Gunpower and Gasoline

Hurt and Comfort

You: You awake yet? JW

Stranger: Of course. You know how often I don’t sleep. SH

You: Well you fell asleep rather quickly last night. JW

You: And you were knocked out when I got up. JW

Stranger: Sometimes I need it. SH

Stranger: You should have woken me before getting up. SH

You: But ‘sometimes you need it’. JW

You: :) JW

You: Besides, it was just my last check-up. JW

You: Got some of my stitches out. JW

Stranger: I was going to go with you. SH

You: You needed your rest, and I /wanted/ you to rest… JW

You: And you’ve done a good job at pampering me during this whole thing. JW

You: I wanted to give you a day off. JW

Stranger: It’s not pampering. It’s tending. Which I’m doing because you need it. SH

You: I suppose I’ll allow it. JW

You: I’m on my way back now. JW

Stranger: Don’t rush. SH

You: Are you not in bed anymore? JW

Stranger: I had a shower. I am currently looking at the bed and debating returning to it, but I was thinking also about making you some lunch. SH

You: Return to bed. I think that’s what I’ll be doing when I’m back. JW

You: Might have overdid it a bit. JW

Stranger: I told you. SH

Stranger: You probably took the tube and walked instead of taking a taxi. SH

Stranger: You probably took the stairs instead of the elevator. SH

You: Well… it’s cheaper. JW

You: And I haven’t had any exercise in a while. JW

Stranger: Idiot. SH

Stranger: Have you eaten? SH

You: No, not yet. JW

Stranger: Make your way home slowly and you’ll have lunch in bed. SH

You: Bless you. JW

You: I’m nearly home. JW

You: John carefully made his way upstairs to their flat, wincing occasionally as his wounds stretched or strained with certain movements. He might have overdone it a bit, but considering his wounds, he was feeling much better. He’d had a bit of a mishap on their last case. John and Sherlock had split up in pursuit of the suspect… and unfortunately, John chose the wrong route. His hadn’t led him to the spindly little leader, but a small group of his cronies. He’d taken a good beating. Lestrade and his team had come across them, thankfully, and broken it up. John was unconscious however, and taken to the hospital. A few broken ribs, concussion, severe bruising on his torso, split lip, a couple lacerations, a rather unsightly black eye, sprained wrist and two broken fingers.

It hadn’t been pretty. But he and Sherlock had taken a ‘breather’ from cases for the past week, and John had to admit he was grateful to be given the time to heal. Reaching the top, he sighed wearily and slowly began to try and take off his coat without disturbing his healing injuries.

Stranger: Sherlock’s ‘breather’ from cases had been surprisingly complete. He’d informed Lestrade that the man was reasonably competent, at least enough to take care of London for a few days. It might end up being a few weeks. And while he was no natural caretaker and certainly not a natural nurse, he found some satisfaction, however small, in tending to his charge. Doctors were notoriously bad patients, but Sherlock enjoyed the stubbornness of the man whether or not it was paired with excruciating pain. When John ascended, the scent of toasted bread and cheese and ham wafted through the air. There was also the rich aroma of steeping tea.

"Your timing is impeccable," Sherlock called. He stood in the kitchen arraying a tray with what looked like some kind of very cheesy open-faced sandwich, crisps, and a whole pot of tea. He looked almost anxiously between it and John, adding: "I thought you would like a croque-monsieur. We had a fresh tomato. It seemed like the right thing."

You: John managed to finally shrug his coat off, before looking to see Sherlock standing there; tray and delicious smelling food in hand. “You’re definitely full of surprises.” John huffed out a quiet laugh, taking care not to smile too wide, lest he split his healing lower lip open again. “That smells amazing. I didn’t realize how hungry I was…” he said. He briefly eyed the stairs back to his room, and decided he’d had enough stairs for one day. “Let’s just settle in on the couch, yeah?… I feel like I haven’t been in the sitting room in ages.” John mused, carefully making his way to the sofa.

Stranger: Sherlock smiled faintly. He did more of that now, or at least whenever he and John were alone. It still felt a bit of a foreign expression, but it was becoming more comfortable. He carried the tray in to the sitting room with a nod of agreement, setting it onto John’s knees when he was finally sitting down. “Carefully, now,” he murmured. “I also picked up some ginger scones from downstairs. Fresh and warm. I’ll bring you one?” He didn’t sit, not yet: he just… flitted.

You: John laughed, “Sherlock, really, you’ve done enough. Besides, I’ll probably be quite content after this mouth-watering sandwich, crisps and tea.” he said fondly, “Please sit. Relax a bit.” Without meaning to seem rude, he dug hungrily into his food; as he expected, it was delicious. He should be a bit miffed that Sherlock never utilized his cooking abilities on a regular basis. He was very good. Of course, cooking was ‘science’ to him, but still. “Mmm. This is heaven. Thank you, really.” he mumbled around his food. He tilted his head a bit, “Are you up to anything today?”

Stranger: Cooking: just chemistry for hungry people. Despite John’s refusal, Sherlock flitted back to the kitchen and came back with a mug of tea and a plate with a pair of scones and some clotted cream. One, at least, was for himself. He looked pleased at John’s enjoyment, absently reaching out and twiddling a bit of browned cheese from the edge of the untouched sandwich half. “No cases. We’ve agreed. I did take on a few small experiments, though. Lestrade said he’d send some samples down by courier. Apart from that, I thought I’d do some light reading.” His eyes flicked toward a stack of books next to his chair. More beekeeping. It was the only obsessive hobby he had apart from crime.

You: John listened and nodded along absently as he finished the rest of his sandwich. He might be embarrassed at how quickly he’d consumed it, but he had been hungry. The sandwich had done the trick, and he found himself now warm, comfortable and content. He debated having the crisps, but eyed the scones Sherlock had brought out. He reached out and dipped a finger into a bit of the clotted cream, and then brushed the pad of his thumb against Sherlock’s lower lip; gently smearing a smudge of cream there. He tugged the genius a bit closer, and kissed the cream away. “You know that when I’m all healed up… I plan on thanking you… in /every/ way imaginable, right?”

Stranger: It brought a stop to his breath for just a moment. Sherlock froze, but only momentarily: that was usual, at least in part because affection was often something rather unnatural in him. He wasn’t good at being spontaneously affectionate: he was good at planning affection, but while little things like a kiss in the morning with coffee weren’t out of the question, most of his little touches were planned. He returned the kiss, though, and it had that edge of hunger that they always did from him — as if he’d starved for affection before John came along. His eyebrows raised at the murmur and he slipped a bit closer, his hand reaching out to draw his thumbnail along John’s jawline. “I would be on my knees with you in my mouth this moment if I didn’t think you would pull a stitch or dislocate your ribs,” he rumbled in reply.

You: John groaned, and closed his eyes, leaning his head forward a bit into Sherlock’s touch. “Christ…” he sighed, pressing a second kiss to Sherlock’s jawline, and then the soft spot at the junction between his earlobe and his neck. “I’d rather you didn’t say things like that… not until I can hold you to them.” he teased, lifting a hand to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s curls as he began to stroke his hair. He looked into the detective’s face (though one of his eyes was still a bit blurry and bloodshot from the healing black eye), and gave him another small smile. “Are you ready to tell me what happened, yet?… After I passed out?” he asked. John still hadn’t been given an account of what had happened when he was found or taken to the hospital. He simply woke up a couple days later, and Sherlock was there. He had wanted to know the story, but Sherlock had refused to tell him until he was a bit better.

Stranger: That little spot, that junction, was Sherlock’s switch: it made him purr, or at the very least it made him moan. “I’d do all the work,” he reasoned. “Perhaps strap you to the bed just to make certain you didn’t…” He trailed off, though, and hesitated. He hadn’t wanted to go over all this. Not just yet. His eyes flicked away and he cleared his throat: “Hardly anything to tell. I found you. Lestrade came shortly after. Together we laid out the men who hurt you and, once they were… dealt with, we got you to the hospital. You were hurt, evidently, but not in serious danger of death. On the whole, a minor incident.” It wasn’t /all/ a lie. There were just a few bits omitted.

You: John frowned as Sherlock loosely described what had happened. He might not be the smartest man in London, but he was clever enough to know that the detective was leaving some things out. But he didn’t want to push. Sherlock seemed uncomfortable talking about it; perhaps it had been a shock? Sherlock had never seen him so injured before. John knew he didn’t look pretty when he’d woken up, and while he still didn’t look like his old self now, either… it was certainly better than it was. “Alright…” he muttered gently, patting Sherlock’s leg. “Well. I’m glad you found me.” he smiled a bit, though dropped it when his lip began to sting. He shifted over carefully, pressing against Sherlock as he sagged up against his side, lightly trailing his fingers along the bottom hem of Sherlock’s shirt. “The worst part of all this is abstaining from you, you realize…” he continued, hoping to will Sherlock’s frown away.

Stranger: Having John close was a reward of its own. Keeping him safe… Sherlock never wanted John to know how he’d reacted when he saw the broken body and the men assaulting him. He’d seen red. He’d gone mad — no, not just mad. He’d gone /sadistic/. He hadn’t just pulled the men off John. He’d hurt them. He’d found the quickest ways to disable them, to cripple them, to kill them. He’d been dripping with blood when Lestrade caught up with him, and it was only that rational seed left in his mind that had stopped him attacking the detective inspector. Sherlock stroked John’s face, his frown smoothing away into that neutrally intent stare. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the man’s brow. One each to his eyebrows, then between them. Soft kisses continued, tender and sweet, crossing his cheekbones and his jaw, the corners of his mouth, the tip of his nose, his lips at last, and raining across his neck and shoulders. It was like the start of a warm summer rain where droplets plunked slowly one after another.

You: John sighed, leaning into the gentle caresses and touches - warmth flooding through his face, body and heart at Sherlock’s gentleness with him. Despite the obvious cons of the entire situation, the pro was getting to see this side of Sherlock. He had always known the detective cared for him; of course he did. He wasn’t the best at showing it, but John was well aware as to why that was… and was patient and willing to wait. To help Sherlock trust him completely, and feel safe enough to expose every bit of himself that he’d kept locked away under a cold, calculating exterior. When Sherlock’s lips returned to his own, John hummed into the kiss and slid his arms up carefully to circle around the genius’ neck. He moaned at the loss when Sherlock continued to pepper kisses along the cloth of his collarbone and shoulders. “I’m fine… we’re fine…” he said, wondering if perhaps it was best to reassure him. “I would do it again in a heartbeat. Better me than the person I love.” he reassured the other, beginning to stroke Sherlock’s soft, tousled curls again.

Stranger: "Never you." Sherlock’s eyes were closed as he reached out a hand to run up John’s leg, caressing his hip, his thigh, sliding back down to his knee before making his way back up. He was never like this. Not with anyone else. Very rarely even with John. Kisses peppered John’s neck, his shoulders; gentle fingers lifted to unbutton his shirt and to let those kisses feather across his chest. "Never you. Never /again/ you. I’ll tear them apart." He lifted his eyes, looking at John from beneath his brows with the hunger of a wolf. "Not you," he breathed, his tension easing minutely as he had the chance to look into John’s eyes again. "I’ll never let them touch you again." And with all the intensity and the chill in his eyes, there was at the back of his gaze a screaming terror, primal as a child. Never John. John could never be taken away.

You: John huffed out another breath, trying to keep his composure as Sherlock began to speak as he drifted his hands over and along John’s legs and torso. He leaned back, resting against the union jack pillow and the arm of the sofa, while Sherlock’s lithe fingers began to undo his shirt carefully, before his mouth drifted down to kiss his bruised chest. “Sh… Sherlock…” he whispered, feeling his skin beginning to warm and his eyes to gloss over a bit. He opened his mouth to speak, but his partner continued; repeating that it would /never again/ be him; that he would tear them apart. John frowned, and looked down to meet Sherlock’s icy blue orbs as he stared up at him. It was enough to make him shudder. Sherlock’s gaze was a powerful thing, and John had been under his spell from the get-go. When he stated again, firmly, that he would never let them touch John again… he saw something. It was a vulnerable flicker behind his eyes, barely there… but he’d seen it. “Hey…” John coaxed, lifting his hands to cup either side of Sherlock’s defined cheekbones. His thumbs gently rubbed circles over the soft, pale skin there. “Hey…” he repeated, “You’re not going to lose me. We’ll keep each other safe.” John said, pulling Sherlock up toward him. “From now on, we just… won’t split up.” he decided, pressing a few feathered kisses to Sherlock’s brow.

Stranger: His. /His/. Sherlock looked into John’s eyes and bit his lips — boyishly, again — and gave him a tiny nod. “You’re mine,” he said softly. “You aren’t allowed to get yourself damaged again. It was very thoughtless of you.” His eyes skittered away, but he seemed a little calmer after the other man’s words. Even as he reveled in the touch of John’s fingers he drew himself up properly to nestle at his side, his hand beginning to travel once more up and down John’s chest. Lips met John’s once more and his hand descended, running up and down the doctor’s inner thighs. “Mine,” he breathed into John’s mouth, and again: “/Mine/.” Warm fingers slid between John’s legs, curled, gripped softly: “Mine,” he whispered, and he sounded at least as amazed as he had sounded upset or hungry or angry.

You: "Y-Yes… very thoughtless…" John panted back as his mind began to go a bit fuzzy. Sherlock tucked himself between the back of the sofa and John; spooning in closely beside him as his hand began to drift around his body again. Their lips meshed and melded together again, and John moaned as Sherlock’s hand descended down, grazing around his thighs and waist. John’s hips lurched forward on their own accord, and he whimpered. When those skillful fingers dipped between his legs to palm and grip him through his trousers, John released a rather emasculating sound, but Christ, it was hard to care. The touch combined with Sherlock repeating the word ‘mine’ into John’s mouth was nearly too much. "Y-Yours… ah f- … fuck… yours… Sherlock…" he breathed, clutching at Sherlock’s long arm to try and anchor himself. He tried to blink away the blurry haze from his brain, and became focused enough to move his own hand down to palm Sherlock where their legs had begun to entwine on the sofa. "You… you stay out of trouble… a-and… I will too…" he offered.

Stranger: "With you," Sherlock agreed. He wouldn’t let them separate again. Never let them split up. If they were running into an ambush, they’d run into it together. His hand slid up and down, not caring for the moment that it was outside John’s trousers. It was somehow desperately arousing to him, and as he slid closer to have John almost on his knee, he leaned in to keep catching those lips with his own. Nibbling here, kissing there, catching an earlobe or the side of John’s neck when he could. When John’s hand cupped him, he almost saw white; his breath stuttered and he rocked his hips very softly into the touch. "The two of us, then. Together." He gazed into John’s eyes as he said it, his hand stilling momentarily. "Never apart." His fingers twiddled open the button of John’s trousers, drew down the zipper slowly. His gaze was intent on the man’s eyes as he went on: "I’m going to make you come. I don’t want you to move any more than you have to. Is that understood?"

You: "T-Together… together…" John repeated blearily, biting his lower lip as he struggled to keep his voice down. God, he wished he wasn’t in this state. He would be able to have a go with Sherlock and actually be a match for him. They would’ve been ravaging each other on the sofa already, he was sure, were it not for his condition. And yes, his body ached, but the desire and absence from his partner were far too strong. He needed Sherlock. When Sherlock’s skilled fingers popped open his trousers and drew the zipper down, John allowed a small whine to pass through his lips before he swallowed it back. "A-Ah… Sh… Sherlock…" he began, but was cut off when the detective looked into his eyes again. He told John he was going to make him cum, and didn’t want him to move any more than he had to. "I’m- … I…" John stammered, trying to ignore the throbbing need between his legs now. "Yes… I’ll- … I… god, Sherlock please…" he rushed out breathlessly.

Stranger: Those little sounds John made — well, those and the not-so-little sounds. They drove Sherlock to new heights of arousal. He was growing hard under John’s hand, but he was far more intent on the other man’s need. His tension. He could take care of himself, but John… he /needed/ John in his hand. In his mouth. And when John was well, he needed to take him again. And again. And again, if only to remind the man’s body who it belonged to. His warm hand curled around the bulge in John’s briefs, teasing out his cock bit by glorious bit. “Tell me,” he whispered, sliding his hand into John’s pants and squeezing with those deft, nimble fingers, “…do you want me to stroke you or suck you off? Do you want to look in my eyes and feel my arm around you as you climax, or do you want to fill my mouth and watch me drink you? Do you want to see yourself on my lips before I lick myself clean?” Dirty talk. Without a single dirty word. Sometimes he talked dirty with /medical/ terms.

You: John gasped and let another whine escape past his lips when Sherlock’s hand finally slipped into his trousers and beneath his pants to wrap around his already dripping cock. He hadn’t been this aroused in a while. And go figure… it was when he couldn’t really do anything about it. He bit his lip and arched back into Sherlock, shifting his leg so it draped over the side of Sherlock’s hip, giving him more access. It ached a bit, but John ignored the dull throb of pain. “Y-You… ah! F- …. y-you… please… suck me….” he heard himself begging aloud, “Oh god please Sherlock, s- … suck me….” He was almost certain that he could cum from the detective’s voice alone. But that would be an experiment better suited for when John was well.


Posted on the 25th of April, 2013 with 4 notes
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