Still The Addict

Devil's Bargain

(Still John)

"No,"

"No,"

"No, Sherlock. That isn't happening,"

"Is that your final answer?" He flares at me from across the kitchen table. Something burns in his eyes, a corrosive acid to scald and disintegrate flesh. Third degree burns penetrating me. Sherlock Holmes, the smartest man I know, has just offered me a deal. A deal I had to reject, although I really would love to take. It was an offer really. An assistance guised as a bargain.

A sheep in wolves' clothing?

"John, here are my terms. You either stay with me, as my partner, or I leave forever,"

Honestly, I'd love the former. I'd love to lie with him and witness the sunrise in the morning light, just watch him smoke cigarettes with pursed lips. To see his naked body again. And the sex. Sherlock may be inexperienced (although he may not be, that's a grey area in is past) but he is skilled, a seemingly innate ability coupled with intense appeasement behaviour.

Sherlock thrives on praise, and what better way to be praised than to please someone sexually to such a high extent?

But no.

I can't agree to his deal because it's not me. I'm not gay. I'm straight: it's too late to back out of a commitment like that now! I'm almost fifty!

"Join,"

I'm snapped out of my inner monologue. "Uh, yeah, Sherlock?"

"You've been staring into space, slack jawed, for five minutes," he states blankly.

The man was waving a gun around this morning, he has no right to complain about my behaviour. But then, I do love the way his eyebrows crease when he's frustrated. "Sorry, Sherlock I..." I pause, waiting to gage his reaction. But he's a blank canvas. "I was just thinking,"

"About the deal," he deduces.

"Yeah, That," I nod. He watches me, and we lock eyes for a while. Staring, waiting. Until he realises, from whatever he reads in my body language, that I want to be left alone. To collect my thoughts, or reflect, or just meditate and wait for oblivion to crash down around us.

"I'm going to take a shower, John," he states, getting up. It's innocent, but to me it's an opportunity.

This may not sound entirely rational but hear me out; I can't accept the deal. I can't admit I like him. He knows that, and he knows how much pride I retain. So what if I use some other word? Something I can describe but not say for certainty that's what I mean. That I can explain away with some excuse.

It's a common thing GP patients do. They deflect their embarrassing or taboo health concerns (like vaginal thrush, yuck) by using soft or emotive language. 'My lady part' is an example. I just need to do the same for this, and while it won't impress Sherlock, it'll save me my pride.

"Can I come too?"

The words don't come out easily. Each one is a challenge, a steep mountain to climb. The detective stares incredulously at me, before nodding tersely and whisking himself into the bathroom.

I follow five minutes later, finding a naked Sherlock sitting on the floor in anticipation. He stands up, pulling back the curtain to reveal a steaming shower. The hot water trails down his arm, dripping and clinging to the pale flesh. But I see more than just white skin. Angry red slashes litter every limb, crawling across his stomach. It just makes him look so much more beautiful.

Shut up, John!

(Sherlock's POV)

I step in, feeling the warmth spread around my ankles. John gets in behind me, awkwardly pressing himself against my back. He's cold, and the shower is warm. I lean into it, letting the water fall on my hair and trickle along my brown hair. I reach for the soap, but John grabs it instead. "Just relax Sherlock," he instructs, and I do. I let my shoulders fall and my arms hang. John reaches up, massaging my scalp until I moan in ecstasy. The suds bubble up and I feel them dance along my back as they fall. His dinners kneed across my tense muscle, sending me into a spiralling bliss. This is all I wanted. This intimacy with John. It's better than I ever imagined.

Then I feel him roam. I feel his fingers crawl down my back, resting on my bony hips. I turn to face him. "John, I-" I'm cut off by a kiss. Something pure and satiating, something that I couldn't describe if I knew every word in ever language in every dialect. His torso presses against my back, and I feel a heat radiating from his loins.

"Mmm John," I hum, and he shushes me before slipping a wet finger up my passageway. I squeal slightly, but convert it to a pleasures groan, blocking slightly as I bend over the edge of the bath. His other hand tantalises my thighs, his rough skin stimulating every nerve. 

I feel him pump through me, and jerk forward. I can't stand this teasing, my muscles itching and contracting to be used like hell. Bloody hell John hurry up!"

And he does. No sooner have I said that than his moisturise-doused cock slides into my entrance, widening my hole as I squirm and moan in ecstasy and completion.

He's held up his end of the bargain.