Still The Addict

Breaking Through

Warning: graphic sex.

"I-I-" John steps back from me, dropping the razor into the sink with a clatter. I notice it, but I don't want it. I don't lunge for it like I would have done just yesterday. I simply stare at John, who very evidently has a boner in his pants. A very noticeable one too, one he didn't bother tucking into the waistband even when he was pressed against my back. It hangs slightly to the left through his morning jogging pants - I hate those pants - and sits in his boxers waiting to be fondled. I can tell now that it's seven inches long and 1 1/3 inch circumference. I can feel mine growing too, my loins heating and I need to get away from this. So I deduce John, but of course that makes me think about John and- ugh! This is so hard! So I stop fighting it and give in. "Sherlock, this isn't what it looks like!"

"Yes it is," I remind him softly. I'm walking forward, stepping up so I can rest my hand softly on his shoulder. I don't even know why I'm doing this, what gave me the strength. I feel his jumper under my fingertips, the scratchy cotton. I stand even closer to him, rubbing my chest on his. His eyes are searching mine, looking for something. And he finds it, I know he does. He sees why I've been cutting so much, why I started in he first place. The loneliness, the loss, the regrets I've experienced over the past years just suddenly clear up for him. He coughs, clearing his theist to try and form words too difficult to form.

"Uh...if this will...you know..." John gulps.

"Stop me cutting..." I finish for him.

"Then..."

"We should have sex," I say with an air of finality. There is silence afterwards, a disaster of a silence. We're too close even after that declaration, too intimate even for sex. I close the gap, coming in too strong I know, but when's the last time I did something without thinking of reason? Reason sucks, and it's time to actually make an impulsive move and do what I want. Not what Mycroft wants and not what John wants. This is what I want. I place my lips on his. They feel rough, but full and enticing, something new; they're nothing like in my dreams. And in a way that's a good thing. I pull even closer to him, feeling his stubble scratch my chin, my fingers finding their way through his grey-blond hair. I wraps my arms around his neck, slowly drawing them down to his hips as we kiss.

"Sherlock...what is this?!" John asks in barely a whisper.

"It's rehab," I reply simply, slamming our lips together again and sticking my tongue down his throat; he tastes like vanilla. Our hips smash together again, I roll mine in time with John. I fumble with his belt and trouser button; it just pops off. He really needs new clothes, these are flimsy as shit. His trousers are around his ankles, his belt flopping around them, snaking across the bathroom floor. My pyjama pants feel even tighter now, and I pull them down, revealing my own small frame and even smaller cock. John chuckles a little and I blush furiously. In my dreams I was so much more confident, but now it feels like my heart is in my mouth; which isn't medically possible but if it was then it would be!

I peel my short off from the ends up, over my head to show John the flexibility of my muscles, how my torso works. He seems impressed, and runs his hands all the way down my front to my nipples, twisting them and teasing me with his index finger and thumb so that they harden and stand on end. Meanwhile I grab his cock in my hand, slowly stroking it. Having never done this before, I simply run my thumb over the tip, feeling the precum spread greasily onto my fingers. I use that as lubricant to massage his cock all the way down to the base, kneeling my fingers around and running then tantalizingly slowly up the vein on the underside, resting just at the hilt. I am jerked backwards when John shoves me down into the bath. I'm tall and it's awkward, but it's okay.

I lift my legs up over the side as John gets in with me, my head resting on his chest. We're both fully naked now, I don't even know how that happened. He runs his hands down my sides again until they reach my ass, squeezing my flesh and claiming it as his. I don't mind that. I've always wanted to be John's. I lift my hips up so that he can begin to fuck me but he doesn't. I turn back to look at him questioningly, a small whine emitting from my throats which he doesn't notice, and he looks at me. "Um, lube?" He asks me. I frown, as if the very idea perplexes me. I must look like such a virgin.

(Third person POV because I refuse to narrate this sex scene)

"Don't have any. Just use shower gel," Sherlock urges. John rubs some of the clear liquid across his erection, his fingers dancing over the sensitive skin. He watches the shine gleam off his red tip before slowly pressing against Sherlock. "You don't want preparation or-?"

"I'm not going to break, John!" he insists, pressing down a little and enveloping John's tip inside of him. John, unable to hold back at the tightness and the moisture around his cock, shoves forward into the taller man, eliciting wonderful whimpers and moans in reaction. He begins to thrust, slowly and methodically in a rhythm neither he nor Sherlock knew. It doesn't take long for John to hit Sherlock's sweet spot, hammering against it as he moans and grunts loudly. Sherlock felt it with a wave of shuddering pleasure, gripping his own erection in his hand. His body shudders at this feeling and in just a few short minutes Sherlock doubles over more, crying out as he experiences the most intense orgasm he's ever had. Strands of cum shoot from his cock, landing across his stomach in thin splashes like blood on the wall at a murder scene.

John rides Sherlock through his orgasm, only ceasing when he feels his own member throb, shooting his own semen inside Sherlock. John collapsed into the bath in that uncomfortable position, groaning as he pulled out of his favourite consulting detective. He shakily stood, his knees sore and his elbows bruising. "Let's not do that in the bath next time eh?" John asks with a smile. Sherlock just looks on in shock.

"There's a...next time?"

(Aaaaaaand back to Sherlock)

My jaw hangs open, my eyes are wide. Next time?! Next time?! I had expected, he'll I would have bet on it, that John, once the passion was over, would have renounced the entire day as a mistake, a fluke, pity sex, whatever. But he doesn't seem reluctant at all. I see no regret behind his eyes. There is confusion; a lot of confusion. But nothing else it seems. John laughs a little again, his laugh is infectious and I find myself smiling now too. "Of course there's a next time silly. I don't leave the next morning Sherlock,"

I don't understand what he just said, but I assume it's a metaphor and I just go with it. Hoisting myself out the bath, a grab a towel to clean up when I feel John's hands on my hips, his chest on my back. I look over my shoulder at the floppy mess of grey hair and grin. "Can't get enough of me hm?" I ask. John takes it as a joke even though it wasn't intended to be. I rest my head hack in his shoulder and fir a while we just sway, standing there in perfect harmony, perfect balance. We are in time with the universe, and if the universe were to suddenly freeze then I would love to be stuck in this moment forever. This is what I want to remember on my death bed. I have finally done it, finally broken through the wall I built around myself to protect me from rejection, suicide, anger, loss.

I look down at my cuts and find that they now disgust me.