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Skullduggery (Chapter 5)
atlinmerrick
Chapter 4


For two people swimming with emotional sharks, John and Sherlock were sure doing a lot of devil-may-care fucking.

It was barely fourteen hours since my little soldier had asked problem child to marry him, and they'd already done it three times. They were right in the middle of number four and I'll confess the particulars were a touch new.

You've seen Sherlock. He's all elegance and grace, right? Except right now he was slumped boneless and low on the couch like a naked, ragged drunk, hips hanging off the edge with legs sprawled wide, John kneeling between those thighs, pounding away and just about growling.

They'd been pretty much going at it just like this for the last one hundred years—okay, maybe ten minutes—and frankly I was (hugely turned on) confused. Was this make-up sex? Relief-they-were-still-together sex? Was it—

"John!" Sherlock threw both arms over his head, dug his fingers into the couch cushions and arched his back like a bow.

The man in question didn't reply, just tucked chin to chest and pounded a little harder, while Sherlock thrashed—"J-J-J,"— arms and legs shaking—"oooooo"—the word a smear of garbled sound—"hhhhhnnnnnnn."

With mutual growls of need and frustration both reached for Sherlock's cock at the same time, one man's hand fisting around the others, and it took just three sloppy, rough yanks in unison before Sherlock was coming with a guttural moan.

John slowed his pace but didn't stop moving until Sherlock's body started to relax. Once boy genius' breathing evened, the good doctor pulled out, sat on his heels and…so help me, just shut down, an automaton without power.

It was quiet like that for forever. I couldn't even hear them breathing, which freaked me out because breathing—breathing is only boring if you can breathe. For someone like me breathing is…it's the sweetest music there is.

Finally Sherlock sat up, and I thought he'd say something, I thought…in hindsight I don't know what I thought. What happened was that Sherlock looked John in the face, looked at the erection between his legs, back to his face and so help me he said nothing and he did nothing. Then after entirely too long he slowly, gently ran the fingertips of one hand down John's cheek, got up, and walked away.

Okay. I…I can't even. I don't—no, seriously. What was that? What was that? Can you explain it to me? Using small words? I was a therapist for nearly twenty years, I should know what a box of crazy looks like but this I don't get. What are they doing? Because it's definitely both of them doing it.

But what is it? Mutual flagellation? I would expect that of Sherlock, but of my little BAMF soldier? Never. What I really need is to, well damn it—

John.

He was still on his knees, back to me, chin to chest and staring at nothing.

JOHN.

The room wasn't cold, as a matter of fact the heat was working a treat for once but I could see my little soldier shaking.

John. John. John.

I wanted to shout. I wanted to run around the place and bite some ankles. I wanted to holler at everyone in plain English, What the fuck, guys?

Joh—

Finally my BAMF boy moved. He lifted his head and turned, looking in the direction Sherlock had gone. And for awhile that's all he did. Then in slow and almost painful degrees he dragged himself up on the couch, slouched in a position much like Sherlock's, and stared at me.

I stared back at him so hard his nipples should have been smoking, but he didn't see me.

I saw him. Every inch.

Look, I don't get off on any of this second-hand mind you (liar liar liar), but I really do love looking at my boys and even now, under these circumstances, how could I not?

Despite what he'll insist John is small. Five foot seven (I still have to think about the conversion…um, one hundred sixty seven centimeters and some change) isn't pint-sized but it is diminutive, and if you don't think that makes a man sexy you are so clearly not a straight woman. Um, well a dead straight woman. A dead straight woman's, um, skull.

Anyway. Moving on.

Slouched there, body blushed and sweaty, muscles swollen from the exertion, sandy hair tousled as if he'd just crawled from bed…look, there's not much to do around here and I get my distractions where I can and right now I was staring hard and I was getting an eyeful of seeing and then I was finally seeing what I was seeing.

That raging hard-on that was going nowhere? That absolutely fine erection that could have won awards if they were, you know, giving out awards for boners? That bit of proud and lonely flesh answered at least one of my questions and that was this:

Why did Sherlock leave before you got off, John? He's a selfish git in lots of ways but he's never done that before.

And the answer was? Sherlock had nothing to do with it, this was John's doing. This was all on John.

Look, John and Sherlock? They're both damaged goods and don't think they aren't, but I used to believe they were screwy in completely different ways. Now the tardy realization had hit—they're messed up the same way, veer in exactly the same direction. And that direction my friend, is martyr.

Sherlock's not good enough for John, he says, blah blah blah. John's so golden he'll sacrifice himself for Sherlock et cetera et cetera. Old old old old old oooold.

Senseless self-sacrifice so you can say 'I tried?' Lazy git. God damn you.

Oh crap. Did I just say that out loud?

John's distant gaze focused fast and those deep blues eyes blazed up at me.

"Excuse me?"

I huffed. Huffed. Now that I'd started I was actually mad. Mad at my little brave soldier. A total first.

You heard me.

John's brow furrowed and despite himself he stood, unconsciously reaching for the jumper I love the most, the long brown one that makes him look even smaller than he is. Does he know what those jumpers say about him? Does he even realize that—

No, stop it Rory. Stop. Okay. Stopping. Stopped.

He slipped the floppy thing on, but not before I noticed he'd finally gone soft. Thank god. I did not need him whispering right at my ear, knowing that that was down there.

Anyway, I was about to give him a piece of my mind, don't you think I—

"What the fuck is it to you?"

Oh. Well. Hello cranky.

"I don't recall asking your opinion on this."

My goodness, someone was very—

"I know what I'm doing."

Ah, so here we go.

"I know exactly what I'm doing."

Fine. I'll play along.

And what is that?

John's brow furrowed. John's eyes blazed. Tendons in John's neck stood out like little straight-backed soldiers.

Right. Great plan John.

The good doctor turned his head, looked out the window, his jaw working.

Fucking the situation into submission is a very good idea.

"It's not submission god damn it!"

Sure, okay, now my little lionheart gets BAMF.

What is it then?

Good god I could hear the grinding molars from a foot away.

John. It's not his submission I'm talking about.

The grinding stopped and again that frown and blazing gaze was aimed at me. "What?"

Showing him how much he means to you by becoming less than you are? By giving him what you think he wants? By wearing a very unstylish 'Kick Me' sign? Where'd you get this remarkably bad idea, sweetie?

The iron in John spine turned to rust and he slumped, forehead pressing to the mantle. "Oh god."

Arms. Just…arms. Give me two and I'd jump for joy. Give me even one and I could—

"What am I doing? What have I done?"

You're swimming with sharks little love—pesky emotional sharks—and you panicked.

He said nothing.

It's okay. It's fine. We're not done here. We're not even close.

"I just thought that if I…if I showed him…Jesus, what? Was it physical affection? Not really. That he's irresistible…god that sounds ridiculous the second it comes out of my mouth. I have no idea what I'm doing. None."

You and six billion other people, sweetie.

John stood, his back a little straighter.

"You're right. Yeah."

What is it you're trying to say? Lay it on me in ten words or less, right now. Now, John. What? What?

When I was alive I used that trick in my practice all the time. Don't give them time to think, get them to push it out, hard and fast.

"That I need him. That oh god I'm not perfect. That he's overthinking things. That if getting married is a mistake it's fine. No one dies. It's reversible. That it's silly to not even try."

John got taller. Straight as iron, just as beautiful.

"Right." He glanced at the kitchen clock. "Right," he murmured again. He stroked my head several times, smiled, waited for me to say something.

That's another trick I learned. When they've talked themselves into a good place stop. Just stop.

Still smiling John kissed the top of my head then took off like a shot, not quite late for work.

An hour later the flat was empty, they were both gone. An hour after that Mrs. Hudson came and took me (as I mentioned before; crap crap crap), and now I'm sitting here on her mantle while she goes to answer the knock on the door and so help me if it isn't John or Sherlock or fluffy little unicorns with rainbow manes coming to rescue me I'm going to have a nervous breakdown.

      Chapter 6

 


Damn. I have another question for you: Where the hell does the
angst come from? Because this chapter? It was meant to begin with fluffy sex and strawberry truffle for crying out loud. Well, fine. Moving on. We'll fix this. But speaking of moving, an update may be delayed (or may appear at any time) since I'll be traveling a bit (do the words Frankenstein and National Theatre ring a bell?), but I promise on the skull's extremely odd life that the story will continue.

Oh my Snap! You're going to see that, too?! *pouts in a very Sherlock-y way* I wanna go! But it's too far for me! *pouts a lot more*

Stories run away because they are evil. That is that. It shall fix itself! *nods*

It better fix itself!

*Grumble*

P.S. Thanks for the comment.

*More grumbling*

AAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Gentlemen, knock it the f'k off already. I see what you meant about the angst. They've just got the bit in their teeth and are running, aren't they? Tsk tsk tsk.
*hugs* You're doing great, though, really! It's enjoyable, if a bit of a rough chunk right now.

As to a certain theatre production? so. damned. envious.

Yeah, that icon, right there. *Even more grumbling*

Also, a certain production? Even I envy me. Well the future me. The one that's going to see it. You know, in the future.

I don't see how it could help but be angsty unless you were planning on wrapping this up in some ungodly rush. Thanks for the update!

Good point, very good point about the 'ungodly rush'. But still. I was not in the mood for the angst arrival. Stupid angst.

(Deleted comment)
funny thing, I just looked up the word "angst" because you questioned where it comes from ( I know that's not what you meant but I can be literal)...stick with me here. At the bottom of the Wikipedia page was a reference to "The Mean Reds" From Breakfast at Tiffany's.

"Holly Golightly called her bouts of anxiety "the mean reds." In the film, she described "the mean reds" as a feeling of being afraid, yet not knowing what you are afraid of."

That's what John and Sherlock have going on...The Mean Reds

I suppose they do have the Mean Reds, but do I have to like that they do? Because I don't. Them having the Mean Reds gives me the Mean Reds.

*Grumble*

Thank you for my enlightenment of the day, by the way! :-)

Oh Rory, those boys. You re so patient. John's right - if it doesn't work, no one dies. He's just gotta talk. And Sherlock's gotta listen. I hope those unicorns rescue you damn soon.

And angst is self-generating. I truly believe it is.

(AND OMG, Atlin - ARE YOU ACTUALLY GOING TO LONDON??? I'm only going to the movie theatre a mile from here and I'm a hot fangirly mess).

Angst is self-damn-generating! You are so right!

And yes. Going to London. Actual, you know, London. Seeing actual breathing BC in the knock-me-over-with-a-feather flesh. Yipe.

"Hot fangirly mess" -- that is today's phrase of the day, yes it is.

Damn lucky skull if you ask me.

And I was gonna offer my two cents when you asked what should happen last chapter, but life happened and... yeah. All I can say is I have this image in my head of John making Sherlock stand naked in front of a full length mirror with him, and asking Sherlock what the hell he thinks is so perfect about him (John)? I see them arguing back and forth about the things they love and hate about themselves and each other, constantly surprised that someone could love that about them. If nothing else, it has me seeing them naked together, which again leads back to the lucky damn skull.

And have fun at the theater! I'll be in my seat watching it on the big screen soon enough.

This whole naked in front of the mirror idea of which you speak....I like it. Hmmmm.

Thank you kiharukitty, thank you.

Oh the angst! I do so love it, though. And I hope it is one of the boys there to rescue her. I look forward to finding out!

Ah, I envy your trip to the theater! When my life aligns to where I have time and money then I shall be there in a flash. Have a wonderful time.

Yay, I'll be seeing it in a movie theater pretty soon! Not as good as in person, but better than nothing! XD

I have to say, I like kiharukitty's idea of both of them naked in front of the mirror, talking about what they love and hate about themselves and each other... A lot of the things they don't like about themselves, they other probably finds endearing.

ANGST!! *wibbles* I don't need this after two days of being locked out of LJ by work's stupid online security systems! I've got a ton of catching up to do and don't need angst!

*breathes deeply* OK, calm down, Ari. That's your mother-in-law writing - she'll make it all better soon. At least, she'd bloody well better or there'll be trouble.

And BTW, Mum, I imagine that you're travelling to a cinema to see the live broadcast but OMG if you are coming to London you have SO got to PM me and tell me when so that I can meet you and give you a hug.

Edited at 2011-03-04 11:35 pm (UTC)

A meet up! Must plan that....Will get back to you shortly. Love this idea!

holy hell...just as I wanted to fall into bed and sleeeeeep! damn you! *cough*

well, at least John got to think a bit!

when are you going? I was going to post my report on Frankenstein etc today but time just ran out, so I'll do it tomorrow, but feel free to skip that if you don't want to be spoiled :p


I don't know where you wanted this chapter to go, but it snuck out the house, stole your car, and went to Awesomeville. I think the angst is just right. They're going through a BFD so I think it's completely reasonable to explore the hurt and cause of it a bit more. Really, truly excellent. Funny and painful all at the same time. And I love the way the skull gets aroused by these two. It makes me giggle. :DD

"don't know where you wanted this chapter to go, but it snuck out the house, stole your car, and went to Awesomeville."

I bow down before this comment. I kiss its feet and wash those feet with my hair. I love this comment and feel a devotion to it that rivals, um, many devoted things.

Thank you, you. And also, I debated whether the skull would admit to getting turned on by them but she is our Greek chorus and as such she needs to represent.

Damn and dash, is EVERYONE but me seeing it? Grrr...

Delightfully painful angst, though.

Nope, I'm not going either. Can't take off during the lead-up to the big statewide standardized test. And I love your icon btw.

Oohhh sweet lord, lucky Rory. Angst does seem to have a mind of its own, doesn't it? Ah well, John will make it better soon (: By the way, Frankenstein is TOTALLY a good reason for a hiatus. I can't wait!!

You're going to see it as well? This is amazing. It's like this tide of over-heated humans flooding toward one spot.

Also, yes, Rory is lucky. I would pay to be Rory. Except, you know, without the being dead and totally without arms part.

And also: DAMN THE ANGST (said with John's "Damn my leg!" tone)

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