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Swallowed by Feelings	By : LetsHaveDinner Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2595 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Sherlock Holmes fandom, nor the characters appearing in this story. I do not make money from my work, it is purely for pleasure.

Chapter List
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- 4
Swallowed by Feelings

Chapter four - Remorse and Chemistry

What is wrong with me?

Sherlock Holmes was standing at the window staring out at London shining in the gloomy morning light. Only a few drunken people staggered on the dirty streets yet, the rest was sleeping, trying to sober up from the New Year's Eve Party they attended or simply resting, preparing their shallow mind to the new year.

"How dull."

Why did people think, that the beginning of a new year changed anything in their average life? It was just a number, representing the period of time elapsed since the birth of some absurd fictional person. Why celebrate the fact that the calendar ends every year after year after year?

Two men run on the streets laughing gleefully. Even from this distance Sherlock could read in them. They were at a house party where they could smoke, fresh traces of cigarette ash on the older one; one of them was drinking beer and tequila, judging by the beer marks on his jeans and salt on the back of his palm. Friends? A couple?

Sherlock placed his hand over the cold window. Damp appeared instantly around his fingers, wetness developed under his palm.

Bitter pain slashed into his chest and his hand clenched into fist on the icy glass. What was this pain? He tried to analyse himself, searching for any internal or external bruise that could have arisen after last night. But once again, he didn't find anything. Apart from the little red marks on his skin, and some stiffness in his muscles he was fine. And still, this burning pain seemed to get worse with every minute he spent awake.

His fingers skimmed his throat as he thought of the many little red biting and sucking marks on his neck and all around his body. He noticed them in the bathroom mirror after waking up.

The absolute evidences of the night he spent with John Watson. The night, he lost his virginity.

He closed his eyes and let his head knock to the window, because the pain, once again, was getting worse. And yet, as he entered the firmly locked room of his mind-palace, recalling every detail of the previous night, his body warmed up, started boiling with the former heat. He felt John's kisses over again all over himself, his body around him, and his gaze caressing Sherlock's soul, awakening the heart he always thought he didn't possess.

However the burning bitterness in his chest proved him otherwise.

o.O.o

John was carefully walking in the kitchen. First of all, he tried to make less noise, not to wake Sherlock as he dreaded the moment he has to face the man. Secondly, his bum burnt like hell with every move.

While he waited for the water to boil for his tea, he made himself some breakfast. Spooning some strawberry jam on his buttery toast, he heard the kettle boil and swiftly turned around to switch it off then went back to his toast. If he was lucky enough he could eat his breakfast and even drink his tea before meeting the man.

He let out a small moan as he licked down the jam from the spoon, before dropping it into the sink. He was about to put the jar back to the fridge when someone cleared their throat behind him. He really hoped Mrs Hudson's voice deepened a few octaves during the last night.

"Good morning." It didn't. Sherlock was standing behind him.

His grip around the jar tightened but other than that, he couldn't move. He didn't even turn towards the other man.

"Morning." John answered trying to force some kindness or at least less anger in his tone but he didn't really manage. Which was unfair actually and he realized it just a bit too late. He was unfair to Sherlock, because the man gave him what he promised nothing more, nothing less. He got one beautiful night with Sherlock Holmes and that was it. Sherlock never promised him lifelong love and happiness, nor did he ever say that last night meant anything to him other than satisfying his curiosity, no matter what John supposed to discover in his eyes.

"How are you, John?" The man behind him spoke up again and John realized he was grasping that jar so strongly, he might break it. Because Sherlock's voice was again filled with that infinite care and John hated it.

Oh, to hell with kindness.

"Fine." He snapped angry because in fact he wasn't fine. He was as far from fine as man could be. He couldn't eat his breakfast calmly, he couldn't even drink his tea and now it will most probably go cold, and most importantly he slept with his best friend, dammit.

No, he wasn't fine. He wasn't fine since he woke up in agony because his bum ached, and his heart was filled with guilt and sorrow. He thought that after a warm shower he might get better, not yet fine, just a bit better, but it turned out that this morning was destined to be the exactly opposite of fine.

He was standing under the shower, letting the calming, cosy warm water run down on his stiffened body. His eyes tightly closed as he let the water flush away all that remained on him from last night: Sherlock's scent, the sweat and everything else. But suddenly he sensed something on the inner side of his thigh. He quickly reached out and his fingers came into contact with some wetness which felt completely different from water. He didn't have to look down to know what it was, but he still did.

"Oh god…." He moaned because seeing Sherlock's semen streaming down on his thigh made him so dizzy, he had to lean to the cold tiles. His knees were crumpling under his own bodyweight, or maybe under the unpredictable events of last night. He almost collapsed as all the things they had done hit him, hard, right in his chest like a fist.

It wasn't like he didn't remember what had happened to them until that moment, just that physical evidence, the opalescent material on his leg made everything so real, so unquestionable and tangible. With wavering hands he held himself against the tiles, trying not to bend under the crushing pain in his chest.

"Oh geez, what have we done?!" He whined. How will he ever look Sherlock in the eyes again, after what they did last night, after how the detective looked at him, while moving deep inside him, filling John with his long, rigid member?

So no, he was far away from fine. Fine was the only thing he didn't feel right now. Sleeping with Sherlock Holmes was one of the biggest mistakes in his life, no matter how much he relished the feeling of being with the man, it simply shouldn't have happened. He was now like a drug addict, constantly in great need for more.

"John, are you in any pain?" Sounded up the deep, caring voice once again not so far away from him. John realized he must have been silently standing at the sink with the bottle of jam in his vehemently trembling right.

Suddenly the jar surrendered and broke into numerous, sharp pieces. Sherlock was right at that moment next to him, trying to get a hold of his strawberry covered palm, but John tried to resist as much as possible.

"Shit, I'm fine…" John mumbled through gritted teeth, shaking down the jam from his hand, trying to get away from the detective. He couldn't look at Sherlock though last night he wasn't able to take his eyes off the man.

"You're bleeding, John," Sherlock stated, and once again John got upset. He didn't need the man all kind now, when last night he just walked out of his room after fucking the life out of him. He tried to shake the detective's hand off of his arm however in vain as Sherlock just wanted to help, he didn't know, couldn't understand, that he was the last thing John wanted to see right now.

"That's just jam!" He barked annoyed but Sherlock clasped his hand, hold it up and unexpectedly put it in his mouth, licking down the remainder strawberry jam.

John froze in the middle of his struggling as Sherlock held his still shuddering hand, and his finger between his lips, his wet tongue sliding on it.

Their look connected and for a second even the world seemed to stop. Then everything went twice as fast as usual.

Without a warning, Sherlock's hand was in on his neck, pulling him a heated kiss, his right skimming John's chest, fingers clutching into his shirt. Sherlock's strawberry tasting tongue darted into John's hungry mouth and the good doctor moaned at the sensation.

With his hand around Sherlock's waist and fingers tangling in the black curls he turned them around, crushing Sherlock's body to the counter. He didn't have time to think; he in fact, didn't even want to think as he slid his lips over Sherlock's curved neck, biting on it ardently.

No, he still didn't want to think, when he grasped Sherlock's shirt and instead of unbuttoning it, he simply ripped it apart, so that he could touch the white skin as soon as possible.

Sherlock's head fell back as John let his hands roam on the smooth chest, his thumbs skimming roughly the detective's erected nipples. His lips returned to Sherlock's mouth, his teeth nipping on the soft pink lips.

Now, now he was fine. Now, when he was slowly sliding the purple, silky shirt down on Sherlock's shoulders and arms, letting it fall to the ground. Now, when his hands were once again sliding on the detective's back, while Sherlock was kissing him with passion. Now, when Sherlock was, once again, in his arm.

With a swift motion John found himself once more pressed to the counter while Sherlock's elegant fingers were fiddling with the button and zipper on the doctor's pants, while he leaned to John's ear.

"I'm sorry, John. I need to… Just this once…" He whimpered, driving his lips along the edge of John's earlap.

Sorry for wha-

John couldn't even finish the thought in his head, as Sherlock all of a sudden fall to his knees and tore down John's pants and boxers, and he was already holding John's erection in his hands, and then John's world went numb again as the wet lips enclosed his manhood.

He looked down at Sherlock, whose mouth was enthusiastically moving on him and he could almost come just by the sight of the detective kneeling in front of him, his erection disappearing between the gorgeous lips, the man's sharp cheekbones almost piercing his flushed skin, his bright grey eyes fixed on John, his defiant gaze penetrating deeply into John's heart.

John grabbed Sherlock by his hair as he thrust in the other man's mouth determinedly and Sherlock took him in fully without any resistance. The long fingers enfolded around his balls, stroking them roughly.

Suddenly John found himself on the verge; he couldn't endure the sweet pleasure much longer. The impassioned sucking on his erection, the frantic licks of the velvet tongue made him cry feverishly as he shot his seed in Sherlock's mouth.

The air instantly seemed to get colder as Sherlock moved away from him. John could feel as Sherlock tucked his manhood back and pulled his clothes back on him however he didn't dare open his eyes. He just couldn't bear to see Sherlock go out of the room again, and he somehow suspected that was exactly about to happen.

As he was leaning against the counter, panting heavily, his eyes closed, warm breathe tickled his ear, and he hoped that Sherlock would say something, because anything would be better than this dreadful silence.

When he finally gathered his courage and looked around, he was already alone in the kitchen.

o.O.o

Sherlock desperately stormed in his room. The door behind him closed with a loud bang.

The burning pain returned to his heart once again, he was rubbing his clenched fist against his naked chest, trying to make the pain go away. He forgot his shirt, but it didn't matter, it was ripped anyway. That was his favourite shirt actually, but somehow he couldn't get angry of John.

Why was he suddenly acting like this? Something must have happened to his system, otherwise he wouldn't feel this heat. No, something must have infected him, a virus or something. His right mind would never let him do all these lustful acts he committed in the last few hours.

There has to be something, an indicator what awoke this yearning desire in him.

He was walking fast up and down in his room, mumbling incomprehensive syllables, his hands involuntarily moving as his mind was racing around all the possibilities.

Was it the alcohol? It couldn't be, he wasn't drunk now. Wasn't he? They were drinking Vieille Reserve last night, right? 40% alcohol content, they drank about 2 dl, taking his age and weight into consideration that means his blood alcohol level was 0.127, which takes 8.5 hours for his system to decompose.

He checked the time. 9 o'clock in the morning. But if he took into account that he had sex with John, that reduced the decomposing period to-

He stopped suddenly, his hands floating in the air next to him.

"John."

No.

But that was the only possible-

No.

He shook his head and looked aside, right at his bed. He recalled what happened between John and him last night; he remembered every tiny detail, every sensation and every touch, every languid kiss and all the fervent bites. He let his finger run over the red marks on his neck and he observed his own reactions carefully now.

"That can't happen." He whispered with eyes wide open.

He went into his bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror.

Dilated pupils.

"No, no, no Sherlock, think! This isn't a game!"

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, calming himself down. When his heartbeat returned to its normal level he opened his eyes again, and looked at the red marks on his body. He let the pictures from last night flood his mind again, he let himself be swallowed by all the feelings he had then and just now in the kitchen.

Elevated pulse.

Dry mouth.

Sweating.

Could this even happen to him? He clasped the edge of the sink and he stared into his reflection's eyes. His irises were still dilated, though it wasn't dark in the room. Serotonin, Dopamine,Adrenaline, Vasopressin and Oxytocin racing in his veins, producing the physical symptoms of love but there was something else, something more, right?

The pain. The bitter burning pain. He didn't feel it anymore.

And then suddenly he remembered when he felt it before. His eyes slowly closed down as he recalled the night when Moriarty captured John. He felt this bitterness right after that event. He couldn't sleep, it was in the middle of the night and he was playing a piece from Edvin Marton, the Art on Ice, the beautiful melody still echoing in his ear. But even that angelic music couldn't ease the sorrow in his heart. For some reason he had been still worried about John, feeling tensed because of Moriarty threatened to kill his only friend and the sensation didn't disappear. But then John showed up behind him and when the good doctor drove his arms around him every problem, every bitter feeling seemed to vanish as if it never even existed.

"I'm in love with John." he said to his reflection and felt a rush of adrenalin shot through his system. And with that something calming and relaxing invaded his mind, something warm surrounded his heart.

He tried to shake down the feeling, with simple chemistry he could deal with. But oh, this was something else, something more.

He took one more glance at himself then washed his face. Drying of the cold water with a soft white towel he walked back to the room. On his bed, folded, there was his favourite purple shirt with a piece of paper on top.

He took his shirt in one hand, and the note in the other. As he read what it said, the previous warmth and deep affection instantly returned.

The shirt and the note fell out of his hands as he resolutely started walking towards the door. A small smile played on his lips as he left the room.

The tiny letter slithered to the carpet face-up. There were two sentences written by an elegant handwriting:

"Sorry for you shirt. I sew back the buttons."
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Swallowed by Feelings