This Could Get Awkward (Luckily, You're Here)
folder
S through Z › Sherlock (BBC)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
6,914
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
S through Z › Sherlock (BBC)
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
6,914
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
Sherlock belongs to BBC et al. I do not own the series, and make no profit from writing this.
This Could Get Awkward (Luckily, You're Here)
Written for an anon prompt at sherlockbbc_fic on LiveJournal (http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=3467222#t3467222)
This Could Get Awkward (Luckily, You're Here)
“Quick! Someone! Hand me your belt, he’s bleeding to death!” This time John hadn’t shot to kill. Just making sure the vile creature wouldn’t take a healthy step for the rest of his life, preferably in prison. He’d begun to get a tad fed up with people pointing guns at Sherlock.
Everybody around him stood still like statues, helplessly watching as the doctor pressed on the wound, crimson red gushing out, painting John’s hands with endless blood.
“No one!?”
He swore under his breath, frantically ripping off his jumper and wrapping it above the gaping hole in the victims (fucking bastard!) thigh, twisting and knotting the shirt into a makeshift tourniquet.
Wiping his hands to his trousers, John got up from the ground, glaring at the useless crowd with obvious distaste, the sound of the ambulance arriving allowing John to switch his attention from the dying man.
A rivulet of cold flush ran through John’s spine as he acknowledged, with a knee-weakening bang, that everyone was staring at him.
No one paid heed to the rapidly weakening man on the ground, there was none of the awkward feet-shuffling that usually followed emergencies, nothing, except for the four pairs of eyes observing John keenly; Sgt. Donovan, her eyes crinkled knowingly to go with her smirk, elbowing Lestrade with a nod towards John. Lestrade, making what seemed to be a bad imitation of a fish out of water, slowly inclining to address Anderson, who in his part crossed his arms to his chest with unbidden glee.
John swallowed hard, bracing himself to meet the fourth eyes he could so vividly feel caressing him from the distance, an echo of the low voice resounding in his mind as he grew more and more aware of the marks and bruises on his chest.
‘More’, John remembered demanding. ‘Harder. Bleed me,’ as Sherlock had bit and nipped his skin, the tender, soft, paramour’s lingering touch sharply contradicting the welcomed pain of the tight knots around John’s wrists, Sherlock’s long, pale fingers testing them, securing John, before slowly, teasingly sliding the digits under John’s collar, adding to John’s pleasure by asphyxiation as he gradually impaled himself on John‘s cock.
Under the scrutiny of the eyes, John could all but recollect the sighs and whispers, begs and pleads murmured into his pricked skin, muscles rippling, tensing and clenching, nipples hard, raw and aching as Sherlock played and plucked him like a viola.
With a deep breath to calm himself, in vain, John turned his gaze to where everyone else were now focusing, all those eyes flicking back and forth from John to Sherlock, Sherlock to John…
‘Sherlock,’ John’s mind gasped involuntarily as he met his lover’s eyes, all of it happening in what couldn’t be more than seconds, and yet, John could read in Sherlock’s gaze that they had re-lived those blissful moments together.
What he found did not shock John. Nothing shocked John. Not even the blatant lust, the pride upon Sherlock’s face as he removed his coat and stepped over to John, tossing the cloth around John’s shoulders and wrapping his arm to John's waist.
“Let’s go home,” Sherlock muttered quietly, yet the undertone speaking volumes to John, swiftly surpassing all sensations of embarrassment that he might’ve felt there, half-naked, ogled at. “We’re no longer needed here,” Sherlock raised his voice into a statement which was not to be argued with, letting Lestrade know he was dismissing them from the scene right this moment.
Nonchalantly, Sherlock nudged John into movement, John wrapping Sherlock’s coat tighter around himself, unexpectedly pacified by the scent of Sherlock wafting off of the cloth as he did so.
Stunned, because nothing shocked John, he watched as Sherlock turned enough to face their ‘colleagues’ once more, lowering his hand to John’s arse for a breath, equipping Lestrade with the information where he could mostly likely find the last body.
And then, he winked.
--------------------------
This Could Get Awkward (Luckily, You're Here)
“Quick! Someone! Hand me your belt, he’s bleeding to death!” This time John hadn’t shot to kill. Just making sure the vile creature wouldn’t take a healthy step for the rest of his life, preferably in prison. He’d begun to get a tad fed up with people pointing guns at Sherlock.
Everybody around him stood still like statues, helplessly watching as the doctor pressed on the wound, crimson red gushing out, painting John’s hands with endless blood.
“No one!?”
He swore under his breath, frantically ripping off his jumper and wrapping it above the gaping hole in the victims (fucking bastard!) thigh, twisting and knotting the shirt into a makeshift tourniquet.
Wiping his hands to his trousers, John got up from the ground, glaring at the useless crowd with obvious distaste, the sound of the ambulance arriving allowing John to switch his attention from the dying man.
A rivulet of cold flush ran through John’s spine as he acknowledged, with a knee-weakening bang, that everyone was staring at him.
No one paid heed to the rapidly weakening man on the ground, there was none of the awkward feet-shuffling that usually followed emergencies, nothing, except for the four pairs of eyes observing John keenly; Sgt. Donovan, her eyes crinkled knowingly to go with her smirk, elbowing Lestrade with a nod towards John. Lestrade, making what seemed to be a bad imitation of a fish out of water, slowly inclining to address Anderson, who in his part crossed his arms to his chest with unbidden glee.
John swallowed hard, bracing himself to meet the fourth eyes he could so vividly feel caressing him from the distance, an echo of the low voice resounding in his mind as he grew more and more aware of the marks and bruises on his chest.
‘More’, John remembered demanding. ‘Harder. Bleed me,’ as Sherlock had bit and nipped his skin, the tender, soft, paramour’s lingering touch sharply contradicting the welcomed pain of the tight knots around John’s wrists, Sherlock’s long, pale fingers testing them, securing John, before slowly, teasingly sliding the digits under John’s collar, adding to John’s pleasure by asphyxiation as he gradually impaled himself on John‘s cock.
Under the scrutiny of the eyes, John could all but recollect the sighs and whispers, begs and pleads murmured into his pricked skin, muscles rippling, tensing and clenching, nipples hard, raw and aching as Sherlock played and plucked him like a viola.
With a deep breath to calm himself, in vain, John turned his gaze to where everyone else were now focusing, all those eyes flicking back and forth from John to Sherlock, Sherlock to John…
‘Sherlock,’ John’s mind gasped involuntarily as he met his lover’s eyes, all of it happening in what couldn’t be more than seconds, and yet, John could read in Sherlock’s gaze that they had re-lived those blissful moments together.
What he found did not shock John. Nothing shocked John. Not even the blatant lust, the pride upon Sherlock’s face as he removed his coat and stepped over to John, tossing the cloth around John’s shoulders and wrapping his arm to John's waist.
“Let’s go home,” Sherlock muttered quietly, yet the undertone speaking volumes to John, swiftly surpassing all sensations of embarrassment that he might’ve felt there, half-naked, ogled at. “We’re no longer needed here,” Sherlock raised his voice into a statement which was not to be argued with, letting Lestrade know he was dismissing them from the scene right this moment.
Nonchalantly, Sherlock nudged John into movement, John wrapping Sherlock’s coat tighter around himself, unexpectedly pacified by the scent of Sherlock wafting off of the cloth as he did so.
Stunned, because nothing shocked John, he watched as Sherlock turned enough to face their ‘colleagues’ once more, lowering his hand to John’s arse for a breath, equipping Lestrade with the information where he could mostly likely find the last body.
And then, he winked.
--------------------------