. The minute adjustment in angles brought everything into alignment, sending lightning heat arcing up Sherlock’s spine to overload his brain. A loud, keening cry filled the room, possibly torn from Sherlock’s throat. He didn’t know any more. All he knew was the instinct to slam his hips up again, seeking more of that incredible friction from John. With a muted chuckle, John dropped one hand to Sherlock’s hip, forcing him to move slowly and evenly. “Steady, now. Don’t want to break – ngh – something.” John’s eyes stayed locked onto Sherlock’s, steady blue eyes anchoring him in place.
Sherlock fisted his fingers through John’s hair, seeking some stability in the maelstrom of neural sparking. He wanted to make John feel this way, incoherent and overloaded on sensation. While tracing one wet finger along the muscles clenching and shifting in John’s jaw, Sherlock tried shifting and squeezing internally. Something must have worked, because John’s entire face twisted, his hips losing their steady rhythm. Five jerking thrusts, and John’s eyes squeezed shut. He shuddered into Sherlock, releasing a short, startled cry that was quickly muffled. And then there was heat, flooding into his body. Through it all, Sherlock marvelled at his face, at the knowledge that he could make this calm, orderly man lose control so completely. It was extraordinary.
A few, quick strokes of John’s hot palm were enough to short out the circuits in his brain, the after-image of John’s orgasmic features reflecting behind his eyes.
Finally, John slumped over his body as all the energy seemed to drain out of him. “Fuck, Sherlock. Where the hell did you learn to do that?” He rolled off, and Sherlock was strangely discomfited at the loss of the hot, sweaty weight above him. Empty and cold. “We might have to call Mrs Turner and let her know nobody’s been murdered up here. Glad you enjoyed yourself.” John got up and walked away, but before Sherlock could wonder at the loss, he was back with a towel. After a cursory swipe, he collapsed again beside Sherlock’s indolent form.
Within seconds, his slow, even breathing was drifting past Sherlock’s neck. I’d better go back downstairs, he thought. I need to compare cargo manifests with Victor Trevor’s work schedule. And check the connection between… um… this is surprisingly comfortable… look up the… mm…
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Anomalies