![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Title: Locked Rooms (Part II)
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~1500 words
Warning: Spoilers for The Hounds of Baskerville.
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a sequel to Locked Rooms (Part I) and part of the Experiments Series.
Earlier parts of the Experiments Series are:
- Part I: Zygomata
- Part II: You Follow Me Down Other Roads
- Part IIIa: Untitled Document
- Part IIIb: C# Minor
- Part IV: Unwritten Notes
- Part V: Chimera
- Part VIa: Locked Rooms
Excerpt: The bedside lamp caught the sheen of perspiration on John’s forehead. There had been less when Moriarty had wrapped him in explosives.
Locked Rooms
Part II
Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave John’s as he reached back to bunch up a pillow with one hand, then left it there, behind his head. The bedside lamp caught the sheen of perspiration on John’s forehead. There had been less when Moriarty had wrapped him in explosives.
“You have questions, blank spaces. Finish your examination,” Sherlock said and pushed his dressing gown away from the left side of his neck. “I know you want to start here.”
John glanced at Sherlock’s throat and back to his face. You don’t always like what you find when you search my eyes, John. Sherlock turned his head on the pillow, stretched his neck.
“You could just tell me,” John said, but he was already sliding closer, his hand raised.
“It’s better if you have your memories, not my words,” Sherlock replied and let his eyes nearly close. He heard John swallow, felt the mattress dip as John moved. His hand settled on the back of Sherlock’s, guided it to push the fabric further off Sherlock’s shoulder. John blocked the light as he leaned across, bringing the scent of shampoo and vaporised deodorant. Sherlock felt John’s breath along his neck, John’s fingers brushing through his hair. The warm breath stopped; John was holding it. John lifted the curls drying along Sherlock’s neck away from the fair, fair skin and stopped, let his breath out in a hot stream. He’d found the next mark, a little higher along the neck, totally hidden by the hair.
Sherlock had checked his neck in the bathroom mirror before he’d showered. After their set-to in Belgravia, Sherlock hadn’t been surprised by the intensity with which John had latched onto his skin. What had surprised him was how it felt.
John was probing the darker bruise gently with the tip of his finger. Sherlock could feel the tremor in John’s hand, his right hand. He could hear the change in tempo of John’s breathing.
Sherlock squeezed his eyelids tighter. He remembered the shimmer of lightning along his nerves, how it had radiated out from the point where John’s mouth had touched his skin.
John’s fingers were exploring again, higher up towards Sherlock’s ear he found the third bruise. John shifted his weight again, leaned even closer and stilled.
Sherlock could feel John’s muscles tensing, knew John was remembering.
John’s grip on Sherlock’s arm had been almost painful, as had the pressure of John’s lips, fierce, as though he had waited too long, might only have one chance. Sherlock took a deep breath as the memories raised the temperature of his blood, bloomed in a flush on his skin.
John sighed. Sherlock heard it, felt it gusting over his shoulder and cheek. The mattress shifted, John was leaning back. Sherlock waited. The next touch was sure. With both hands, John pushed the robe completely open, ran his fingers methodically down from Sherlock’s shoulders to his stomach as if seeking something he couldn’t see. Small flashes flickered behind Sherlock’s eyelids as John’s fingers skimmed downwards. They paused on either side of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock kept his breathing as quiet as he could. He wanted to hear John. The fingers resumed their journey, one hand down either thigh. They paused again at the knees. John took a deep breath, curved his hands beneath Sherlock’s knees and drew the legs up and apart.
There was a murmur without words. The bed swayed as John resituated himself between Sherlock’s legs. The bedsprings quieted and Sherlock heard nothing, felt nothing. The temptation to turn his head to see what John was doing was strong, but Sherlock resisted. For John, he would be patient a little longer.
Sherlock felt John’s cheek against his knee, felt the brush of John’s eyelashes as he blinked. He heard John swallow. “I didn’t realise, Sherlock,” he said softly and was silent again. Two, three, four more times, John’s eyelashes swept down and up along Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock pictured them, blond and thick, lit by the morning sun as John ate his breakfast and seemed to forgive Sherlock for terrifying him. John turned his face slightly. His cheekbone ground against Sherlock’s knee. “I had been hiding,” he said quietly. Sherlock counted the downbeats of John’s lashes. John took a deep breath and lay his hand on Sherlock’s other knee. Sherlock felt John’s eyes close. John pushed Sherlock’s knee away. It fell at an angle against the coverlet. John breathed.
Sherlock listened and waited.
John lifted his head. Sherlock counted the seconds. He had reached twelve before John’s fingers settled on Sherlock’s exposed thigh. Five more passed before the fingers began to move. They stopped above the bruises at the top of the thigh. John pressed lightly on each one.
Sherlock remembered how John had drawn the skin between his teeth and suckled. The lightning running along Sherlock’s nerves brightened.
John nudged Sherlock’s other knee down and stretched out between Sherlock’s legs, his cheek resting high on Sherlock’s thigh.
Sherlock felt the brush of John’s eyelashes against his skin again. He wasn’t sure how much more patience he could offer John with his breath gusting warmly over his groin. And then John began to catalogue the love bites on Sherlock’s other thigh. Sounds were rising in Sherlock’s throat. He pressed his lips together, determined to wait a little longer.
John’s thumb was stroking along the crease of Sherlock’s thigh when John turned his head and placed a gentle kiss on the largest bruise.
Sherlock couldn’t stop the sharp breath he drew in at that.
John touched his lips softly to each bite in turn and then sat up. “My hound didn’t look like yours, Sherlock,” John whispered. “Mine was lean and strong, his coat shiny and black, and his eyes glowed…with the pale light of the moon.”
Sherlock bit down on his tongue.
“And I was terrified of how much I wanted to feel his teeth in my flesh.” John’s hands were flexing just above Sherlock’s knees, gripping the muscular flesh and releasing it.
Sherlock moved his head slightly.
“Don’t look at me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock let his cheek settle back into the pillow, kept his eyes closed.
Sherlock listened to John trying to regulate his breathing. “My fear was different,” he finally said. John’s hands curved behind Sherlock’s thighs and lifted both legs towards Sherlock’s chest. “It wasn’t of you.” John kissed the side of Sherlock’s knee. Seconds passed. “But of what I feel for you.” John rubbed his face against Sherlock’s shin. “It’s fierce…and wild,” John said. “And it terrifies me.” The bed moved as John shifted, one arm pressing Sherlock’s thighs against his stomach.
Sherlock knew his waiting was almost over.
“Sherlock?” There was a quaver in John’s voice.
“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered softly. A cautious finger touched the pale pink orifice between his buttocks. Forks of lightning spread out from that delicate point of contact and Sherlock’s muscles contracted.
“Sherlock, I didn’t…?”
“No, John,” Sherlock replied.
John’s fingertip was stroking lightly back and forth. “What did I…?”
Sherlock was amazed that John still hadn’t remembered more. “You took another course of action,” Sherlock replied. It had not been easy to keep his voice steady.
John’s finger stilled. The mattress dipped and John’s lips pressed where his finger had been stroking.
The lightning sizzled along nerves and bone. Sherlock wondered if it were possible to die from such gentle ministrations.
John sat up, pulling his arm away from Sherlock’s thighs, pushed them apart and crawled up Sherlock. “I, ah, something like this…” John said.
“Can I open my eyes yet?” Sherlock asked.
“Give me a moment more,” John said. He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s collar bone. “You have no idea what your eyes do to me. Or perhaps you do.”
Sherlock heard the undercurrent of humour and decided the chemical must finally be fading from John’s system.
“Something more than what you’re doing to me?” Sherlock asked as he lifted his hips slightly against the full weight of John Watson draped over him. “Does that explain why you haven’t been able to analyse your own symptoms, Doctor?” Sherlock asked and opened his eyes.
John looked up and froze. The memory of sinking down on Sherlock ripped through him. The wild need to have Sherlock deeper, closer, took his breath away. He remembered Sherlock’s hands on his hips, fingers digging in to keep him from rearing up and slamming down again and again. Thrashing to free himself, he remembered his face hitting the back of the sofa. John pulled in his swollen lower lip.
Finally. “You didn’t forget the violence, just where it was directed. Interesting,” Sherlock said, studying John’s face. He found what John was doing with his lower lip intriguing.
John shook his head. “I think that bloody stuff may finally be out of my system.”
The crescent-shaped creases appeared on one side of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock saw John’s gaze flicker to his lips and back to his eyes. John moved his hips against Sherlock and watched the eyes get wider. “So now I’m going to show you what interesting really is,” John said.
Sherlock shifted his weight and rolled them over, his forearm across John’s wrists. He looked down at John and said, “Oh?”
John looked straight back. "Demon eyes," he murmured and rolled his hips.
Sherlock's eyelids drooped. “Ah,” he said. The streaks of lightning were blinding.
"But definitely a man," John observed. He rolled his hips again and smiled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next story in the series, Silk Road, may be read here.
Author: Saki101
Genre: slash
Rating: NC-17
Length: ~1500 words
Warning: Spoilers for The Hounds of Baskerville.
Disclaimer: I don't own BBC's Sherlock and no money is being made.
Author's notes: This is a sequel to Locked Rooms (Part I) and part of the Experiments Series.
Earlier parts of the Experiments Series are:
- Part I: Zygomata
- Part II: You Follow Me Down Other Roads
- Part IIIa: Untitled Document
- Part IIIb: C# Minor
- Part IV: Unwritten Notes
- Part V: Chimera
- Part VIa: Locked Rooms
Excerpt: The bedside lamp caught the sheen of perspiration on John’s forehead. There had been less when Moriarty had wrapped him in explosives.
Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave John’s as he reached back to bunch up a pillow with one hand, then left it there, behind his head. The bedside lamp caught the sheen of perspiration on John’s forehead. There had been less when Moriarty had wrapped him in explosives.
“You have questions, blank spaces. Finish your examination,” Sherlock said and pushed his dressing gown away from the left side of his neck. “I know you want to start here.”
John glanced at Sherlock’s throat and back to his face. You don’t always like what you find when you search my eyes, John. Sherlock turned his head on the pillow, stretched his neck.
“You could just tell me,” John said, but he was already sliding closer, his hand raised.
“It’s better if you have your memories, not my words,” Sherlock replied and let his eyes nearly close. He heard John swallow, felt the mattress dip as John moved. His hand settled on the back of Sherlock’s, guided it to push the fabric further off Sherlock’s shoulder. John blocked the light as he leaned across, bringing the scent of shampoo and vaporised deodorant. Sherlock felt John’s breath along his neck, John’s fingers brushing through his hair. The warm breath stopped; John was holding it. John lifted the curls drying along Sherlock’s neck away from the fair, fair skin and stopped, let his breath out in a hot stream. He’d found the next mark, a little higher along the neck, totally hidden by the hair.
Sherlock had checked his neck in the bathroom mirror before he’d showered. After their set-to in Belgravia, Sherlock hadn’t been surprised by the intensity with which John had latched onto his skin. What had surprised him was how it felt.
John was probing the darker bruise gently with the tip of his finger. Sherlock could feel the tremor in John’s hand, his right hand. He could hear the change in tempo of John’s breathing.
Sherlock squeezed his eyelids tighter. He remembered the shimmer of lightning along his nerves, how it had radiated out from the point where John’s mouth had touched his skin.
John’s fingers were exploring again, higher up towards Sherlock’s ear he found the third bruise. John shifted his weight again, leaned even closer and stilled.
Sherlock could feel John’s muscles tensing, knew John was remembering.
John’s grip on Sherlock’s arm had been almost painful, as had the pressure of John’s lips, fierce, as though he had waited too long, might only have one chance. Sherlock took a deep breath as the memories raised the temperature of his blood, bloomed in a flush on his skin.
John sighed. Sherlock heard it, felt it gusting over his shoulder and cheek. The mattress shifted, John was leaning back. Sherlock waited. The next touch was sure. With both hands, John pushed the robe completely open, ran his fingers methodically down from Sherlock’s shoulders to his stomach as if seeking something he couldn’t see. Small flashes flickered behind Sherlock’s eyelids as John’s fingers skimmed downwards. They paused on either side of Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock kept his breathing as quiet as he could. He wanted to hear John. The fingers resumed their journey, one hand down either thigh. They paused again at the knees. John took a deep breath, curved his hands beneath Sherlock’s knees and drew the legs up and apart.
There was a murmur without words. The bed swayed as John resituated himself between Sherlock’s legs. The bedsprings quieted and Sherlock heard nothing, felt nothing. The temptation to turn his head to see what John was doing was strong, but Sherlock resisted. For John, he would be patient a little longer.
Sherlock felt John’s cheek against his knee, felt the brush of John’s eyelashes as he blinked. He heard John swallow. “I didn’t realise, Sherlock,” he said softly and was silent again. Two, three, four more times, John’s eyelashes swept down and up along Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock pictured them, blond and thick, lit by the morning sun as John ate his breakfast and seemed to forgive Sherlock for terrifying him. John turned his face slightly. His cheekbone ground against Sherlock’s knee. “I had been hiding,” he said quietly. Sherlock counted the downbeats of John’s lashes. John took a deep breath and lay his hand on Sherlock’s other knee. Sherlock felt John’s eyes close. John pushed Sherlock’s knee away. It fell at an angle against the coverlet. John breathed.
Sherlock listened and waited.
John lifted his head. Sherlock counted the seconds. He had reached twelve before John’s fingers settled on Sherlock’s exposed thigh. Five more passed before the fingers began to move. They stopped above the bruises at the top of the thigh. John pressed lightly on each one.
Sherlock remembered how John had drawn the skin between his teeth and suckled. The lightning running along Sherlock’s nerves brightened.
John nudged Sherlock’s other knee down and stretched out between Sherlock’s legs, his cheek resting high on Sherlock’s thigh.
Sherlock felt the brush of John’s eyelashes against his skin again. He wasn’t sure how much more patience he could offer John with his breath gusting warmly over his groin. And then John began to catalogue the love bites on Sherlock’s other thigh. Sounds were rising in Sherlock’s throat. He pressed his lips together, determined to wait a little longer.
John’s thumb was stroking along the crease of Sherlock’s thigh when John turned his head and placed a gentle kiss on the largest bruise.
Sherlock couldn’t stop the sharp breath he drew in at that.
John touched his lips softly to each bite in turn and then sat up. “My hound didn’t look like yours, Sherlock,” John whispered. “Mine was lean and strong, his coat shiny and black, and his eyes glowed…with the pale light of the moon.”
Sherlock bit down on his tongue.
“And I was terrified of how much I wanted to feel his teeth in my flesh.” John’s hands were flexing just above Sherlock’s knees, gripping the muscular flesh and releasing it.
Sherlock moved his head slightly.
“Don’t look at me, Sherlock.”
Sherlock let his cheek settle back into the pillow, kept his eyes closed.
Sherlock listened to John trying to regulate his breathing. “My fear was different,” he finally said. John’s hands curved behind Sherlock’s thighs and lifted both legs towards Sherlock’s chest. “It wasn’t of you.” John kissed the side of Sherlock’s knee. Seconds passed. “But of what I feel for you.” John rubbed his face against Sherlock’s shin. “It’s fierce…and wild,” John said. “And it terrifies me.” The bed moved as John shifted, one arm pressing Sherlock’s thighs against his stomach.
Sherlock knew his waiting was almost over.
“Sherlock?” There was a quaver in John’s voice.
“Yes, John,” Sherlock answered softly. A cautious finger touched the pale pink orifice between his buttocks. Forks of lightning spread out from that delicate point of contact and Sherlock’s muscles contracted.
“Sherlock, I didn’t…?”
“No, John,” Sherlock replied.
John’s fingertip was stroking lightly back and forth. “What did I…?”
Sherlock was amazed that John still hadn’t remembered more. “You took another course of action,” Sherlock replied. It had not been easy to keep his voice steady.
John’s finger stilled. The mattress dipped and John’s lips pressed where his finger had been stroking.
The lightning sizzled along nerves and bone. Sherlock wondered if it were possible to die from such gentle ministrations.
John sat up, pulling his arm away from Sherlock’s thighs, pushed them apart and crawled up Sherlock. “I, ah, something like this…” John said.
“Can I open my eyes yet?” Sherlock asked.
“Give me a moment more,” John said. He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s collar bone. “You have no idea what your eyes do to me. Or perhaps you do.”
Sherlock heard the undercurrent of humour and decided the chemical must finally be fading from John’s system.
“Something more than what you’re doing to me?” Sherlock asked as he lifted his hips slightly against the full weight of John Watson draped over him. “Does that explain why you haven’t been able to analyse your own symptoms, Doctor?” Sherlock asked and opened his eyes.
John looked up and froze. The memory of sinking down on Sherlock ripped through him. The wild need to have Sherlock deeper, closer, took his breath away. He remembered Sherlock’s hands on his hips, fingers digging in to keep him from rearing up and slamming down again and again. Thrashing to free himself, he remembered his face hitting the back of the sofa. John pulled in his swollen lower lip.
Finally. “You didn’t forget the violence, just where it was directed. Interesting,” Sherlock said, studying John’s face. He found what John was doing with his lower lip intriguing.
John shook his head. “I think that bloody stuff may finally be out of my system.”
The crescent-shaped creases appeared on one side of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock saw John’s gaze flicker to his lips and back to his eyes. John moved his hips against Sherlock and watched the eyes get wider. “So now I’m going to show you what interesting really is,” John said.
Sherlock shifted his weight and rolled them over, his forearm across John’s wrists. He looked down at John and said, “Oh?”
John looked straight back. "Demon eyes," he murmured and rolled his hips.
Sherlock's eyelids drooped. “Ah,” he said. The streaks of lightning were blinding.
"But definitely a man," John observed. He rolled his hips again and smiled.
The next story in the series, Silk Road, may be read here.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-03-18 04:55 pm (UTC)So gorgeously intense! I love your description of the actions and reactions between them, oh, and the crescent-shaped creases on one side of Sherlock’s mouth.
Thank you again - I'm enjoying each and every part.
no subject
Date: 2012-03-18 06:23 pm (UTC)Those crescent-shaped creases are intriguing, a very distinctive feature of the actor's face.
I don't feel a section of the story is truly posted until I read your comments! Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2012-03-19 07:32 pm (UTC)It took me a while to figure out that you had two Experiments Series going (boy was I confused...) and for some reason the Other Experiment Series sadly does not work for me, I don't know why, I can't connect with it. Maybe because I initially thought it was part of this verse and it didn't make sense that way?
But this Experiment Series I do love. :)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-19 09:12 pm (UTC)I am delighted you like Experiments. It took me a long time to get back to Locked Rooms and bring John to the point of remembering everything. I'm glad it still seemed of a piece with the other parts.
Thank you again! :-)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-21 09:09 am (UTC)I will try reading The Other Experiment Series on its own some time and get back to you! :-D
no subject
Date: 2012-04-13 07:34 am (UTC)The air of mystery and desire remains, even if that mystery has been solved. And you show me enough of the past to confirm that the coming together of John and Sherlock must have been beyond overwhelming. I wonder how surprised Sherlock was by that; he seems more nonplussed by John's memories vanishing (which is a seriously worrying development, so I can see why he wanted John to make his way through with little assistance).
John's examination of Sherlock was both tender and sensual; it felt right for these characters. Sherlock would want John to acquire the data and John _needs_ the reassurance that his "fierce, wild" love has not harmed his beloved.
In short, I love both of your series to pieces. I'm sorry to see this end, so if the Muse ever inspires you to take this relationship through TRF, then I would be thrilled. That said, this does seem like an excellent place to stop!
no subject
Date: 2012-04-19 10:01 pm (UTC)John's condition is a puzzle not thoroughly explained in THoB. The chemical wasn't in the sugar Sherlock gave John and it couldn't just be "leaky pipes" in the facility or everyone would be freaking out. If the exposure was in the woods (both times), then it simply lasted longer in John's body than in Sherlock's. Perhaps that's due to Sherlock's drug resistance, but it is something that would niggle at Sherlock's mind until he had a precise explanation, I think.
RL is being rather irksome at the moment, but I am hoping to have at least some more. :-) I have really appreciated your detailed comments on this; feedback, especially thoughtful feedback like yours, helps me with continuing a story. I'm hoping the Muse will revisit!
no subject
Date: 2012-07-04 01:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-07-04 07:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-12 10:46 pm (UTC)Ahh, John remembers now and acknowledges he does! But it seems like Sherlock is still holding something back. He's so focussed on the memory loss, which means something but not everything--do you think he really understands and accepts the full weight of John's emotions? It's a resolution of sorts, but it doesn't read as an ending, there are still so many secrets in the background.
I'm not sure the beginning of the Experiments Series fits completely comfortably into the frame, but the last few sections definitely work as a lead in to an AU. I'm looking forward to sinking my teeth (so to speak) into the plot now :)
no subject
Date: 2012-09-15 02:59 pm (UTC)No. I think Sherlock recognised the attraction and the bond between them more quickly than John did because he had additional information. Still, I think the implications and the complications of what they have embarked upon is not something he fully understands. I considered that part of the explanation for the emotional confusion in Hounds. I think Sherlock is caught offguard by his need for John when the drug starts affecting him, further surprised by John's unavailability and probably surprised by how often he is willing to follow John and apologise to him to get him back where he should be (in Sherlock's view) supporting Sherlock in whatever he needs.
I think there might need for a section or two between Closing the Back Door and Zygomata. Perhaps that would make a better fit. Closing finishes with the end of the TGG, but doesn't touch Scandal. Sherlock thinks about Irene in retrospect later, but I didn't address how the events in Scandal, which covers several important months of their lives together, affected John at all. I got distracted by ideas for Immunologoy, but I think it is an omission I should at least try to remedy, although I might not be able to get the tone correct to fit between the two at this much later date.
I was also thinking that I might do a part or two after Locked Rooms to get more thoroughly from Hounds to Fall. That John is still misunderstaning Sherlock and dashing off, shows that although a lot of harmony had been established, it was far from solid. On the other hand, too much investigation of the spaces between the scenes might bog down the momentum.
Your reading directly through this has gotten me to do the same and do some re-thinking and refining which needed doing. Thank you for re-motivating me to do that!!
no subject
Date: 2012-09-17 01:08 pm (UTC)I'm curious to see how you handle it, if you do add to the already written timeline. I see your view of the characters evolving as you keep writing them, I wonder to what extent that will effect what's already here. In any case, you're obviously still very inspired!
no subject
Date: 2016-02-16 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-02-16 06:06 pm (UTC)I am delighted that you felt the emotion and passion of their encounter was effective and in-character. It took me a long time to write the those parts! Thank you so much for writing to tell me how much you liked it.