Shocking, Chapter 3: Show and Tell

Sherlock swallowed audibly, no longer in control of a single atom in his body. By the time John had leaned over him, his face mere inches from Sherlock's, there was no hope of a simple reboot; the entire infrastructure was about to be reconstructed.

John's smile was full of promises. "Put on a show for me."

John had made his demand without any idea what might happen next. Sherlock could very well laugh at him, or sulk that John wasn't willing to give him another hand job, or even decide he'd grown tired of the game and walk away.

"I'm hardly likely to walk off in this state," Sherlock murmured, casting his glance upward from his erection to John's questioning face.

"How do you manage to answer questions I was only thinking - oh, never mind." Sighing, John lay down again, leaning on one arm and using his other hand to stroke Sherlock's thigh. "So, what about this show?"

"You were remarkably unspecific about what constitutes 'a show.' I need data, not vague innuendo."

John was unable to control the urge to burst out laughing. Sherlock, for his part, looked hurt and puzzled for a few seconds before schooling his features back into a haughty mask of indifference. "You are hardly going to get what you want by mocking me, John."

Still snickering, John moved his hand upward from thigh to groin. "I'd be more concerned for what you want, if I were you."

Electricity crackled across the brief silence that ensued until Sherlock broke it with a whisper. "I'm not particularly adept at taking care of my own wants."

"Bit of an understatement, there. You'd be dead of malnutrition without Mrs. Hudson or me looking after you. How the hell did you manage before we came along?"

"Drugs," Sherlock snapped.

John's chest tightened at the thought of what Sherlock must have been like: a strung-out wreck alternating between catatonia and mania, wasting his life, wasting his incredible mind...

His expression must have mirrored his thoughts, because Sherlock cupped John's face in one palm and gave him a brief smile. "I got better," he stated.

"But not at articulating your wants."

"No." Sherlock's face flushed and he dropped his gaze.

"So this business of being the smartest guy in the world isn't too helpful at a moment like this?" John watched, his heart pounding, as Sherlock sadly shook his head. "See, I may not be your intellectual equal-" Sherlock snorted but kept his head lowered as John continued. "Fine, then. I'm definitely not your intellectual equal, but if I were...if I were you, if I were an amazing, incomparably brilliant man, I'd find a way to show what I want."

Sherlock's quick intake of breath was possibly the most erotic sound John had ever heard. "I don't have the words," Sherlock murmured. "I don't know them."

"You? You and your vast vocabulary?" It came out sharper than John had intended, more cynical and less cajoling. He winced as Sherlock looked up at him with eyes full of wounded pride.

Fix it, John, he told himself. He took Sherlock's hand in his, stroking the chill-roughened knuckles with his own callused thumb.

"Sometimes when you talk to me, Sherlock, I feel as if someone were pounding me over the head with a bloody enormous dictionary."

At last, a brief, huffed chuckle. "There are occasions when I wish I could do just that."

Apology accepted, then.

Sherlock smiled at last, just a flicker of humour. across his pale, tired face. "I do know the words. I just don't put them into the proper order. Not in these sorts of situations."

"What kind of 'situations?' When there are emotions involved? Those petty little things that distract you from your work?"

"Not all emotions are petty, John."

John swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. For Sherlock Holmes to make that statement was tantamount to an admission of affection. He swallowed a second time, just to ensure that he could speak without his voice cracking. "Neither are desires. You can tell me what you want, what you need."

"I can't, I can't, John, don't you see?" Sherlock's voice rose and it took several painful moments before John could identify the tone.

Helpless. Sherlock Holmes felt helpless, and John was surprised at how much that did not make him feel superior, or even mildly happy. He just wanted to ease Sherlock's torment.

"It doesn't have to be in words." He tried to keep his voice soft. Gentle. Soothing. "Just tell me, however you can manage it."

Their gazes met and locked, blue on blue, needful.

"I want...I want ..." Sherlock grasped John's head with both hands and pulled him close-not for a kiss, but to wrap him up in long arms and long legs, holding so tightly that John almost couldn't breathe. After a few moments, Sherlock released his willing captive and used one finger to trace a tiny scar at John's left temple, the remnant of a blow from the butt of a Black Tong gun. Sherlock pressed his lips to the spot and John's body flooded with warmth. When Sherlock used both hands to imitate the movement of taking off the Semtex-laden vest, John couldn't help a whisper of his name.

"Sherlock."

Those restless hands continued their exploration, long fingers whisking away any lingering feeling of tightness where the explosives had pressed, uncomfortable and unwanted, against tender flesh. John exhaled loudly and wrapped strangely shaky arms around his companion.

Sherlock rested his chin on John's sternum. The stubble from their long, long day prickled John's skin, but he would not have moved Sherlock away for all the world. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was dark and thick with a degree of sentiment few had ever heard. "So. Now you know."

Powerless to speak, John simply nodded and brought one hand to tangle in Sherlock's hopelessly disheveled curls. To keep John safe, that was what Sherlock longed for most. To protect him, and when that failed, to help heal the wounds that followed.

Oh, Sherlock.

Just as suddenly as the wordless confession had begun, it ended, and Sherlock pulled away to kneel at the end of the bed. He was still wonderfully erect, almost as hard as he had been when the whirlwind had started, and to John's surprise he began to stroke himself in a slow, steady rhythm. "I did promise you a show, after all."

Despite years of medical training and practice, John wondered if there could be something to the legend of spontaneous human combustion.

He watched, mesmerized and open-mouthed, as Sherlock continued to pleasure himself. Everything was elongated: fingers, arm, wrist, cock, legs. Long and straining and impossibly erotic.

He became aware that Sherlock was watching him, a quizzical look on his flushed face. "You're enjoying this," he said in a surprisingly emotionless voice.

"Rather a lot, yes," John replied. "Does that surprise you?"

Sherlock nodded and took in a deep breath. "I don't understand why."

Was the man blind, or daft, or both?

"Are you blind, or daft, or both?" John leaned forward and touched Sherlock's thigh. The flesh was superheated; the muscle beneath was tense. "Turn around. Face the other way."

He clambered out of bed-his knees were still shaky from his orgasm, not to mention what he was witnessing-and opened the door to his wardrobe. "There. Can you see yourself?" Sherlock nodded again, silently. "Keep watching." John returned to the bed, knelt behind Sherlock, and wrapped one arm around him. Their gazes met and held in the mirror. Sherlock nodded. John smiled. "Now, start again. I'll tell you why, and this time you'll see yourself through my eyes."

Surprisingly, Sherlock did exactly as he was told, and without comment. He stroked himself again and John nodded his approval until Sherlock looked down and away from the mirror. "No, no, keep watching."

"This is ridiculous, this is-"

"Hot. So shut up and keep wanking."

Obedient Sherlock was a carnal delight. He copied some of the movements John had used earlier, flicks of the wrist, a thumb over the head of his erection, thrusts up into his hand. His face and chest began to flush, and his eyes, while still meeting John's reflection, were not quite focused.

"Now do you know why I want to watch?" John breathed into the nape of Sherlock's neck. "Christ, you're so lush, you're so fucking stunning."

"If you...say so..." Sherlock panted.

Chuckling, John pushed his own hips forward until his new erection was snug against Sherlock's lower back. In the mirror he could see the surprise on Sherlock's expression. "I say so. I'm saying it with my whole fucking body, Sherlock: I want to see you come."

"It probably won't work," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. "Not even after...what you showed me..." He began to move his hand faster, his back arching ever upwards in search of release. "But I'll try...for you..."

John's mouth went utterly dry.

His eyes, however, were moist. Even with his dimmed vision, John could plainly see Sherlock's desperation. John moved even closer, his chest so tight against Sherlock's back that he could feel his flatmate's shallow breaths. Sherlock gasped as John's hand wrapped around Sherlock's and they both worked his length. "I won't let you suffer," he whispered. "I've got you."

Sherlock thrust into their joined hands and shuddered. "Yes. Yes, you do."

If John had thought Sherlock was exquisite before, he had no words for what he-they-looked like together. John teased Sherlock's nipples with his free hand, making Sherlock tremble and lean backwards until his head rested against John's. Sherlock's mouth was open and in between gasps for air he moaned words like "please" and "more" and "harder."

And "John."

It was all John could do to keep from roaring with need. Everything was Sherlock, he was drowning in Sherlock, he was surrounded by flesh and groans and, oh, God, those beautiful eyes were staring straight into his soul.

What the hell was happening to him?

What the hell was happening to them both?

As if in answer, Sherlock's body arched, stiffened, then convulsed wildly. John watched semen spill out over their linked hands while Sherlock keened his pleasure by repeating John's name over and over again.

At about the second moan of "Ohhh, John," John found himself thrusting into the cleft of Sherlock's ass. His own orgasm happened a few moans later, his own cries mingling with Sherlock's until they were both nearly hoarse and completely, utterly, blissfully spent.

They stared at one another in the mirror, panting hard.

"Nope," John rasped, "no reason you'd enjoy seeing that."

Sherlock's face was a kaleidoscope of emotions that John was fairly certain had not surfaced for a long time, if ever. The full lips worked silently for a moment as if forming unfamiliar words.

"It's okay, Sherlock. You don't have to talk." John lifted their entwined fingers to his mouth and kissed them, sticky and sweaty as they were. "I know. You showed me, and now I know."

Sherlock nodded his thanks. He leaned backwards, toppling John, and they ended up lying on the bed, facing one another. As close as they were, John missed the feel of Sherlock's skin against his, so he let out a contented sigh when Sherlock cupped his face in both hands.

"I'm going to kiss you," was the first sentence Sherlock had been able to string together since the spectacular orgasm they'd shared.

And as John met him halfway, he knew better than to be shocked.

End of the "Shocking" trilogy.