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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

Chapter List
- 6
- 7
- 8
A/N: Thank you for the reviews! My co-author and I much appreciate it.

Chapter 7

"That's why I didn't tell you." Sherlock's voice pulled John back to the present, away from his recollections. "I was afraid you wouldn't understand."

John decided to try and lighten up the mood with some humour. "I wish you'd given me a bit more credit," he said with a wry smile. "You can trust me, I'm a doctor."

To his surprise, that actually drew a small chuckle from the detective. Sherlock's morose disposition quickly returned, however, after a series of rapid, repetitive eye blinks, which only served to remind him of his lifelong illness and the adverse side effects brought on by the medication.

"You forgot to take your pill yesterday, didn't you?" John inquired.

"I might have."

The doctor proceeded to pick up the small, white tablet from the table in front of them. "Then you should take it now. Or your withdrawal symptoms will get worse."

"I'm not taking that one," Sherlock said with a grimace. "You've had it in your sweaty palm! The engravings are all blotted out."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was, with or without his diagnosis, still a stroppy bastard. At least some things never changed.

"I doubt that matters. Now take it. Doctor's orders," he added in a mock-stern voice. To his surprise, Sherlock did not argue and washed down the 100 milligrams of Clozapine with some water.

"There are some areas of my back that I couldn't reach," he said, clearly having decided to switch gears. "You'll have to help me with that, John."

John gave the red, already flaking nature of his partner’s skin another look and smirked.

“You really did a number on yourself, didn’t you?” he muttered, picking up the bottle of lotion and squeezing out a small dollop into his palm.

Now that Sherlock had taken the pill, his assistant was feeling a little more at ease with the situation. Knowing the true reason for Sherlock’s drug use - and possibly also much of his behavior and personality - gave him an odd sense of comfort. Had Sherlock been simply using antipsychotics for whatever unknown, bizarre reason other than true medication, John would have been deeply shocked, even for someone as unconventional and curious as Sherlock. That being said, he should have remembered that even the great Sherlock Holmes had limits.

“Turn around then,” he said, folding his legs and facing the detective. Sherlock did as asked and slumped forward as he relished the cool sensation on his red skin.

As he applied the aloe, John considered the possibility of how he had expected a little too much out of Sherlock. As Mycroft had said, his brother was more fragile than could have been perceived. In addition, his nature was such that he kept to himself, even around those he seemed to trust, which included John. Someone like Sherlock could not have possibly been accepted by the general populace as a child, so there was little wonder as to why John had not found out about the antipsychotics until today: really, how was Sherlock supposed to bring the subject to light?

Even so, John still did not consider his friend crazy, as predicted by Sherlock. How could he? Considering the man’s staggering, debilitating intellect, he could be locked away somewhere. But he was not locked away. He was managing, as Sherlock had said.

“Any better?” he asked.

Sherlock only made a small noise of confirmation. “Mmn.”

John smiled, squeezed out a tiny bit more aloe, and reached over to Sherlock’s face, applying it to his friend’s nose.

"I asked you to do my back, John. I can reach those bits myself." His words, however, lacked their usual acidity, and John thought he saw a smile tugging at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. Or it could have been simply another one of the tics caused by drug withdrawal. John chose to believe the former.

"You're really tense..." the doctor said, his hands no longer simply applying the lotion, but kneading the long, thin muscles of Sherlock's torso. He admired the expanse of skin, creamy pale where it wasn't burnt red, unmarred by scars or blemishes. So unlike John himself. He thought about puckered scar tissue that still surrounded his bullet wound on both sides, and how it felt to touch it. He had sometimes witnessed ill-concealed shock and even disgust on certain women's faces, but his scarred body had never been an issue with the detective.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and immediately John withdrew his hands, afraid to have hurt the other. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"No, don't be; it felt nice." Sherlock, whose breathing had become decidedly heavier, turned so that they were once again facing each other. He grasped John's smaller hands with his own and replaced them on his body, this time on the front. The doctor took the opportunity to stroke the nearly hairless chest, and felt Sherlock's nipples harden beneath his fingers, turning into small, pebbled nubs. It was a familiar response, and one, he realized, he had missed.

"Touch me some more," Sherlock implored in a husky voice. John felt the first stir of arousal in the pit of his stomach, and then Sherlock was on him, kissing him ferociously while his hands did everything in their power to open John's robe without breaking the kiss.

Sherlock was nearly always like this when he initiated sex, but somehow it still surprised John every time. He wanted to return the tenacity, but he still had to mind his partner’s skin, no matter how eager Sherlock was.

“Slower,” John said, wrapping his hand over the back of Sherlock’s head, fingers nestled in the thick dark curls of his hair. “Just a little bit slower.”

Sherlock gave a sly little smile, as though doing as John said would be impossible. But he complied, slowing his pace, without losing any enthusiasm. Peeling away the robe from the doctor’s chest, he opened his mouth and for a second his assistant thought a biting would happen. After all, John had only said slower, not gentler. Fortunately, the pain of teeth did not follow. Mere nipping was the worst of it, and John found himself groaning quite audibly as Sherlock nestled his lips and teeth into his chest, teasing his nipples every few seconds.

Both hands entangled in Sherlock’s hair, John tilted his head back, squirming beneath his partner. Luckily for the consulting detective, the worst of his sunburns were on his upper torso. Feeling playful, John wiggled one of his legs out from under the other man just enough so that the knee could bend, and he used his foot to tickle Sherlock’s groin. This time it was Sherlock’s turn to squirm.

“Not much room here,” he remarked plainly. “Bed.”

"Sherlock..." John said as a half-hearted objection, but he made no attempts to push the other man away or disentangle himself from the embrace. In the back of his mind, he knew that he was about to do something that would most certainly be the death blow to his current relationship, and yet he could not bring himself to stop. He had already crossed the line when he allowed Sherlock to kiss him. Anything that happened now was irrelevant.

The pair made their way into Sherlock's bedroom without any further talk, and the detective quickly maneuvered his doctor partner onto his back in the unmade bed, straddling him. John let Sherlock take control, knowing that the younger man would take responsibility for his own pleasure and not hesitate to take it. Sherlock's assertiveness was perhaps why things had always worked so well between them as far as sex was concerned. It made John feel at ease.

Another kiss, followed by small nips at his throat. Not painful in any way, but nonetheless something that would leave marks.

"Like this, John?" Sherlock purred, his voice thick with need as his skilled fingers fisted John's engorged manhood. His grasp, stronger and steadier than a woman's often tentative fondling, could have brought John to climax in less than a minute.

"Sherlock!" the doctor gasped, and his own hands travelled feverishly along the length of Sherlock's thighs, carding through the small, crinkly hairs which were too light too be visible, but could nonetheless be felt. He enveloped the younger man's leaking cock in his own rough, callused fist, not at all surprised to find out that it had already left a snail's trail of pre-come on his stomach.

"Fancy a shag, John?" Sherlock asked, and his hold on John's penis tightened further, thumb rubbing over the tip.

Breath deep and heavy, John tried to say yes, but he could barely make any intelligible words. Instead he only moaned and nodded, eyes closed to fully feel the blissful sensation of the hand closed around him. Sherlock smiled and kissed John’s stomach – just below the navel – out of playful affection, and then left the bed to rummage through his solitary luggage bag.

John watched him and the distraction allowed him to regain some sense of awareness again.

“Did you really bring lube with you?” he asked. He should have been annoyed at Sherlock’s planning, but he could not help being amused.

“You never know…” Sherlock said with a shrug. His innocence, of course, was utter nonsense.

“Just get back here already.” John was beginning to writhe on the bed, desperate to be touched again.

Sherlock chuckled, returning to the bed and straddling his assistant. “You’re just as bratty as Mycroft makes me out to be.”

“Can we not bring up your brother when we’re about to fuck?” John said with a groan that was partially out annoyance, but mostly due to Sherlock’s fingers wrapping around his cock once more.

Sherlock nuzzled John’s neck, just under his chin, and the doctor thought he could feel a smile there. A moment later, he felt a slick, warm hand returning to stroking his throbbing organ.

"Sherlock..." John said and gave the man above him a slight shove to get his attention.

Sherlock raised his head enough to look at his partner, a confused and impatient crease between his brows.

"Protection, Sherlock," John reminded him. "Did you bring condoms as well?"

The detective dropped his head, and a melodramatic sigh exited his lips. He was visibly displeased about the interruption. "Yes, I brought them," he murmured.

John lay back, lazily stroking himself as the younger man stood up to procure the condoms. His eyes drank in the sight of Sherlock from behind and tried his best to memorize it fully this time: the ectomorphic frame, nearly runway model thin, with legs that went on for miles only to connect with a surprisingly ample behind. John felt an ugly stint of jealousy at the thought of other men lustily grabbing that beautiful arse and bending Sherlock over to bury their dicks in him. He knew that still happened a lot, even lately. Sherlock might believe that John didn't notice, but every now and then the detective slipped out of their apartment only to return a few hours later, hair tousled, lips bruised and swollen from kissing, sometimes even with a not-so-discrete hickey on the side of his long pale neck.

Sherlock never brought anyone home - that much John was certain of - so he assumed these casual encounters took place in a shoddy men's room, or in the backseat of someone's car. Perhaps even in the shadows of a dark alley way. What he could not be certain of, one way or another, was if Sherlock bothered to use protection.

John looked down as Sherlock easily worked the latex piece over his engorged organ. He caught the sight of several red marks in his peripheral vision and stared at them for a few seconds. The nips on his chest had been just enough to brand him, but only for a short while. Self-conscious and sensible, John preferred no marks at all, but if necessary liked these best. Though Sherlock could have cared less, he was considerate of his assistant.

He looked back up to watch Sherlock apply more lubricant, this time into the detective’s snug anal passage. Giving a clever little smirk, he walked forward on his knees, his own member drifting against John’s stiff penis, tickling to the point of sending a powerful shudder of satisfaction through the doctor. The younger man then guided John’s hand to the slick opening, a clear invitation to the obvious. John inserted first one finger, massaging for a few seconds, then inserted a second.

Sherlock was surprisingly reserved in his response, but he breathed deeply, his breaths audible but not yet reaching a moan. He leaned backward as his assistant and friend increased the depth of his fingers, playfully moving them inside him. Finally, he moved backwards, off of the fingers which penetrated him, and lifted himself over the other's erect cock. John expected the wonderful snug feeling which would follow, but instead Sherlock spoke.

“Are you ready?” The question was clearly a tease.

“Yes, yes!”

Sherlock slowly lowered himself onto his partner's cock, shaky from the pleasure of being stretched and filled by the pulsating organ. John was not the biggest of men, but his girth exceeded average, and he was a 'grower' rather than a 'shower'. A moment of burning pain accompanied the intense feeling of bliss, but it was over in seconds, Sherlock's body adjusting quickly. He used the leverage to his full advantage, raising himself up on quivering thighs and slamming down with enough force to make the bedsprings creak below their combined weight.

John countered by meeting his friend's thrusts, and their bodies came together in a series of fleshy slaps, interrupted only by occasional grunts and groans. Sherlock dug his long, thin fingers into the doctor's chest, feeling the hard muscle of his pectorals still present underneath the soft layer of fat, and John answered by grasping the detective's buttocks with equal ardour.

"Like that, John?" Sherlock panted throatily, head thrown back in ecstasy. Sweat now covered his neck and torso, giving his body a sleek, glistening sheen. It almost looked as though he was glowing, particularly in the sun burnt areas.

John moved his hands from Sherlock's hips to clutch his forearms instead. Most of all he wanted to flip them around and pound Sherlock into the mattress, but despite two months of pent up sexual frustration, John realized he had to mind Sherlock's burns.

"You mouthy little tart!" he spat out, knowing that Sherlock sometimes got off on being talked dirty to.

He was rewarded with a laugh instead of a moan.

“That alone indicates how long it’s been since we last shagged,” Sherlock said. “Surely you can do better than that!”

“Dirtier?” John offered, again more amused than irritated.

“Dirtier!” Sherlock snapped, clenching around his friend’s cock. It caused an unbearable, wonderful jolt of pain and pleasure to rush through John, reaching every extremity.

“Ahhh! Scrawny whore!” he cried, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s arms.

“Yes!” the younger man tilted his head back, bouncing on John’s swollen prick and feeling as though it plunged deeper into him than ever before.

“Is this what sluts like?” John murmured through his heavy breathing. Sherlock made some unintelligible cry of verification, and the doctor watched his neck, entranced by the bobbing Adam’s apple made all the more noticeable by Sherlock’s slick, sweat-covered skin.

John thrust harder, bucking like a goat and feeling just as horny as one. He was about to reach for his partner’s hard cock, but Sherlock beat him to the act, pumping away as he bounced harder. The doctor wondered if his hips would be bruised by the end of this incident. Presently he could not care any less.

“Take it, whore, take it all,” he moaned. Sherlock leaned forward, tugging his assistant’s cock with him and making John cry out.

Suddenly their faces were only inches apart, and Sherlock stuck out his tongue, licking a wet stripe along the entire length of John's profile. Their teeth made a clicking noise when they connected, and a tongue invaded John's mouth, exploring his oral cavity with similar enthusiasm. He tried to snake his own tongue around it, force it into retreat, but the spongy muscle evaded capture and was free to continue its assault. Sherlock did nothing by half-measures, not even kissing.

John wrapped both arms around the detective's narrow waist and pressed their bodies together, his soft, burgeoning belly flush against Sherlock's almost concave one, the younger man's weeping arousal trapped between them. John could feel every single one of Sherlock's ribs through his skin, as well as the crests of his hipbones. For someone dangerously thin, Sherlock was certainly anything but dainty.

A few more seconds of wet, open-mouthed kissing and frantic grinding against each other, and John's pleasure finally erupted in a long-awaited climax. He thrust up into Sherlock until his spent cock flagged enough to make continued penetration difficult, and then fell back against the pillows, chest heaving and limbs simultaneously both lax and tingly from the intensity of the orgasm.

Sherlock slid off his doctor partner and flopped onto his back, ignoring the sunburns, and his right hand immediately took up the act of self-pleasure. John wondered if he should help, but Sherlock was so wrapped up in himself that John doubted the detective was even aware of his presence anymore, his hand moving at near lightning speed.

Back arched, the detective came as well, squirting his release over his own stomach. Despite the haze clouding his brain, John could not help but notice that the amount of ejaculate - consisting of only two small pearlescent stains - did not match the apparent force of Sherlock's climax.

"It's the medication," Sherlock explained wearily, wiping his sticky hand on a paper towel. "Cessation of ejaculation is one side effect of taking Clozapine. My spurts are thus greatly reduced."

"You can't orgasm?"

"I said 'ejaculation', not 'orgasm'."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," John said, inching closer to his friend. "Is this why you never...?"

"Wanted to come on you? Yes. I figured you'd notice and ask questions." Sherlock quietly passed the pack of tissues to his partner, and John removed the used condom before starting the task of cleaning himself up.

John was lucky enough that his friend was being so open with him now, so he decided not to press the matter. Instead, he scooted his body closer and carefully caressed Sherlock’s side with the back of his hand. Sherlock tensed under the contact.

“I don’t want any pity,” he warned. John did not remove his hand.

“I’m in no mood to give any,” he calmly stated. “I just want to touch you.”

Sherlock said nothing for less than a minute, and then gingerly eased himself closer to John. He knew very well that John enjoyed the ‘cuddling’ after sex, though he was not fond of such himself. Either way, John still seemed to be on Sherlock’s side, as it were. All things considered, their confrontation could have gone far worse. He might as well indulge his assistant for once.

Smiling, John nuzzled against the younger man as he placed an arm over a bare, pink chest. Resting his head on the detective’s shoulder did not seem to bother Sherlock, so he remained where he was. Silence followed for the next few minutes.

“I’m glad I gave you that shower in the pool hall,” John remarked teasingly.

“I’m glad you can still get it up,” Sherlock said in turn.

John pursed his lips. “Touché.”

“A peculiar thing, your condition,” Sherlock remarked. “Why do you suppose that is?”

John suddenly wanted to change the subject, but he knew Sherlock would not. He absent-mindedly trailed his fingertip along Sherlock’s slight stomach, feeling the occasional hair.

“I don’t know. Why do you?”

The detective's eyes narrowed slightly as he pondered the question. Deducing emotional responses was so outside his area of expertise, but he was willing to give it a try. Besides, he had some facts to go on.

"Whatever your problem stems from, it is not physiological," he said. "I can hear you masturbate almost daily; in your bedroom, in the shower, and you never have any difficulty producing or sustaining an erection at those times."

A blush crept over John's face. "You can hear me wanking?" he asked incredulously. "Are you spying on me?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, please! You're not exactly discreet."

"Sherlock, you know it's rude to listen to what people do in the privacy of their bedroom."

"Oh, believe me, John, I try not to," Sherlock said with a snort. "But even the violin cannot drown out the noises you sometimes make."

John made a mental note to either mind his sounds of self-pleasure from now on, or getting his bedroom soundproofed. Both were probably a good idea.

"Your erectile dysfunction only manifests when you attempt intercourse with a woman," Sherlock continued. "I'm right, aren't I?"

The ex-army surgeon nodded; it was a painful and embarrassing subject to discuss with Sherlock, but he figured that since his friend had begun to open up to him, he owed Sherlock the same.

"It's more than the PTSD. It's like a mental block. I can't be with them." John listened to the now slow, steady beat of Sherlock's heart within the thin chest. "I can be with you, though. That's strange, isn't it?"

Sherlock made a motion meant to represent a shrug, but the scraping of his skin against the sheets made him hiss from pain. John's weight atop his ribcage was not exactly helping matters along, but his partner needed this, and Sherlock wanted to oblige.

"Perhaps a woman is not what you need," he suggested.

John suppressed a groan and rubbed is forehead against the surface of his partner’s chest, a weak attempt to distract Sherlock from the subject. He felt a perky nipple against his hairline, and Sherlock subsequently wiggled at the sensation.

“But I’m…” John began, lifting his head. However, he knew he sounded enough like a broken record already. “Oh, what’s the use? Maybe I am and I never realized it.”

“Well, you’ve proven that you don’t mind shagging a man,” Sherlock stated casually.

“Yes, but somehow I was under the impression that I was predominantly straight. Ugghh…” He dropped his head against Sherlock again, causing the detective to wince. “I might be the worst gay man ever.”

“Is that so surprising?” the younger man replied. “Army vet with PTSD whose only friend is a…”

“ONLY friend?”

“Don’t interrupt me.”

“Alright, I get it. I’m fucked up,” John huffed, separating from Sherlock and rolling on his side, turning his back to the younger man. Sherlock was about to return to his analogy, but he could tell John was annoyed now, even with his inability to read others’ emotions. He turned his head and watched the steady rise and fall of John's side with each breath, garnering a certain amount of amusement from the soft, doughy nature of the doctor’s flesh.

“Perhaps so. But then again,” he said, “so am I. We complement each other.”

The doctor rolled his eyes at the remark. He yawned, and immediately felt the shift on the mattress of Sherlock sitting up and pulling a sheet over their bodies. John was grateful for the cover; now that they were no longer otherwise occupied, his self-consciousness over his body was gradually returning.

Facing away from his friend, he was surprised, but nonetheless pleased, when Sherlock wrapped one long, slender arm around his waist and interlaced their fingers. He wasn't sure if the sudden proof of affection from his friend stemmed from vulnerability or guilt, or something else entirely, but now was not the time to analyse it further. Made drowsy by his orgasm, John welcomed sleep when it finally came to him.
TBC...
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- 8
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The Prey