FAULT LINES Chapter 1

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, John Watson/Sebastian Moran, John     Watson/Greg Lestrade,
             John Watson/Mycroft Holmes, John Watson/Others
Warning: M/M Slash

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson belong to each other.
Thanks to NOFAVRELL for the Beta. See her art =)
http://nofavrell.deviantart.com/art/I-m-back-John-322461855?q=gallery:nofavrell/32180411&qo=31


You can also read the whole fic in ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN:   
"http://archiveofourown.org/works/616139/chapters/1111274"

Summary: He made love and all he could feel was  hurt.  
John Watson was slipping through the cracks and he needs to save himself if Sherlock wouldn't be having a wake up call anytime soon.

CHapter 1

THEM

“I’d like to make myself believe

That planet Earth turns slowly

It’s hard to say that I’d rather stay awake when I’m asleep

Coz everything is never as it seems,”

--fireflies

John tasted the coppery metal tang of his own blood as the flesh of his poor lips finally gave in from the pressure of his own sinking teeth. He hadn’t realized he’d been biting them, too occupied on committing debauchery in his own little room for all the world. The sight beneath him was simply priceless and endearing and the more he looked at the other man at his arms, at the lithe, flawless pale form openly needing and pleading and crumbling, the more it was that his heart sank. A ball of unease and insecurity had amassed inside his stomach dangerously and it made him want to cry all the more. And cry he did. He took a deep breath before pushing down brusquely and impaling himself with his lover’s warmth, a little more forceful than he’d intended, biting his lips once again as he did so. He was making love with this beautiful enigma of a man, probably making himself the luckiest of all and he worried still, unable to quench the nagging agitation at his stomach. He made love and all he could feel was hurt.

Cold sweaty palms brushed at his flushed cheeks lightly before staying there and pressing firmly yet gently at the hollow of his cheeks. The other man was now staring at him, steel silver eyes penetrating and scrutinizing. “What’s wrong?” The other man breathed.

John stared at him, stared at his calm inquisitive expression, at his eyes lusting and desiring beneath the raven curled fringes. All John managed to say was, “you’re beautiful”, which was truer than any other thing he could’ve said at that moment.

“You’ve been spacing out.”

“--I’m sorry.” John gushed out carelessly, a little bit forceful in the wake of wishing that the other man not try to find out what he has been thinking about, yet knowing full well that his lover would know about it the way he gets to know everything. “I mean I was—”

It was the other man who’d hushed him just as abruptly this time as the other thrashed his own hips upward, the full length of his cock burying inside John’s ass. “Sherlock,” John gasped, part startled at the sudden contact and part from sheer pleasure as Sherlock’s manhood hit his prostrate. Sherlock was thrusting up towards him demandingly and insistently since John had seized moving when his musings got the better of him. John realized this must’ve been the other reason why he was feeling agitated. Sherlock had come on to him boldly and needy and a bit rash. John thought that the other man had never been like this before. No, John definitely knows. And the sudden change in this demand for flesh and contact by Sherlock frightened him to the bones, like some foreboding to a world ending. To John, the world could just fuck itself and end instead of the only other reason that can make him so very afraid to happen. He’s never been afraid of many things after hitting hit by a bullet, mind you.

John gritted his teeth a lot more forcefully before taking hold of their rhythms. Screw his worries. He grabbed both of Sherlock’s hands from his thighs, before managing to hold them by one hand and pinning them to the mattress above Sherlock’s head. John nibbled at the hollow base on the consulting detective’s neck straight down to the clavicles, licking and marking and claiming. With his left hand that was not used to pin Sherlock’s wrists, John steadied the other man’s movement by laying his palm flat over his chest. Sherlock took a deep breath before managing to stay still and John rewarded him by tweaking a pink nipple and biting at the other one. The detective hissed and moaned and thrashed vigorously under his John’s caress. Sherlock violently nudged his thighs where John’s ass had rested as some desperate call for attention. “John.” John was well tuned enough with the consulting detective’s antics and vague signals to know that it could have well been an echoing “please”.

John reached up and kissed Sherlock hard and savagely, claiming those supple lips he knew at the back of his mind won’t be his forever. Sherlock was kissing him just as equally as hard and brutal, teeth clacking and tongues dancing for muscular control. He was heaving and he was enjoying this and he knew it wouldn’t take long before he reaches his limit now. Sherlock was at the same state. John could tell from the other man’s trembling and from the way he was stifling his groans but failing.

“John—”

John groaned for an answer, knowing that their many sexual encounters had already given Sherlock the necessary familiarity to understand every moan and groan and every bit of unintelligible and incoherent bit of noises. He gave Sherlock one last flitting kiss, the barest of touch, before heaving himself up once more and only stopping as the head of the detective’s cock was just about his sphincter . John was still pinning Sherlock’s wrists immobile, his left hand pushing at Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock was heaving silently now, his calculating eyes dazed with desire, his pupils blown wide with lust, his stillness all focused on John.

Without further ado, John pushed down into Sherlock’s manhood, flesh slapping wetly and loudly against flesh, before pulling up only to hit down again only a little bit harder. They both danced gaspingly to the tune of their own breathing. Repeatedly claiming and being claimed. They rocked and they swam and they sang as the need for release came closer. John could feel the abuse of his own entrance, could feel the sting at his perineum but he continued his relentless pace that was so hard and jagged it could’ve caused bruising and bleeding and wounding, yet the act so sensual that he could no longer feel the pain. He repeatedly sank down roughly, each one taking in the whole length, his ass hitting Sherlock’s balls. Then John looked over at Sherlock beneath him, saw that the other man had also been looking at him through slanted eyes, and John suddenly reached his own release with one last drop. Sherlock tensed briefly at John’s sight and climaxed, following suit. John fell on top of the detective still impaled, their limbs limp and warm and trembling. They were a bundle of parts, sweaty and sticky and dirty, and they remained like that for a long time, nothing breaking the silence but their own guzzles for air.

Sherlock’s so warm and the flesh underneath John was so familiar that he’d have remained where he was if only he was allowed, not minding the sticky fluid sandwiched somewhere between the heated flesh of their stomachs and some that were dripping from his ass. He lifted himself free from the softened, sensitized flesh, his whole mind concentrating solely to give his arms strength for they needed every bit of effort to lift his own exhausted body. Then Sherlock grabbed his face tightly, reached up and gave him one final kiss—one so hard, smacking and without tongue, before pulling away to say one word that John realized he dreaded to hear at this moment.

“Thank you.”

John’s heart sank, his own little world collapsing. A lump had formed painfully at his throat and he wanted to vomit and choke and he thought he could do both at the same time, that is, choke and die from his own vomit. Those worries and agitation he’s been feeling since the beginning had been right to have bombarded him in the first place after all. Sherlock had never thanked him for sex. It has always been “I love you” or “great” or “amazing”. You don’t thank the one you love for sex. You thank people for sex when it’s like something you ordered, something you bought like a burger when you’re hungry or a pie when you just wanted to try it. It was never a “thank you” for them after their love making. He hoped Sherlock hadn’t realized the implication, that maybe he’d just forgotten their own little truce, that maybe his brain had just been wired and juggled because of their copulation.

But John knew that Sherlock knew what he’s said and done and that there was nothing for John to do but to shed silent tears. 

*~*~*

Link below to Chapter 2:


http://akistrife.blogspot.com/2012/12/fault-lines-part-2.html