Perihelion

A/N: Sorry for the long update to this one, everyone! For some reason, my writing muse just didn't co-operate until I was at work and then I'd get flashes of inspiration. Nearly all of this chapter has been written during my lunch hour - there's something deliciously naughty about writing this sort of thing during my break but I've given up trying to figure it out ;-)

I hope you enjoy this bit and thank you all for your feedback so far! You're all stars in my universe!

A/N 2: To my anonymous reviewer - thank you for your comments and I'm really pleased you offered some constructive criticism on the work :-) I've taken on board your advice and rewritten the chapter concerning Sherlock's dialog because, to be frank, it sounded nothing like the Sherlock from the BBC series... I hope it meets with everyone's approval, mostly because I'm much happier with it now, and feel free to let me know what you think :D 

Part Five  

 

For what seemed like an age, John was blissfully unaware of the outside world beyond himself or Sherlock; even the room in which they were standing was shrouded in a misty haze, with the sound of his heartbeat thrumming in his ears and the feel of Sherlock’s hands on his body being the only things he was aware of in those quiet moments.

Sherlock’s hands were on his hips now, the man having taken them from John’s own to place them delicately on the sensitive skin on the edge of his hipbones, with Sherlock’s right hand soothing the mark left from the pinch that had been placed there earlier from when John had momentarily lost his focus. The gentle rotation of that thumb on his left hip captured his attention for a few seconds, his mind cataloguing the feel of the pad on his skin and the calluses there (which were probably the result of an experiment gone awry), before shifting again to the warmth which was emanating from the man in front of him.

Although the primal part of his brain longed to press his body towards Sherlock until they were flush against each other, what was left of his logical thought was quick to remind him of the pain coming from his nipples, which would only intensify if they made contact with anything else besides the air around him. A pain that had been purposefully caused by the detective to his body in the pursuit of a mutual pleasure; of receiving the pain, in John’s case, and of giving it in Sherlock’s, the desire to submit and overpower both tangible presences in the room while the scene was being played out.

The act itself has been over since the culmination of his orgasm, but John couldn’t say that the atmosphere in the room had changed at all from when Sherlock had first told him that this, whatever they were doing, was already happening. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face because his eyes were closed, but that didn’t detract from the feeling of Sherlock being close to him; it actually enhanced it. The man’s scent was strong in his nostrils from where Sherlock had his head close to John’s own (a scent resembling the sandalwood of the man’s shower gel and the chemicals used in his experiments), with the both of them breathing in the other person which felt far more intimate than anything they’d done so far.

No words had been spoken since Sherlock had given John the order to lick his fingers clean and the salty tang of his cum in his mouth, now fading with each swallow, was a potent reminder of exactly what John had done in order to gain Sherlock’s pleasure. It hadn’t been the first time that he’d tasted himself; there had been one instance in his early teens when the white substance coming from his cock had intrigued him and his curiosity had gotten the better of him. That first initial taste had been discovered with a large amount of spluttering and spitting because the flavour had really been too briny for his liking and it meant that he hadn’t tried it again since.     

Not until Sherlock had ordered him to.

John could feel the skin on his cheeks flush with warmth at the memory of Sherlock’s smooth, cultured voice commanding him, the blush spreading down his face and neck until it reached his chest. He knew that Sherlock had his eyes open because Sherlock’s right hand moved from his hip to trace the outside edges of the blush before placing the palm of that hand in the centre of John’s chest, almost directly over his heart, to feel the rhythmic beat of the muscle as it pumped his blood around his body.

“Tell me what you were thinking of just now,” Sherlock murmured, a lower octave than normal which only increased the heat in John’s face and the speed of his heartbeat, both signs that John knew Sherlock would notice.

John kept his eyes closed, partly because Sherlock hadn’t ordered him to open them but also because it gave him the illusion of privacy, a feeling of solitude. As though he were in his room on his own, about to say the words aloud in an area where no one else would be able to hear him (if he didn’t say them out loud, did that make them any less real?), all those secret desires that he shied away from and desired in equal parts. But that couldn’t be further from the truth, for Sherlock would hear every syllable of every word that he said and a small part of him quaked at the very thought of telling Sherlock what he’d been thinking about even though he had no idea why. Why was he feeling that way after everything that they’d done together, everything that they would do together if they decided that this was something that they wanted to continue?

Why was the thought of it not continuing making his left hand tremble?

“John, I need you to concentrate,” Sherlock said, allowing the tone of his voice to edge closer to that of an order. As Sherlock was speaking, John felt Sherlock’s hand come into contact with his left, noting the tremble there. “You’re concerned about something,” the detective murmured, “and only just after our recent activities. Why?”

John exhaled sharply, experiencing a full body shudder before he controlled it. “I’m … I don’t want this to end,” he whispered, wincing with how needful he sounded. “But I’m afraid of what will happen if we continue. I’m not sure about any of this.”

Nothing came from Sherlock for a moment, and John was afraid that he’d said too much until he felt Sherlock’s hands move and come to rest on his hips again. “At the beginning of this, I informed you that you have a choice in everything that we do together, even if it’s to tell me to stop. That has not changed and if you decide that you’d rather things went back to normal, than that is what will happen.” As though to undermine his words, Sherlock’s fingers tightened marginally on his hips, unwilling to break away from the physical contact. “Before you decide on anything rash, I would prefer it if you allowed us to continue with this. We haven’t made anything official yet but I want to see how this will work, John, with you if you are acceptable.”     

John nodded, taking a deep, reassuring breath to halt his outbreak of nerves and letting Sherlock’s voice into his head, using it just as he had used the pain to balance himself, to ground his mind to the reality of their situation. They hadn’t yet decided whether or not they would be continuing with this but all outward indicators seemed good considering Sherlock was still in the moment with him, and John’s own reactions to Sherlock’s presence were definitely in favour of future activities between them. It was as Sherlock said; he needed to not get too far ahead of himself and, more importantly, he had to trust that Sherlock knew what he was doing. “I was thinking about your voice,” John said, going back to Sherlock’s previous question and trying to keep his breathing calm because he didn’t want to stumble over his words, didn’t want Sherlock to get the wrong impression over anything he said. “When you were speaking to me earlier as you were … hurting me.”

Sherlock remained silent, waiting for John to finish before he answered. “How does that make you feel, John? I can see it on you, your body is so expressive, but I want to hear it in your own words.”

“I… God, I loved it,” John admitted, feeling his blush rise with the words but unable to stop now that they were out in the open, didn’t want to stop them because it was suddenly easier to let them go. “It’s just as I imagined it would be.”

“That’s a very leading sentence,” Sherlock murmured and John felt an increase in heat on the right side of his face when Sherlock moved his head so his mouth was next to John’s right ear, being careful not to move his body closer to John’s in a conscious decision to avoid putting pressure on his nipples and something that John was grateful for. “What is it about my voice that you like so much?”

John didn’t try to suppress the shiver that passed through him at having Sherlock’s mouth so close to the lobe of his ear, his warm breath ghosting on the side of John’s face in reminiscence of the moment when Sherlock had done the same at the club in front of Will, displaying his ownership for the other man to see. “Its depth,” John whispered, panting slightly when Sherlock’s hand slid down from his chest and back to his left hip, mirroring the grip of his hand on John’s opposite side. “The smoothness of it… it’s so intense that it felt like I couldn’t focus on anything else when you were speaking to me.”

“I’ve often been told that people find me a very intense person,” Sherlock said, his voice a warm chuckle that made John tremble again. “It works to my advantage. Can you tell me what else were you thinking about?”

“The feel of your nails on my skin,” John said, opening his eyes and seeing the blue hue of Sherlock’s dressing gown, so close to the touch and yet so far away that the distance felt insurmountable. “The pain they caused on my body… Oh God, I wanted it,” he gasped, his hands curled into fists at his sides. “I wanted the pain there because I knew how much it would hurt.” The words burned in his throat, a short, intense fire that sent his pulse racing and caused the sweat to bead on his face, but after he’d said them he felt better, like a weight had been lifted off of his shoulders with the truth of them.

“That’s good, John,” Sherlock murmured, stroking his fingers up and down the sides of John’s body and making his skin break out into goose-bumps. “You’re doing very well, but you’re not quite there yet. What more is it that I need from you? Can you figure out what it is?”

Oh, Sherlock was being unkind, distracting John with his hands and voice in a dance which was designed to seduce and disarm even the most logical mind, so the fact that John’s had been dismantled quite some time ago wasn’t working in his favour. His mind felt almost frantic, trying to figure out what it was that Sherlock wanted with his voice catching in his throat, unable to find the words when Sherlock moved his mouth to the lobe of the ear it was so close to and began to nibble on it.

What was it that Sherlock wanted? What had he missed, or had he missed anything at all? Was Sherlock just teasing him, or was there something that he needed from John, something that he hadn’t said yet? All through his thoughts, Sherlock continued to nip and lick at his ear, Sherlock’s hands moving from his hips and across the flat planes of his stomach, sliding those clever fingers back up his chest, over the muscles of his shoulders and down his arms before slipping his fingers between John’s. The touches on his body had been possessive, cursory sweeps that left John with a tingling sensation in their wake, as though those hands were merely marking the areas for further exploration later when there was more time to be had. The touch to his hands though, it was different; a loose clasp, a gentle curling of the digits around John’s fingers with the tips stroking the insides of his palms.

Sherlock was cataloguing the feel of his hands, John realised, closing his eyes in a slow exhale before he tentatively returned the exploration, ready to stop at a moment’s notice in case Sherlock wanted him to remain still. When nothing came from the detective John allowed himself to be a little bolder, focussing on the feel of the other man’s hands in his own and the pleasure of being able to explore a part of Sherlock that had been the cause of his peak just moments before.

Sherlock’s fingers seemed longer than they had when they’d been on his body, but no less strong for it, and the calluses on the pads at their tips reminded John of the detective’s other obsession in his world (besides his work as a consultant for the Police Department). Above all else, Sherlock’s violin playing gave him the focus required for him to understand a case; whether it be through long, flowing melodies that spoke of the intricacies of the case they were working on, or through sharp, short bursts of sound that sounded like a screeching cat, mimicking the chaos in Sherlock’s head when the clues he was searching for remained just outside of his reach.

It made him wonder what else those fingers could do to him, more than they had done already, and God, just thinking about those long digits on his nipples again made John’s cock throb in a thick, lazy pulse, not aroused enough to warrant full hardness but a reminder nonetheless of the power that Sherlock held at his fingertips.

Quite literally, in this case. 

It also made John wonder what the other man was thinking when he was touching John’s hands; what did he think about when he traced the hard skin left over from John’s use of a weapon? Or the long scar on the inside of his right hand, a wound acquired when he was younger when he fell from a tree and had tried unsuccessfully to stop his fall? Would Sherlock know what had caused it, the scar, or would he have to guess at it, take a closer look at the wound to see what angle the tree branch had caught John before he could deduce it?

The slow touches continued between them, neither of them in a hurry for the contact to end any time soon, and John tried to imagine what this would have been like if he had gone back to the club and another Dom had picked him up in Sherlock’s place. Would this have happened at all, this awareness of each other’s bodies, of each other’s habits and loves and hurts? Or would it have all been a guessing game, with neither John nor the Dom reaching that level of intimacy that John knew he shared with his flatmate? Would he have been able to reach the amount of trust required to allow a stranger to cause him pain intentionally?

The response was a world-resounding ‘no’ and it was enough to give John the answer he’d known all along to the question Sherlock hadn’t asked him.       

“You,” he whispered, moaning when the attention being given to his ear stopped. “I want all of you,” he continued, closing his own fingers around Sherlock’s in an affirmation of his words. “Ever since that night in the club when you were pretending to be my Dom. I want that with you, what Eric and Will have.”

“Excellent, John,” Sherlock said passionately, moving his head back until they were looking at each other in the eye. “Don’t worry, you’ll get everything you’ve asked for from me and more, but our relationship won’t be like Eric’s and Will’s.” His hands released their grip on John’s, bringing them up until they cupped his face again to hold John in place although Sherlock’s eyes were more than apt at doing that on their own. John felt himself becoming lost in them, the intensity of Sherlock’s look seizing his entire body and making it yearn for the other man as Sherlock said what John had never thought he’d want so much but was suddenly desperate for, had in fact been waiting to hear the words for what felt like his whole existence. “It will be so much better.”

oOo

Aftercare, John reflected, wasn’t something that he’d paid much attention to when he’d done his initial research into BDSM. From his very limited foray into the topic, he knew that it meant different things to different people and depended on several factors; like the relationship between the Dom and their sub, the rules which had been laid out before the scene started; or even whether or not the sub was on his own if he had no Dom to attend to his needs.

He knew that these instances were only the tip of the ice-burg and John didn’t dare call himself an expert at it; he’d only just been introduced to the BDSM world and felt, for all intents and purposes, like a virgin again, trying understand what it was that worked best for his body and not fall off in the deep end. He knew that he hadn’t gone into detail on the aftercare side of things because it meant that people were actually being hurt by participating in this, despite the consent on both sides, and that they would need to recover from those injuries before anything more could be done to them. At the time, the thought of anyone causing that much damage to his body had left him feeling cold inside, his cock a limp thing in his trousers that he couldn’t rouse for love nor money after the things he’d read and seen on those websites.

With Sherlock’s hands on his chest and his eyes inspecting John’s nipples to look for any swelling or residual soreness, John was finally beginning to understand what all the fuss was about. It wasn’t the fact that pain had been inflicted on those people’s bodies, for there was no escaping that, but John was beginning to realise that it was more about the relationship between the sub and the person that they’d chosen to inflict that pain upon them.

‘“He asked me for every single one. And I gave them to him without remorse or regret.”’ 

Will’s words drifted through his mind, his memory providing him with a perfect visual image of Eric’s back and the whip marks on his flesh. If it was as Will had said, and Eric’s behaviour towards his Dom hadn’t suggested otherwise, how much had Eric begged for them before the scene had ended? How much did Will decide Eric could take before he was forced to stop the scene himself, or did he trust his sub so implicitly to know his own body that Eric would have stopped the scene before his limit was breached?

The ache in John’s nipples was finally receding, but he couldn’t say how much time had passed since they’d started and he couldn’t even remember what the time had been when he’d left the club that evening. It was still night-time outside, but it could have passed midnight on the following day and he would have been none the wiser. If he had lost that much awareness of his surroundings, how would he have that much control over what was happening to his body? Would it be like an outer-body experience, except completely the opposite where he would sink so far into himself that even cognisant thought would become a distant memory?

He knew that it kept coming back to one thing, and that was his trust in Sherlock. The man had, in his own way, asked for John’s explicit permission to carry on with this relationship and that in itself opened up a whole new scope of questions and scenes to be explored.

Would Sherlock strike him with the riding crop? 

Would nipple clamps be used on him? 

Would he be tied down somewhere and left to strain and moan for the touch of Sherlock’s mouth, his hands, anything to relieve the ache inside of him?

Each thought had its own shiver of reaction and John struggled to remain attentive to what Sherlock was doing, apparently satisfied that no lasting damage had been caused and bringing his eyes back up so they met John’s. “It’s time for us to move on from this; you can get dressed if you want but I wouldn’t suggest putting on your shirt. I want you to be comfortable so we can discuss exactly where it is that we’re going with this, but you also need to allow your body to recover from the aftereffects of the scene. Understood?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” John said readily. They definitely needed to talk about this and it might help him with some of the more burning questions that he had; the lack of clothing on his upper body was a relief in all honesty because he’d been worried that Sherlock would have made him put the clothes back on precisely because of the tenderness in his nipples. Would he have done it if he’d been told otherwise?

Sherlock stepped out of John’s personal space, giving them both some much needed breathing space. “If you prefer your current level of modesty you can remain as you are. Regardless of your decision, you’re to wait on your chair until I return and I don’t want to hear a single sound out of you until I give you permission to do so. Nod if you understand.”

John nodded after a moment to show Sherlock that he’d thought carefully about the words until agreeing to them, and waited until Sherlock left the room before deciding to pull just his boxers on, unwilling to use his shirt or trousers because the room felt too warm for them, or was it just his elevated temperature? Either way, he wasn’t putting the shirt back on for the reason Sherlock had stated, but he wasn’t sure of the reasons behind it. He knew it would hurt if he did but would that hurt be a good or bad thing?

Realising that he still had an order to follow; he sat down on his chair and tried to figure out how he should sit because that suddenly seemed important. If he sat back and relaxed, would it come across as nonchalant, as though John couldn’t care less whether they had this conversation or not? Or, if he leant forward on his knees, would that make him appear too eager or perhaps a little anxious of what was to come? 

It wasn’t a question he got to answer because he was jostled out of his thoughts by Sherlock’s return; the detective had a glass of water in his right hand, which he gave to John with an order to sip from, and he had his riding crop in his left hand which was held down at his side in a loose manner. It didn’t matter to John how the riding crop was being held in that moment because he still couldn’t take his eyes off of it, even when Sherlock sat in his own chair opposite him and crossed his legs while holding the crop over them. The position was the same one Sherlock had been in when John had come back early from his shift and, judging by the look in Sherlock’s eyes, the move was completely intentional.

“You have questions,” Sherlock murmured, regarding John from beneath his fringe. “You think so loudly, did you know that? I could almost hear you even though I wasn’t in the room.” John didn’t know how to respond to that and some of his unease must have shown on his face because Sherlock was quick to alleviate his worries. “You shouldn’t be concerned about it. Unlike most people, who don’t think at all, your mind is something of a revelation; you try to think about the right things although you do worry about them too much.” Sherlock took the riding crop in his right hand and placed it down on the floor beside his chair before turning back to John and placing his hands in front of his face, the fingertips pressed together. “I’m wondering if that’s partly why you want me to me your Dom; you like it when you have my full attention but only in the matters that suit you; when we’re on a case, for example. I can tell you that, as your Dom, I will have access to every facet of your life because you will give it to me, not because I have forced you to but because it’s what you want to do. You’ll want to share everything with me of your own volition because it is what feels right.”

Sherlock paused and it reminded John keenly of the order that he hadn’t been given permission to speak because it felt like there was so much that he wanted to say; yes to everything Sherlock had said, as a matter of fact, because a small part of him desperately wanted to succumb to the other man’s will and he wanted nothing more than to see the detective’s eyes alight with praise for him, over something that he’d said or did that had pleased Sherlock to no end.     

Seeing John’s predicament, Sherlock glanced over his frame briefly before returning his eyes back to John’s. “You have my permission to speak as long as you can retain the calmness that you had during the scene. If not, remain silent until you are able to.”  

John wanted that as well, to keep the calm state of mind he’d achieved when Sherlock had been stimulating him, but he felt too uncomfortable while he was sitting as he was, unsure of where to put his arms and feeling far too far away from Sherlock given what had just happened between them. He liked to have closeness after being with someone physically and this enforced distance made a knot of something lodge in his stomach.

Sherlock’s eyes darkened in the firelight, seeing the evidence of John’s distraction on his body. “Stand up and come to my chair,” he said softly. “I want to try something with you.”

John startled where he sat, watching Sherlock with wide eyes before rising to obey the order; he walked the two steps up to Sherlock, unsure of where to put his hands and wishing that he had gotten dressed in the end because this felt too intense, too much to handle in too short a time.

“Kneel,” Sherlock said, eyes holding John’s in an unshakable grip. “When you’re on your knees, cross your hands in front of you at your wrists with your right hand in front of your left.”

John felt his knees go soft underneath him, relaxing almost completely until he remembered that he would need to stop himself from falling to the floor and tensing at the last moment, just preventing his knees from knocking on the carpet but making the whole move jerky and uncoordinated. Flushing with embarrassment, he put his hands into the position requested of him and looking up again to see what Sherlock was doing, taking his lower lip between his teeth in a reflexive action.

“Relax,” Sherlock breathed, leaning forward in his chair until he was eye level with John and reaching out a hand to lightly grasp at John’s chin. “I know this is unsettling for you, but you haven’t done anything that I haven’t asked you to and this will get easier as we progress.”               

John nodded, feeling the muscles in his neck, back and arms relax marginally with Sherlock’s words and the position he was in became more comfortable, allowing him to sink into it more fully so he no longer had to think about it. And that felt so much better, the embers from the dying fire keeping him warm on his left side and feeling a lot more stable where he was; which made no sense because he was technically beneath Sherlock in this position and wasn’t this meant to be a partnership?

“What are you thinking about?” Sherlock asked, withdrawing his hand from John’s chin but keeping his profile leaning towards him.

“I’m thinking about the power-play in all this,” John said, his response easy and fast. “I don’t know how I feel about it.”

Sherlock waved a hand briefly to John’s words but it wasn’t in dismissal, leaning back in his chair until he was almost sprawled in it. “That’s something that we’ll both come to understand once we’ve had the practise. Don’t be mistaken, John; I’m as much a virgin in this as you are.”

John’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding, right? But you’re so… so…”

“Good at it?” Sherlock offered with an eyebrow raised speculatively.

“Well… Yes, actually,” John said, more than a little flustered. “How do you…?”

“The same way I can mimic a priest in distress or a person who has been locked out of their flat,” Sherlock said with humour, “although not in quite so dispassionate a way as you might think. I’m well aware of the trust that this requires, John; believe me when I say that I am not taking this lightly.”

John took a moment to absorb that, just because it was so unlike Sherlock to declare any feelings he did have that it made this moment more special. It would seem that he was entering into more than just a physical relationship with Sherlock, so did this mean that the power-play he’d been referring to earlier could somehow work both ways? Like topping from the bottom? Was that even allowed?

“I know you still have questions,” Sherlock said, bringing John’s focus back to the other man. “Ask them now, if you want to.”

“Ok…” Why, oh why, did his tongue decide that now would be a good time to get stuck to the roof of his mouth? John glanced up to Sherlock’s face and saw that the detective was waiting as patiently as ever, not appearing to be in any hurry to go anywhere and for once completely focussed on John’s needs. It felt so surreal that it left John feeling temporarily speechless. “Are you going to use that?” he asked, eyes flicking down to the riding crop beside Sherlock’s chair, and wondered at the relief that flooded his system when Sherlock shook his head.

"It’s too soon for that,” Sherlock elaborated, “and I wanted to see what your reaction to it would be.” He held up his right hand so the palm was facing towards John, displaying it for John to look at. “From what I have ascertained, the more traditional position of ‘over someone’s knee’ has never gone out of fashion and I must admit that I am sorely tempted by it.” Sherlock leaned forward again until his face was close to John’s, so close that John could see the expansion of Sherlock’s pupils in the light. “It may interest you to note that I’m looking forward to seeing if I can turn your arse the same shade of red that your face was a moment ago.”

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God…’ John shut his eyes weakly, his lower lip going in-between his teeth again and blushing hotly at the images in his head; himself spread out over Sherlock’s knees, cock rigid between Sherlock’s thighs and buttocks smarting from the impact of Sherlock’s hand on them. How would it feel? He could almost imagine the sting of it, the heat rising off of his abused flesh, spanked over Sherlock’s knee like a disobedient child.

“Is it ok to admit that I like the sound of that?” John whispered into the room, his newly sprung erection testament to his desires.

He could feel Sherlock’s eyes on his arousal from where it peeked through the slit at the front of his boxers, taking note of the flush at the head of his cock and the way it jerked against his stomach in almost the exact rhythm as the beating of his heart. “Yes, John,” Sherlock said, his own excitement over John’s words making his voice breathier, a musky sound that slid down John’s nerve-endings in the best of ways. “It is.”

To be continued