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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
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A/N: Thank to everyone for your support! :D:D:D The response has been fantastic and I'm thrilled you're enjoying it! I hope this part lives up to expectations ;-)
Part Four
John got to his feet somehow, his conscious mind oblivious to the change between sitting and standing because it felt like all his muscles had turned to jelly and he desperately didn't want to fall over, didn't want to make himself look like an idiot with how much he was wanting this. When he was standing in front of Sherlock he became aware of his legs shaking beneath him, a faint tremor, and could hear the sound of his breathing in his ears which sounded far too fast. Yet these sensations were nothing compared to the feeling of Sherlock's eyes watching his every move.
The other man was still sitting on the sofa and had leaned back against the cushions, his left arm draped casually over the back of the sofa while his right arm was resting on his right knee. It was a position that had been carefully chosen, John thought, because Sherlock knew it took John effort to take his eyes away from where Sherlock's hand was on his knee, bringing the realness of that hand into sharp focus. What would it be doing to him? How much would he have to beg for it to do something to him?
Sherlock's left arm, however, felt the complete opposite of his right. While his right arm spoke of dominance and control, having his other arm across the back of the sofa opened the left side of Sherlock's body in a way that made John want to crawl into the space, to have that arm wrapped around him to … what? Remind him of who owned him? Comfort him through his tears, or was that something that the right hand would do? Would the hand that inflicted the pain be the one to soothe as well as torment?
Belatedly he realised that he was meant to be undressing, but that brought with it a whole new scope of questions. Did Sherlock want John's eyes on his own while he was doing it, or did he want John to concentrate on the task at hand? Did he want it to done quickly or slowly? John knew that Sherlock could see his predicament but the other man didn't say anything, meeting his eyes when John finally looked at him with an intensity that made John shiver.
Right… concentrate on each button of the shirt. Look at Sherlock every so often to make sure he was doing it right … God, was he doing it right? Did Sherlock like what he was seeing; John's fumbling through his shirt buttons with fingers that refused to bend to his will, or the way he had bit his lower lip between his teeth, struggling through all of it because he couldn't make sense of it with the fire in his veins and the storm in his head?
John had been so caught up in his own mind that he didn't notice it at first when his hands had stopped moving, and it was only when he looked down at them that he saw that Sherlock had stopped him. Sherlock had stood up from the sofa into John's personal space and taken John's hands in his own, stilling any movement and waiting until John came back to himself, came back to the reality of it. With Sherlock's hands on his skin, John felt the whirlwind in his brain break and subside, a whisper among the debris left behind which made him feel awkward and dizzy.
"Stay with me, John," Sherlock said, bringing John's attention back to him. "Keep your eyes on me and don't move until I tell you."
John exhaled a shuddery breath at the relief that the order made him feel, nodding to Sherlock's command and keeping his eyes open as Sherlock decided to finish what John had only just started. But it wasn't a quick affair, not the way he'd seen Sherlock undress before, all business-like without any unnecessary pauses. This was something different.
Sherlock moved his hands to the cuffs of John's shirt, undoing them with ease and placing the cuffs on the coffee table beside them before resuming where John had left off. The first feather-light touch of Sherlock's right hand to the area just below the opening of his shirt made John catch his breath, almost afraid to move in case he dislodged it by accident, and the warmth of those fingertips seeped through the fabric, teasing his skin with the promise of more. The first button Sherlock came to was opened without any fuss, but when the button was dealt with Sherlock's fingertips stayed where they were, gently parting the gap made in John's shirt and delicately brushing the skin on John's chest.
No, the pauses here weren't unnecessary, not in the slightest. Each one was exquisitely controlled, left just long enough to make John hyper-aware of the contact before Sherlock moved onto the next button. Oh yes, John was being teased, left completely helpless to the control that Sherlock was exerting over him, and the fact that the man hadn't even finished undoing his shirt yet forced John to acknowledge the power that the detective had over him.
"We haven't discussed whether or not you'll need a safe word," Sherlock murmured, continuing to undo John's shirt as he spoke and leaving John with the uncomfortable sensation of being torn between two things that each required his utmost attention; what Sherlock was saying and what he was doing. "For now, if you want me to stop at any time, all you need to do is say so and whatever we're doing will cease immediately. If we're in agreement that this is the sort of relationship we both want afterwards, we can look into the specifics later."
John nodded to Sherlock's words although his agreement hadn't been specifically asked for, but it seemed rude not to respond, not when Sherlock had, in all fairness, established a boundary that hadn't been there before. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, being given the option to say no, but if he really did decide that this was what he wanted with Sherlock, they would need to establish safe words and hand signals just in case he was gagged and couldn't say the words, knowing that Sherlock would be watching him and testing his limits… John choked on a moan, his eyes closing briefly at the ache that spread through him.
It couldn't have been more than two minutes when Sherlock finally finished undoing his shirt, but to John it felt like an eternity had passed, his base mind living only for the next touch, the next command, with everything after that being pointless. Sherlock brought his left arm into play, bringing both his hands to the lapels of John's shirt and using them to open it even further, exposing John's chest to the air of the flat which had been kept warm by the fire in the hearth. To John's increasing impatience though, Sherlock had yet to touch him, really touch him, and all he could think of was those hands on his body although he wasn't sure what it was he actually wanted.
He looked up into Sherlock's eyes again, seeing the trace of desire in those bright blue eyes (were those eyes blue today or was it a trick of the light?) and John realised that Sherlock knew exactly what he was going through and was enjoying it. He wanted John to ache for it, the need for more of whatever this was, this new reality; he wanted John to crave it so keenly that he would feel it in his bones.
And with that craving came the delicate balance that John also knew Sherlock wanted. Yes, it was ok for him to want this, to beg for it, but it wasn't ok if he allowed himself to become overruled by it, enough that it made him disobey an order or caused Sherlock displeasure, and why did that thought send a twisting sensation through his guts, the very image of Sherlock's face looking down at him not with praise but with dismissal?
John whimpered in his throat when the heat of Sherlock's hands through the fabric became boiling, and he watched as Sherlock slid his hands across the skin of his shoulders, carrying the undone shirt on his wrists until the shirt was on the floor behind John, leaving his upper body bare to the perusal of Sherlock's all-seeing, all-knowing gaze. He swore to himself that he could almost feel it, the burn left on his flesh from where Sherlock's eyes traced over his skin, memorising the exact placement of each hair on his chest and the way his skin was pulled taut over his pectoral muscles.
Sherlock's hands left his body for the space of a breath, his fingers seeking the clasp on John's trousers and tickling his stomach as those digits undid the buttons at the top and gripped the buckle of the zip. It was there that Sherlock paused again, and John looked to the other man to see what it was that Sherlock wanted, soon finding that Sherlock was asking him if this was ok, but not in so many words. The hunger hadn't diminished though and John's whispered, "Please," spurred Sherlock's hands into action, sliding the zip down its teeth until his trousers were loose around his hips.
John's attention had never been so enraptured, expecting another slow exploration but taken by surprise when Sherlock's hands took both the hem of his trousers and his boxers and pulled them down, adjusting the clothing for John's erection which sprung free once it escaped its confines, and motioning for John to step out of them when the boxers and trousers were around his ankles. John did as asked, pulling his feet free and holding each one up so Sherlock could remove his socks too, until he was standing naked in the living room of their flat with the detective taking the clothes and putting them back onto the sofa behind them.
And if John thought having Sherlock's eyes on his upper torso left burn marks where they touched him before, he was being scorched by the heat of the sun itself when he felt Sherlock's eyes on the other, more sensitive parts of his body. His erection twitched under the attention, not aching yet, but John had the feeling that it wouldn't remain that way for long. He hoped it wouldn't be left that way for long.
But Sherlock wasn't looking at his cock anymore. He was looking at John's face, watching carefully for any signs of distress or anxiety at being naked with another man who still had the tight clasp of a dressing gown keeping his own body from view. John had never been more aware of it, his vulnerability in his nudity, but, instead of making him tense and nervous, the complete lack of control made his shoulders relax and his arms hang down by his sides, his fingers loose and lightly curled towards the palms.
Sherlock began to move then, his keen gaze seeing the signs of John's relaxed state, and John kept his eyes staring straight ahead when Sherlock moved from his line of vision, the wallpaper on the wall in front of him blurring before his eyes and becoming a mass of indistinguishable colours and patterns. His other senses were so attuned to Sherlock's presence just than that John was surprised he couldn't read the detective's thoughts; he knew that Sherlock was looking at him, looking at his whole body from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, and leaving nothing out in-between. He didn't use his hands and John didn't know whether to be relieved by that or not, even when Sherlock came to his back and stood behind him.
Oh… He was using his hands now, or a hand to be precise, and Sherlock had put his fingertips onto the scar at the back of John's left shoulder. Sherlock was looking at the exit wound the bullet had made when it left his body, the scar so much more livid on his back unlike the entry wound which was a small, taut circle that pulled at him when the weather turned cold. "Be still," Sherlock murmured, the sound of his voice shocking John back into focus, and with that focus came the realisation that he'd been pushing his body back into Sherlock's fingers, wanting more pressure and his body had answered the demand for it.
"I'm sorry," John whispered, the words catching in his throat and making it hurt, but Sherlock was shushing him, coming back around to John's front and using his fingers to tilt John's head up until he could look Sherlock in the eye.
"You're doing so well, John," Sherlock said, keeping his fingers on the skin of John's chin so he could see the flush which spread over John's cheeks and down his throat at the words. "Yes… You feel it, don't you, I can see it on you. You want to do well."
"Yes, Sherlock," John replied, the words becoming easier to say all the time. "I want to please you."
Sherlock smiled, a small one that tilted just the corners of his mouth up, before he took his hand away from John's chin and brought the first two fingers of his right hand to John's mouth. "Then you can deduce what to do now, can't you."
The pads of Sherlock's fingers traced his bottom lip with the barest of pressure, not forcing exactly but more encouraging John to open his mouth to allow those fingers inside him.
'Inside me… He wants to be inside me…' The thought made him moan in his chest, pulling his lips apart from one another to grant entrance to Sherlock's fingers and they didn't hesitate, sliding into the moistness of his mouth and pressing down on his tongue.
"Get them wet," Sherlock whispered, his pupils blown in his eyes until they almost eclipsed the blue of his irises; John couldn't look away from them, not even when the taste of Sherlock's fingers exploded on his taste-buds. The salty tang of skin in his mouth, the musk and flavour of something undeniably Sherlock pressing in on the inside of his cheeks and around his teeth as he twined his tongue around the two fingers, dipping into the space between them and working to ensure every millimetre of their surface was covered in a thin layer of his saliva.
He didn't try to suck them. If he was completely honest with himself, he wasn't sure that the act of sucking Sherlock's fingers wouldn't make the other man want to use John's mouth on another part of the body that responded well to the same motions, and John just couldn't see himself in that position. With his lips pursed around the head of a cock that its owner wanted to use to fill his mouth with hot, hard flesh, using John for his pleasure and holding onto John's head to hold him in place for the man, for Sherlock, as he began to fuck down his throat.
John felt his cock jerk against his stomach muscles, his eyes widening in surprise when he felt the wetness at the tip smear on his skin at the mental image of Sherlock fucking his face, his lips having already followed his train of thought and suckling with a little pressure on the fingers in his mouth. Sherlock's eyes stayed on his all the while his fingers were in John's mouth and he began to move his hand away from John's face, withdrawing his fingers as he did so.
John circled his tongue around the tip of those fingers as they left his mouth, replacing the saliva that he'd unintentionally sucked off of them during his fantasy (was it a fantasy if he wasn't ready to indulge it?) and watching Sherlock with wide eyes when the hand drifted to his chest and down to his right nipple.
"Relax," Sherlock soothed, rubbing the spit-slick fingers over the nub and coaxing it into hardness before moving onto his left nipple to garner the same reaction. "I knew what you were thinking of the moment you began to suck my fingers, but we both know you're not ready for that yet so there's no need to worry."
John would have nodded, an acknowledgement of the fact that he'd at least heard Sherlock speak to him, if it weren't for Sherlock's fingers returning to his right nipple and catching it between his fingers and thumb, plucking at the hard flesh before gripping it from the base and twisting in a sharp pinch that had John gasping.
"Ohhh God…" John moaned, the clever tips of those fingers leaving one nipple and moving onto the other, giving it the same attention until his chest throbbed at those small points, each beat of his heart pulsing blood through the sensitive little nubs and intensifying the ache that Sherlock had put there. He'd never thought of his nipples as particularly sensitive because more often than not his previous partners were more interested in his cock, but Sherlock seemed to have a fascination for them, bringing up his left hand so he could play with both of them at the same time. When he felt John was ready for it, he used the edges of his nails on his index fingers and thumbs to press into the nipples at their bases before plucking at them again, and each pull of those nails on his chest made John groan in his throat with the pain that intensified with each movement of Sherlock's hands.
Sherlock finished playing with his nipples after what seemed a lifetime, but John couldn't decide whether the noise that came from his mouth was one that pleaded stop or more. His cock throbbed at his groin, each jerk a testament to his arousal over the nipple play and the sharp bursts of pain that lingered on his skin, but he also knew that this was just the start of what he'd seen at the club and on those websites. Nipple torture wasn't even thought of as hard-core by the people that considered BDSM a lifestyle, more a warm-up for the activities to come, but John was still unsure about the direction that he wanted to take, the path that would feel right for him.
Another pinch from Sherlock to his left hip brought him sharply to attention as it was meant to, for the action hadn't been pleasurable in any way, just a reminder of what he was supposed to be focussing on. "John," Sherlock said, keeping that hand on his hip as he spoke. "Trust me." No further elaboration was offered by Sherlock, just a deep look into John's eyes that strengthened the connection that John could feel building between them. This felt like more than lust or sex, not just because they hadn't gotten that far, but also because he had to trust that Sherlock knew how far to take it, to push John's boundaries past what he thought he was capable of.
"Sherlock…" he whispered, gasping in a stuttering breath when Sherlock placed his right hand on the centre of John's chest, feeling his heartbeat. "God, this is…"
"Yes…" Sherlock responded, keeping his hand where it was as he leant forward, bringing their faces closer together until they were breathing each other in. "It is. Are you ready for the next part?"
"God, yes," John said breathlessly, wanting to kiss Sherlock and feel their lips pressing against each other, but he'd been told not to move and it was getting to the point that he really wanted to.
"You have a choice," Sherlock murmured, sliding his hand down John's chest in a smooth, slow glide and stopping just before he was just about to brush against John's cock. The nearness of Sherlock's hand to his hardness made John's need to find release rocket inside of him, but he knew he couldn't move, knew he wasn't allowed to. "I do want you to cum from this," Sherlock said, seeing John's internal struggle, "but the way you'll do it is up to you. You can stand here and jerk yourself off with your hands without me touching you. I'll be watching you from the sofa to see how you pleasure yourself and how long it takes you to get there. Or," his hand brushed back up John's torso and brushed across one of his nipples lightly, the pain from the gentle touch making John breathe in sharply and wince even as his cock loved it. "Or," Sherlock whispered, "you can have my nails on your chest, making you hurt… Making you beg for release. And when I think you're ready, you can bring yourself to orgasm with my fingers on your nipples, tugging at them through each pulse of your cock."
Sherlock stepped away from John, a single step back out of his personal space, and John whimpered at the loss of it, that closeness of the other man who he was steadily growing to rely on. God, how did he even choose? He wanted to cum; his balls felt heavy and full from all the sensations up to this point and he knew he wouldn't last five strokes if he got to use his own hands. But the thought of Sherlock's hands on him again, teasing him, drawing out the agony on his nipples until he was sobbing with it and only then giving him permission to finish… How much would it hurt, how would the feel of Sherlock's nails on his skin affect his orgasm?
"Have you made a decision, John?" Sherlock asked, nothing in his tone suggesting that he wanted it one way or the other except for the fact that when John looked at Sherlock he could see how much Sherlock was restraining himself, wanting to hold John down until he was broken and sobbing on the floor.
"You," John said; his voice raw in his throat. "I want you, God please; I want your hands on me. Please, Sherlock…"
The detective didn't even speak to John at first after he'd made his decision, stepping back towards him and bringing his hands to John's nipples again. "So beautiful," Sherlock said, his eyes drinking in John's responses to the sensory bombardment being inflicted on him as his fingers pinched and twisted John's flesh. "Look at you; you're so hard for this. You want to cum, don't you? You've been so good, John, such a good submissive, and you deserve it, don't you?"
"Oh, oh, oh…" John felt his mental walls being taken down, dismantled inside his head with an efficiency that should have scared him, but all he could focus on was Sherlock's hands on his body, the sound of Sherlock's voice in his ears and the throbbing of his cock between his legs, his own voice unable to do anything else but moan continuously at the need/pain/pleasure that was flooding his system.
As if from far away, his subconscious mind listened to the command that Sherlock gave him, the command to use his hands to finish himself off, to cum all over himself and show Sherlock just how much he was enjoying it. So much so, in fact, that he was completely unprepared for the intensity of it when he wrapped his fingers around his cock and stroked himself from base to tip, managing two clumsy strokes and cupping his balls until he cried out at the clenching of his muscles, his nipples aching throughout his climax and making each jolt and shudder that much sweeter, the wetness of his cum dripping between his fingers and making everything slick, drawing out his release in spasms that actually hurt.
Dimly, he felt Sherlock's hands cup his face as he released himself, whimpering and moaning at the final shudders his body gave as Sherlock brought their faces closer together to bask in the aftereffects of John's orgasm. "Did I please you?" John whispered, his voice broken with tears glistening on his cheeks that he hadn't known he'd shed.
"Yes," Sherlock assured him, brushing his lips against John's and stroking his thumbs across John's cheeks to massage his tears into his skin. "You're so beautiful when you cum, did you know that? Exquisite." He took one hand away from John's face and reached down for one of John's own, pulling their hands up between them until John could see the evidence of his release staining both of their fingers where they were joined. "One thing left," Sherlock said, straightening John's fingers and holding his hand at the base. "Don't forget to clean up after yourself."
John knew what Sherlock was asking of him, his eyes glued to his own hand which had so recently been on his erection and watching as his release dripped down between his fingers. He knew that Sherlock wanted him to do it while the detective watched, up close so he could see every emotion that would pass across John's face. And God, he thought, what Sherlock wanted, he wanted and he wondered why he had ever thought it should be otherwise. With a deep moan that he felt all the way to his core, he opened his mouth and took his fingers inside, Sherlock's own groan of appreciation filling his ears as he licked himself clean.
To be continued
- 3
- 4
- 5
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Perihelion