whatofthewarts | (no subject)

Holmes slows when his knuckles are bleeding and his arms are exhausted and Sherlock begins sobbing. He, himself, is gasping and sweating and he has never, ever, felt like this before. It leaves him as high as laudanum, and shaking and cold and terrified as well.

He controls himself, barely, looking up at him with red eyes and tight hysteria, bruised and trembling and afraid once more.

His lips part, a careful, needy invitation.

It's a final, narcissistic blow when Holmes lets himself all but collapse on Sherlock, kissing him with the same madness that he had beaten him.

He returns his kisses, wrapping one careful hand (the one whose wrist doesn't feel like it's on fire) through his hair, tears sliding down his temples.

He needs the contact, the feel of Sherlock's mouth against his. He can feel his breathing, the way it hitches ever so slightly with those tears.

There isn't anything overtly sexual about it when he realizes he also needs Sherlock exposed, naked, to be able to touch the bruises he can't see yet.

They haven't come in anything other than gentle red yet, even as pale as he is, but the swelling is obvious in certain places. He fights feebly against him, to keep what's left of his clothes on. Nothing comes easy.

Holmes hits him twice more as he gets his shoes and pants off, but he's quick to kiss him, too.

At least, until he's naked. Then Holmes takes it in his head to find a mark on Sherlock's chest to bite. It's not quite as vicious as the violence of earlier; he's testing.

Each kiss settles him, with choked whimpers. The bite sets him moving, the way he had with the pressure points, jerking underneath him like a live wire.

"I'm afraid I made a miscalculation."

Holmes tells him this after he can't decide which he likes better: those whimpers, the vulnerability of kissing himself, or making Sherlock writhe.

"You aren't the least bit dulled by the modern world. But as it is now, I am not certain what part of you to explore next. I think I shall defer to your instinct."

The rather cruel pressure of his fingers eases into something just this side of soothing. It's not kind to have swollen, red marks touched...but at least now it wasn't done to deliberately make them deeper. Now his fingers only lightly brushed them, and his lips just faintly touched Sherlock's.

It's close enough to praise to make him smile with radiant joy (fueled by violent insecurity, obviously, but it's still pretty to look at that smile) and he struggles to catch his breath, to answer him;

"I've never done anything like this."

He doesn't really have instincts, per se.

"Neither have I."

It's a little troubling, actually. Between the two of them there aren't many topics that haven't been covered.

"But judging by your subconscious reactions earlier, I think your mind is ready to begin winding down from such...taxing activity. Might I suggest we try something slower."

Like the kissing had been; only now Holmes's fingers map out the sensitive lines of nerves over Sherlock's collarbones, down his sternum.

He draws in a stunned breath, holds it, waiting for pain, then lets it out slowly, watching him with wild eyes, blown out pupils. Even slight pressure on the bottom rib earns a half shout, where he'd taken one of the meaner punches.

Holmes has no bedside manner to speak of, but he avoids the especially bruised areas once he's determined he hasn't fractured anything dire. He normally has the precise control of a machine, but earlier...he didn't know what to think of what he'd done.

"You seem to respond most eagerly to gentility now."

How curious. Holmes touches Sherlock's hair, the way Mary had done to John after the explosion.

"So we shall endeavor to put you back together now."

"Don't. Don't patronize."

Tight, tears starting up again.

"Finish it."

"I assure you, I am completely genuine. I would never wish real harm upon myself."

He digs a finger up under Sherlock's jaw.

"Kindness can be a finish. This, this pain, would only leave you wanting if I left it like this."

He releases that pressure point, aware of how it must feel contrasted with the feel of Holmes's mouth kissing his exquisite collarbones.

"Left wanting? I don't understand-"

A sigh of relief as he hits the pressure point, and a whimper of confusion at the kisses.

"Like setting loose a balloon full of helium. Without something to ground you again, who can say what state you would ultimately fall into?"

So as much as he likes that sound Sherlock made, he must be level headed and show restraint.

"How much of this theory of mine is new to you?"

"I don't want you to stop."

He tells him, because to hell with level headedness. He pushes himself up on his arms again, close and earnest underneath him.

"Hit me again?"

He doesn't know what else to ask for.

"I can't tell if you want me to keep going out of self-loathing...or if it's because you really can take more."

But he has run out of places to hit, so he doesn't. Instead, he finds places that are sensitive--both because of injury, or because they're erogenous.

"Upper thighs, back, arse, calves-"

He babbles, and arches.

"Or more of the pressure points. Harder. I don't hate myself half as much as I hate you."

"And what a sad state of affairs that is. The only person you hate more than yourself, is more of yourself."

But pressure points can be used for more than just pain. He points demandingly for Sherlock to roll over, and gives him a solid shove to get him going. The pressure points in his back can be quite pleasurable.

He's still wild and unguarded, and arching for him with the most shocked little sound, like no one has ever touched him purely for pleasure.

He rests the more painful of his cheeks against the floor, weight of his head heavy on what is rapidly darkening into an ugly bruise.

Holmes ticks off the physical symptoms of arousal he is experiencing, an entire checklist full of them. And yet when it comes down to what he ought to do about it, he isn't sure what the outcome will be.

Nor is he sure how, exactly, to go about it. Not with Sherlock, who is far more difficult to predict or manipulate than he would have expected. He proceeds with care, lower and lower, until the palms of his hands can run over Sherlock's hips, to cup his ass, to massage the backs of his thighs. That was an area Sherlock had mentioned, he recalls, but he's sure Sherlock hadn't meant like this.

"Why are you doing this?"

He asks, dazed and frightfully needy, somehow, as though he's wanted-

"Because it's what you need, now. And I have never done this before. Only in theory..."

Yes, yes, those are all good, logical reasons. They have nothing much to do with how warm Holmes's hands have become, how when he gropes Sherlock it's not clinical at all anymore.