Adult-FanFiction.org : Television / Streaming

Everything We Know of Love	By : Professorfangirl Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 2669 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Sherlock, John, and their world belong to Moffat et. a. at the BBC. I own nothing, and make no money.

Chapter List
- 1-Everything We Know of Love
- 1
It’s knowing they’re going to fuck that does it for him.

He doesn’t have to wonder if Sherlock wants to; it’s one deduction John can make for himself, instantly, from a dozen small signs. And it’s the one area Sherlock hasn’t quite figured out; he can watch John all evening and still be utterly at sea. John likes this. It’s the thing he knows more about than Sherlock does, and he uses that knowledge for all it’s worth.

He’ll see Sherlock watching him, trying to read him. John knows precisely the signs he's looking for: a languor in John’s movements, the way he’ll lick his lips more slowly, the way his eyes will start to linger on Sherlock’s finely-drawn fingers or his slender musical wrists. So just to confuse him—because with Sherlock, confusion is a kind of helpless arousal—he’ll mix his signals. He’ll look at Sherlock’s throat just a little too long and a little too longingly, and then he’ll sigh, and purse his lips, and gaze absently out the window as if thinking of something very mundane and practical. The number of hits on his blog, say, or how much milk is left, or whether he needs to do laundry before the weekend. He can almost feel the frustration in Sherlock’s gaze—it’s like a tiny electric charge—and almost feel the smile wrestling for control of his own face. But he lets these go by, and he keeps Sherlock wondering.

For John, wanting to fuck and knowing that they will are of a piece; it’s not something he ever has to deliberate with himself or with Sherlock. The simple warm presence of his body and the quiet weight of his desire are all the argument he needs. The moment Sherlock’s attention finishes some problem, John can pull it to himself with the smallest clearing of his throat, with just a shift of his limbs, whatever reminds Sherlock that John’s here, and that John’s body is almost, but not quite, free for the taking. All John has to get is his detective’s attention, and the discussion’s over; all the rest is child’s play.

The game comes so easily. They’ll be sitting at dinner, at Angelo’s, say, or some better restaurant where Sherlock can order and ignore more expensive food. John knows how desire seems to show up in Sherlock unannounced. He knows the peculiar nervous energy that starts to run through those refined fingers, so different from the impatience of waiting for a case or a call. It’s the exact opposite of boredom. He’ll start with his fingers pressed, palm to palm and touching his lips, but he won’t be able to keep them still for long. Soon they’ll part and tap an erratic rhythm, or rub together, fingertips circling around each other, a sensitive, nervous rotation. John can always see this from the corner of his eye. And he can see Sherlock watching him. But if their eyes meet, Sherlock will put on his most blasé expression and look away, sitting up, straightening the lines of his jacket, shooting his shirt cuffs, smoothing his lapels. His hands will flit about on the table, tidying his silverware, plate, water and wineglasses at precise distances from each other, as if by creating order on the tabletop he can do the same in himself.

For desire is disorder, and John can see it growing. The ivory cheeks so cold and controlled will begin to flush, just slightly, and twitch with little tremors of frustration. His mouth, where all his stubborn sensuality lives, will relax and grow softer; he might even bite his lip. And his eyes, his eyes are best of all: they go a little green when he’s aroused, and they flick to and away from John as if at any moment he’ll find the opening or see the sign he needs.

(The most charming aspect of the whole ritual is Sherlock’s refusal to simply ask for what he wants. He’s determined to figure it out on his own, and won’t admit that in this one area John’s too difficult to deduce. If the man ever came right out and said, “Fancy a shag later?” John’s pretty sure he’d have him right there in the middle of the dinnerware.)

Of course, John’s own arousal grows through the teasing, too. He tempts himself along as well. He’ll ask Sherlock to pass him the salt or the bread, and brush his fingers against the fine extended hand—not tickling his palm, which would be obvious and crude, but tracing one finger up the little valley leading from palm to wrist, and trailing it over his pulse point as if just momentarily to touch his heartbeat. (The feel of that softly pulsing silk won’t leave John’s fingers for hours.) Sherlock will look at his hand with a expression ever-so-slightly-stupefied, and John will know he’s got him.

He’ll look Sherlock right in the eye with a matter-of-fact solicitude—“Are you all right? Is there something you wanted?”—just to see him toss his dark head as if there were no more pointless question imaginable. John will shrug. “Oh, well. Just thought I’d ask.” And he’ll smile down at his plate, and the knowledge—yes, they’re going to fuck, and it’s going to be lovely—will glow in his belly, a warm little ball of lust that he’ll keep to himself for as long as he can.

Sherlock will keep watching him. John will keep catching him watching. And when at last Sherlock fixes his gaze as if he’d make John come on to him by the sheer force of his hazel-eyed will, John will be absolutely, sweetly, lovingly impervious. The knowledge that they’ll fuck is the one thing he can hide behind his eyes with impunity and dole out on a need-to-know basis. And Sherlock desperately needs to know.

Yes, it’s the knowing that does him.

***

Sherlock doesn’t like to have sex standing up. “It’s inefficient and awkward,” he says, but John knows it’s really because he doesn't have much control. John may be shorter, but he’s much sturdier, and Army training teaches a man how to hold his own in close quarters. Once John has him up against a wall, Sherlock can’t reach enough of him, he doesn’t quite have the access he wants (especially if John pins his hands, which is ridiculously easy to do with those willow-thin wrists). He can only kiss John’s face, his mouth (which should be plenty, but Sherlock is greedy), his neck (which can keep him busy for a while), his shoulders (the scar can distract him long enough to let John get some things done). But he can’t reach much more than that, and it frustrates him.

John, however, can get to all of Sherlock once he’s got him pinned upright. He can push the suit jacket off his shoulders (and the more expensive it is, the more fun to toss on the floor), can bite hard on his neck while unbuttoning his shirt (“I don’t care how much the damn thing costs, if you struggle any more I swear I’ll rip it”), and can brace an arm across his chest to undo his flies. By the time he’s got Sherlock’s cock in his hand, he has to start holding him up.

He knows how to do this with the least effort possible. He’ll set his hand high up on Sherlock’s chest, where his thumb can rest in the notch at the base of his throat. And John knows how to tease, he’s an artist of the tease. He’ll move his other hand on Sherlock’s cock, but ever so lightly, fingers curled around but only just brushing the skin. No matter how hard those lean hips thrust, they can’t get more friction than John’s willing to give. John’s more than happy to wait until the man’s nearly hysterical before taking a firmer grip and making him moan. He doesn’t stroke him then, doesn’t slide the shaft skin up or the foreskin down; no, he just holds firmly—and Sherlock’s cock is so hard by now it could almost bruise his fingers—and pulls in a slow, steady rhythm. Sherlock will, unconsciously, pull back with the muscles of his pelvic floor; the arousal moves from the skin of his cock, to the hard columns of the shaft, to the deep places of his pelvis. John will keep this going, a gentle tug-of-war. He’ll brace Sherlock with one shoulder so that he can use his other hand, and brush his fingertips over the scrotum that’s pulled up tight with that deep guttural clenching. Having his balls tickled makes Sherlock squirm, and John has to bite his lips to keep from laughing at his giddy little whimpers.

But soon the whimpers will become growls of impatience. He’ll push on John’s shoulders, trying to force him down, but it’s not time for that yet. John will step back a little, straightening his arm, making some distance. “Look at me,” he’ll say, and it’s not so much a command as a provocation, because Sherlock’s not compliant yet, and there’ll be just a hint of green-eyed rebellion when he meets John’s eyes. So John will lighten his grip suddenly, go back to that vanishingly soft stroking, just to hear Sherlock finally snap, “Oh, for God’s sake, John! Get on with it!” And John will laugh, and let him go so suddenly he has to catch himself, and leave him to yank his trousers up and follow stumbling to the bedroom.

***

Sherlock likes to experiment. He likes to watch. He likes to observe John in his pleasure, moving his hands on him and tracking the responses, that perfectly simple cause-and-effect. His touch is exploratory and inventive; he’ll use not just his fingers but every part of his hands. Fingertips raise goosebumps, palms soothe them; the glassy backs of fingernails drawn up the arm’s inner surface make John purr, the sharp edges make him catch his breath; backs of hands are softer than palms, and bring out more muted responses. And because knowledge like love should be an equal exchange, John will cooperate. He’ll open himself like a book to Sherlock’s sensual reading.

His scientific lover will watch him minutely, noticing every flicker of pleasure or drift of response. He’ll use only hands first, because, he says, his hands tell him more.

(“Did you know,” he observed once, “that the Marquis de Sade called manual manipulation, especially anal penetration, ‘socratizing’? As in Socrates. The philosophical implications could not be more clear.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sherlock, tell me you haven’t read de Sade.”

“You know how serious I am about research.”

“Well there’s some sodding research that’s never going into practice, I can tell you that now.”

Sherlock tried not to look disappointed.)

Once he’s learned what he can with his hands, he’ll use his mouth. In some ways his mouth is more observant than any part of him; his perceptive lips and inquisitive tongue gather information from the most arcane recesses of John’s body. He takes careful note of the various textures and tastes. He investigates the yielding tenderness of John’s temples, the absolute delicacy of his eyelids, the liquid of his lips (oh, his lips, Sherlock can never learn enough about John’s lips). He ventures through the fragrant grassiness of his armpit and the creamy expanse below it, tests the elastic tendons of his hips, savors the incomparable velvet of the head of his penis.

He’s learned long ago that he can keep John from coming by curling two fingers just above his balls, where they’re tucked up tight against his body in pre-orgasmic tension, and coaxing them gently away. John will pant and curse under his breath, and swallow, and say in a guttural voice, "Please, Sherlock. Suck me." But that's not what Sherlock wants to do with his mouth. Instead, he'll come up beside John, lay hard against him, not moving the hand still wrapped around him. And he’ll put his lips, a little swollen, a little hot, against John’s ear, and he’ll start to talk, telling him everything he’s learned. A precise report of exactly what he’s done, and exactly what he’s seen, and exactly what conclusions he has drawn. Sherlock will start talking, and John will be helpless under the weight of that gorgeous voice.

“If I touch your mouth you’ll always try to suck my fingers. You obviously like to have them wet before they touch you. Deep, slippery stroking gives better results than feather touches—I can tell by how deeply you groan.”

(John wants to agree, but he doesn’t have the breath.)

“I have noted one place just behind the corner of your jaw that makes you swallow convulsively if I kiss it. And did you know it’s impossible to make just one nipple erect? I’ve tried several times. They always rise simultaneously, whether I use my fingers or my mouth.”

(John would like to suggest he try again, but seems to have lost his voice.)

“The sweat at the crook of your thigh is more savory than that under your arms—though I do like the salt—and your testicles grow warmer the more you’re aroused…”

The account will go on and on, and John will feel that dark voice thrumming in his bones. It’s like groundwater seeping through the bed; it floods him and makes him float. Deep, luxuriant, resonant, its grain as rich as the wood of his violin. So posh and refined that when he says “fuck me” it sounds like a sacrament.

Because after a while, John knows, that’s exactly what he’ll say.

***

John is always surprised at how much Sherlock likes to be fucked. They don’t do it nearly as much as Sherlock would like, because it intimidates John a little. It means so much to him; it takes a certain amount of reverence and a great deal of care. It is profound, mysterious, always just a little frightening. It’s not the tightness that’s daunting, not the possibility of pain (for John is terribly careful, and knows exactly what he’s doing, here more than anywhere else). No, it’s the abandon it brings about, the utter opening. Sherlock makes himself as vulnerable as a person can be, and more trusting than John can quite comprehend. And perhaps this is precisely why Sherlock likes it, because with John inside him he can let go, and completely stop thinking, for with John inside him there’s no room for anything else, not even thought.

John likes it too, not because he’s in control, but because he gets to watch Sherlock for as long as he likes, as deeply as he likes. This isn’t about having power over him; John has to be so careful that the power is shared. He watches every shade of pleasure that passes over that sculpted face, every shift of the eyebrows from a tiny tightening—time to slow down—to a quick rise and relaxation—now I can go deeper.

This is the most incredibly tender and private thing John has ever done. There’s nothing more secret than another person's arsehole, nothing more delicate and hidden. John happens to know that the cliché is true: it is like the bud of a flower. Certain flowers just before they bloom have the exact flavor and texture of an anus: an unearthly silk, a musky sweetness, a bitter surface that yields quickly to the loving tongue. Trailing along the rough, slightly furred furrow between the buttocks, the tongue meets with this shockingly tender place, soft and slick as the inside of a lip, more shy and retiring than the tenderest clitoris. (John knows, because he’s tasted them all, cocks and cunts and yes, even flowers, just to be sure.)

Yes, this is something John knows about, and something he loves. To feel someone warm to that touch, and yield, is wonderfully moving; to feel them groan, and press down on his entry, is precious and gratifying. A man who lets himself be entered this way knows much of what a woman feels when the insistent cock pushes in: the delicious yielding, the luscious helplessness, the abandon, the surrender. A woman who allows this finds a different kind of penetration, more warm ocean bath than urgent push to climax. And when they’ve caught their breath, and can grip the intruder in return, and use that silky clasp to please him back...oh, it's exquisite. John knows it and he loves it. Although at times he's not sure if he’s hurting or loving, he treasures the trust that lets him explore.

With Sherlock he goes as slowly as he can. Oiled hands loving the long muscles of his legs, sliding up and over his thighs again and again until he’s so soft and loose his very bones seem to give. John oils his nipples, and slides them between his fingers until Sherlock stretches and arches and gives a deep feline groan. He’s so relaxed his cock is still soft, until John oils it up too, makes it glisten and swell. He runs slick fingers down the crevice between scrotum and thighs, over and around his balls, stroking his perineum softly, moving slowly, deeper and deeper. He lifts him—Sherlock is never more compliant—and spreads him wide, tucking a pillow under his hips to put everything in reach. He takes the warm oil and drips it—one drop, another—right onto Sherlock’s anus, so that the first thing he’ll feel there is wetness. Then stroking, very very softly, just tickling the wet surface so that it puckers closed and open, shy, tender, needy. Teasing him out of thought, and into a place of unheard music. Gently beginning to press, a small massage for those tiny muscles, soothing and pleasing them before one slick finger finds the entrance and begins to push, slowly, rhythmically, until his lover moans and opens and his finger slides in to the palm.

John will have his own cock hard now, oiling it well—he has to breathe deeply to calm himself—and rubbing it against Sherlock’s thighs. This is the moment. This is the moment he knows best and loves most: the moment he moves over Sherlock and looks in his eyes and shows him what he’s about to do. John has memorized this moment, the utter truth of it, watching that lovely face change as he pushes in, that look of beseeching pleasure, of tragedy, as the slick hot hardness makes him open. There is no song John knows or loves better than the sound Sherlock makes now. It’s a groan of absolute naked honesty, a helpless sobbing whimper of gratitude and lust. John fucks him, long and deep and hard, with one hand around his cock to make him come between their bellies. This is the truest moment, to be inside his lover with the most sensitive part of himself. Nothing means more than that wet yielding, and the throb, and the pulse pounding in Sherlock’s prostate as he thrusts. John’s eyes dark pinning Sherlock’s, shining. With Sherlock’s hot weeping breath in his face. With so much passion. With so much knowledge. With so much love.

***

It takes a while for John to come down. In some ways he never thinks so hard as when he’s making love, for in the end, knowledge isn’t power to John, it’s pleasure. Everything he knows of Sherlock pleases him, and every new thing he learns—and he learns something new every time—makes his pleasure grow. He holds Sherlock close and watches him sleep. John’s body calms, his mind clears, and he rests a while in the simplicity of his love.

Sherlock’s profile is the finest work of art he’s ever seen. It’s sculpted marble against the dark, and all the best of that wild, provocative, rapaciously intelligent nature finds quiet expression in its lines. It speaks of his strength, and his passion, and his fierce devotion. It is the shape of John’s love, and he could gaze on it for hours. It whispers to him the one essential fact of his life: this man is beautiful, and he is true. In the end that’s all John knows on earth, and all he needs to know.

Notes:

I would like to apologize to John Keats and his readers for the questionable use to which I put his “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” But you know, nothing eases the buttsex like a little Romantic poetry.
- 1
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Everything We Know of Love