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[whatofthewarts]

Irene Adler had many homes, and many more hiding places, but months after her death Sherlock was certain he'd found at least half those in the country. She had her many stolen jewels tucked away all over the apartment, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to dig them all out of their hidey holes. When he had them in his pockets, he went searching for someone else entirely.

Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.

"Making headway, I presume?"

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[whatofthewarts]

"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.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

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.

[whatofthewarts]

"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.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

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.

[whatofthewarts]

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."

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Don't. Don't patronize."

Tight, tears starting up again.

"Finish it."

[whatofthewarts]

"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.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Left wanting? I don't understand-"

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

[whatofthewarts]

"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?"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"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.

[whatofthewarts]

"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.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"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."

[whatofthewarts]

"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.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

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.

[whatofthewarts]

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.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"Why are you doing this?"

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

[whatofthewarts]

"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.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

"I need you."

He tells him.

"That doesn't mean you have to be gentle."

His voice is deep and low now, turning slowly into treacle.

[whatofthewarts]

"Well, in that case..."

He stands up, and kicks him--very lightly, compared to before, but with all the bruises it's not a kind gesture.

"Roll over."

He begins undressing, and he tosses his clothes onto the ground to serve as a very hasty protection from the stone floor.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He rolls over for him right away- and his body is coming in with colourful patches. He'll be a right misery tomorrow, but still manages to be a faintly beautiful trainwreck right now, with a faint smear of blood along his lip. The inside of his cheek had cut on his teeth, it spreads when he licks his bottom lip now.

He takes in Holmes' nudity, eyes very dazed.

[whatofthewarts]

"We are terribly self-involved, aren't we."

He is never self-conscious when nude...except, it seems, for now, when someone whose opinion matters will be sizing him up.

No matter. He settles down again, trying to appear as if he has any idea what he's going to do next.

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

Fortunately, he has Sherlock's impetuousness, self-loathing and rapidly growing fondness of degradation and filth to help steer.

He's on him in a second, before he can come all the way to the floor, stilling him, missing, nuzzling hip, then crotch, still sprawled between his slightly spread stance, but eager about it now. He tries to remember what he knows about sexual mores of this era, suspects sucking cock isn't in vogue.

[whatofthewarts]

No, it isn't, at least not in Holmes's personal life and limited social circles. He knows what it is, of course; he does speak often with prostitutes. But still, when Sherlock's warm, bruised face is just there, Holmes can't help but gasp an, "Oh!"

[lostwithoutmyblogger]

He uses a hand on his thigh to scramble, arch upwards and take him in his mouth, still sitting. The angle pulls him downwards, somewhat- he really ought to kneel. But it's awkward anyways, and inexperienced and rash.

[whatofthewarts]

He hisses at the touch of teeth; it's unavoidable when they're trying so frantically to get situated. But he strokes Sherlock's hair back, and as strange as it is to see your cock in someone's mouth, it's impossible not to be drawn in by those keen blue eyes.

"Keep going."

All he can manage are two words.