Written for the Sherlock_Remix challenge on LJ. This story is a remix of "Through Bright Glass" by carenejeans on AO3, I highly recommend you search for it and check it out. Beta'ed by the lovely gruengrau, britpicked by the charming non_canonical.

With a quiet grunt, John lowers himself into his overstuffed armchair. He brings his right hand across to his bad shoulder, and reaches into his shirt to rub his knuckles against the tight knot of scar and muscle. Sherlock's sitting across from him, staring intently while tossing his pocket magnifier in the air, letting it flip a few times before catching it again.

John looks mesmerised, following the path of the magnifier, his breath stopping for a moment every time it reaches the apex of its trajectory. Sherlock notices him staring. Of course he does. With a snap, he closes his fingers around the tool when it lands in his palm.

"Shoulder bothering you?"

"Hm? Oh... it's just tight. The scar tissue's acting up today. Must be the weather."

Sherlock studies John's face, seeing a mixture of irritation and embarrassment. He glances down at the magnifier in his hand before holding it up for John to see.

"May I?"

"What... look at my scar?" John's tongue runs slowly along his lower lip, as if it will somehow help him think.

"It's not often that I get such a spectacular example of healed wounds and scar tissue, especially not on a living, moving subject. I've been debating broaching the subject for a while now," he looks away and stares out the window, evading eye contact. "I was just waiting for the right opportunity."

Oddly moved by the idea of Sherlock actually respecting his privacy and being nearly bashful about asking, rather than just demanding to see it the first time the idea had crossed his head, John nods slowly. "I think I'd be okay with that. It's not pretty though."

Sherlock smirks. "John, when have I ever been interested in anything that was simply ipretty/i?" John huffs out a quiet laugh and starts undoing the buttons of his shirt. He shrugs out of it, letting it fall behind him on the chair, and grips the hem of his vest but pauses before pulling it up over his head. Sherlock's gaze on him is intense, almost hungry, and it's causing a strange visceral reaction in John. They lock eyes for a moment and Sherlock nods, a quick thrust of his chin. iGo on/i, he seems to be saying. The doctor takes a deep breath and hoists his vest up over his head.

They've seen each other topless before - of course they have. They share a bathroom, and Sherlock's got an odd propensity to forgo clothing when he's sulking, preferring to flounce around in a dressing gown or, on a few memorable occasions, nothing more than a bedsheet. John's walked down the hall wearing nothing but a towel more than once, and a couple of times while out on cases they'd got so filthy they both stripped down to their pants immediately upon entering the flat.

But this? There's something very different about this. Sherlock's never looked so keen, so intent, and John finds himself feeling sympathy for all the miscellaneous body parts and experiments that have ended up under the consulting detective's microscope. He can't remember ever feeling so exposed, physically or mentally. He drops the white cotton vest to the floor, raising his chin resolutely and bracing himself, naked from the waist up. For a moment, neither of them move, the space between the two armchairs nearly electric with tension and hesitation.

Suddenly, Sherlock is perching on the arm of the chair, one slender finger tracing the air above the scar on John's front, his face alert and questioning.

"Go on, then. Look at it. You can touch it, it's not going to bite you."

"iYou/i might, though."

At this, John can't help but chuckle. "I won't bite you, Sherlock. I've given you permission to do this, after all."

Before he has time to regret his decision, John finds himself trapped as Sherlock straddles his lap, long legs bent and tucked in on either side of John's hips, effectively wedging them together in the armchair. He can feel the heat, the blood in Sherlock's groin and thighs, even through the fabric of his jeans and Sherlock's trousers. John swallows, his adam's apple bobbing, and shifts his weight slightly in an attempt to create more space between them. If Sherlock notices John's body language - and of course he does, it is Sherlock after all - he has the unexpected decency to ignore it.

Sherlock shifts his weight back, distributing it evenly between his own heels and John's knees, and draws his hands up to the starburst of disfigured skin on John's left collarbone. First, he very intently brings up the magnifying glass and follows every furrow, every meandering thread of the scar without laying a finger on John. Even so, there's something profoundly intimate about the process. He's not saying a word, not writing anything down, but John is sure Sherlock is committing every minute detail to memory, to be available to him later, thanks to his perfect recall. After studying John for what seems like hours but is closer to only a few minutes, Sherlock slides one surprisingly soft fingertip under the loupe, stroking lightly. He touches with such delicacy, such familiarity, that John finds himself moaning quietly at the first touch. His cheeks flush and he bites down on his lip. Sherlock, surprisingly, says nothing.

He presses harder on the puckered skin, noting the way the flesh first whitens and then floods a deep, angry red as he releases the pressure.

"Does that... hurt?"

John exhales slowly, through his nose, as if to calm himself. "Not exactly, no."

"Your pulse is elevated, your brow's slightly damp. Are you sure you're not uncomfortable?"

"Sherlock, don't make me say it." John sounds pained, despite his claims.

Suddenly, it all clicks into place. Sherlock raises the magnifier, grazing quickly over John's carotid, his pulse fluttering strongly and rapidly enough so as to be visible. He passes over John's lips, wide and soft, and slightly moist, as if he's been licking them more than usual. He studies John's cheeks, deeply flushed, capillaries heavy with blood. He brings the glass up to John's eyes, deep and blue. Shielded by soft, golden lashes, his pupils are already wide despite the bright mid-morning light flooding into the sitting room.

"Oh... Oh! John!"

The flush across the poor doctor's cheeks deepens.

"Go on, then. Laugh." He sounds defensive, scared.

Sherlock's voice is full of undisguised wonder. "Why on earth would I do that, John?" He brings his other hand up to stroke John's jaw, warm and roughened with stubble. Despite his better judgment, John finds himself leaning into the touch, sighing softly. He looks up at Sherlock, and it doesn't take a consulting detective to notice the mirrored signs. Sherlock's cheeks are flushed, his eyes - usually so pale - nearly entirely consumed by deep pupil. John's not alone in this, not at all.

"I'd like to continue my... examination, if that's acceptable."

John swallows heavily and nods. He can feel the warmth of Sherlock's breath ghosting over his skin as he brings the loupe back down along his jaw, probably analysing the growth pattern of his stubble, down his throat, back to his collarbone, then following the veins of scar tissue and working his way down John's torso. He pauses, shifting his weight, glass hovering mere inches above John's nipple. John looks down to see Sherlock sucking pensively on one finger, and his breath catches in his throat.

Sherlock brings the warm, damp finger up to John's pectoral and starts tracing small concentric circles around the edge of his left nipple. He stares intently through the lens, biting his plush lower lip as he studies the pebbling flesh, the hardening nub. Magnified by the glass, Sherlock can see every bump on John's skin, every tiny blond hair moving gently as the follicle puckers. He can see the flush of arousal spreading across John's torso, the uneven hitching of his chest as his breath gets increasingly ragged.

There is something inexplicably provocative, being laid out and so intently studied like this, like one of Sherlock's most cherished experiments. John wants to tell Sherlock to keep going, persuade him to continue exploring, but he feels as if saying anything will ruin the moment. They've said all they needed to say on the subject, now he has to trust his instinct, and Sherlock's judgement.

John lets his head fall to the back of the chair as Sherlock abruptly takes his right nipple into the wet heat of his mouth, rolling the tip of his tongue around it twice before pulling back and studying the reaction with the magnifier. The dark-haired man makes a pleased noise of acknowledgement in the back of his throat, nearly a purr. It's too much for John, he relents and stops trying to keep calm. He can feel the rush of blood to his groin, the slow, steady thickening of his cock, currently trapped beneath his flatmate. He's sure Sherlock can feel it too.

As if he's reading John's thoughts, Sherlock shifts forward to bring their bodies closer together and starts unhurriedly rocking his hips back and forth, the motion so subtle one could argue it was involuntary. John knows Sherlock's being deliberate though, and with a groan he thrusts his own hips upwards. Encouraged, Sherlock continues his examination. He flicks one finger over John's raised nipple and then drags his nails across the doctor's sternum, the little glass lens enlarging the tiny red petechiae he leaves in his wake. He strokes the incredibly fine, pale dusting of hair at the centre of John's chest. Increasingly aroused and impatient, John thrusts his hips upwards against Sherlock again, earning a startled gasp from the detective.

Never one to miss a hint, Sherlock drags his fingers down the length of John's torso, insinuating two under the waistband of his jeans. Smirking, he makes a bit of a show of studying the button and zipper mechanism of the fly, causing John to squirm beneath him and whine impatiently.

Reading the desperate urgency in John's body language, Sherlock rests the lens on the arm of the chair and painstakingly unfolds himself from John's lap, adjusting himself in his trousers as he goes. He sinks down until he's kneeling on the floor, his face level with John's aching prick. Sherlock folds the magnifier into his palm and makes quick work of divesting John of his jeans. John raises his hips to help, and Sherlock leans back and works them down to John's knees. Despite his eagerness, Sherlock takes a moment to stop and appreciate the sight of John's erection, full and hot, straining against the thin cotton of his pants. There's already a damp spot at the head. Unable to resist, he brings the lens up and studies it closely, the fabric wet and stretched just enough to give a tantalising hint of the engorged pink flesh beneath. Both men let out low, ragged breaths as Sherlock hooks the elastic of John's pants in his fingers and pulls them down. John moans quietly as his engorged shaft springs free.

Sherlock spends an interminable length of time simply studying John's swollen cock. The magnifier enlarges each protuberant vein as Sherlock follows with his finger, as though mapping out the geography of John's body, storing it all in his mental catalogue. Through heavily lidded eyes, John stares at him, watching as his... friend? partner? lover? fixates on the most intimate part of him. He can feel the soft shift of air as Sherlock brings the magnifier up to the deep red head of his cock, studying the glistening pearl of pre-come collecting there. Sherlock's sucking on his lower lip, and when he finally releases it it's even more rosy and full than usual. John breathes deeply and closes his eyes, letting his head fall back onto the chair again. He knows if he watches Sherlock do this for much longer, this is going to be over all too soon, before the younger man has even had a chance to touch him in earnest.

He gently cups and then releases John's warm, heavy testicles, watching intently as they draw up even closer to his body, studying the way the skin puckers and shifts under his fingertip. Impatiently, John thrusts his hips upwards, desperately seeking some sort of friction or contact. Sherlock opens his hand and flattens it against the soft warm shaft of John's prick, pressing down lightly but holding perfectly still. With a whimper, John grips the arms of his chair and bucks up into the contact, rutting against Sherlock's palm. His breath is dry and ragged, and when he finally gasps out a supplication, it's rough and quiet.

"Fuck, Sherlock, please. Please touch me..."

With that, the spell is broken, and whatever pretence this held of being a study, an experiment, is all gone. Sherlock releases his contact with John briefly, licking an obscenely wet stripe across his palm. John looks down at the momentary loss of sensation just in time to see Sherlock's tongue coating his fingers, and his cock twitches urgently.

Finally, finally, Sherlock wraps his slick hand tightly around John's engorged shaft. The tentative caution he was working under before is gone, replaced with unerring skill and confidence. He strokes John several times, squeezing firmly at the base and loosening towards the head, twisting slightly and tugging up his foreskin every time he reaches the head. John digs his nails into the arm of the chair and starts fucking Sherlock's hand eagerly, way beyond any attempts at making things last.

With all the anticipation, all the build-up, it's not long before John's moaning with every stroke, the muscles in his stomach clenching and releasing rapidly. All it takes is Sherlock adding a swirl of his thumb around the slick head of John's prick on each upstroke and he's shaking, groaning, as he's hit with the full force of a well-needed orgasm. His entire body goes tense, arching nearly out of the chair while he thrusts himself against Sherlock's hand, cock pulsing as he spills all over his abdomen. Gradually, his muscles relax and he sinks back into the chair, and both men are still for a moment.

As soon as John's breathing slows and steadies, Sherlock pulls the magnifying glass out again, studying John's softening cock with apparent interest. He lifts John's prick gently, as if to look closer, but John whimpers and flaps his hands dismissively in Sherlock's direction.

"Nnhgh, Sherlock. Too much. Not yet."

Sherlock releases him carefully and moves the lens up his torso. John's not sure how he feels about Sherlock studying the ejaculate currently cooling into a sticky mass on his stomach, but it's not uncomfortable, and he can't seem to muster the energy to ask him to stop. He looks down to see Sherlock staring intently before running his finger through the come pooled in John's belly button. He brings his fingers up to the loupe and rubs them together before darting his tongue out to taste it. John knows it's probably simply to qualify taste and texture, but the sight drives him crazy. If he hadn't just had a mind-blowing orgasm, he'd be getting hard all over again.

He pulls Sherlock back up towards him, so the two men are tangled together on the chair, John's spent, sticky cock trapped between them. He can feel Sherlock, still rock-hard and trapped within the confines of his elegant trousers, rubbing against his stomach. The magnifying glass tumbles from Sherlock's hand, forgotten. He reaches up and tentatively strokes John's cheek. John pulls Sherlock closer, pressing his lips against the taller man's swollen, flushed ones. Feeling Sherlock's lips part, John slips his ever-inquisitive tongue in, encountering no opposition. He slips one hand between their bodies and clumsily works the hem of Sherlock's shirt out of his trousers. John gets the fly undone and slides his hand over the front of Sherlock's silk pants, palm flat against his swollen erection. Sherlock keens softly into the kiss, rutting against the thin layer of silk trapped between them.

"Alright?" John murmurs against Sherlock's lips before breaking the kiss and dragging the flat of his tongue down the man's long, pale throat. Sherlock groans and grinds himself against John's palm again, which the fair-haired man takes as assent. He slips his hand gently into Sherlock's pants, finding the head of his cock already wet and slippery with pre-come. With a long, shuddering breath Sherlock just nods and lets his head fall back, revelling in the sensations.

John smirks, whispering breathlessly into the pale expanse of Sherlock's throat. "Let's get you taken care of, shall we?"