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Snowytumble requested: Johnlock, splinter

**

The first time John noticed was when he asked Sherlock to hand him a pen. He’d expected Sherlock to toss it to him with a typically ostentatious flip, but instead Sherlock had merely extended the pen and waited for John to pluck it from his fingers.

John frowned for a full second before he noticed the plaster on Sherlock’s index finger. He couldn’t recall seeing a plaster on Sherlock in, well, ever -- much less one carefully wrapped around the pad of his finger.

“What’d you do?” John asked after a moment, nodding pointedly toward Sherlock’s hand.

“Hmmm?” Sherlock’s gaze didn’t budge from the laptop screen.

“Your finger.”

“Nothing.”

John opened his mouth, but then closed it again. It was pointless to push the issue. It was just a plaster.

Two days later, Sherlock had stopped using his right hand altogether. He twisted it out of John’s sight when he caught John peering curiously at it, and so John finally had to ask:

“Sherlock, what happened to your finger?”

“Nothing.” Sherlock gave him the creepy non-smile he reserved for clients he was about to show the door.

“Let me see.”

Sherlock’s lips pressed together for a brief moment, and John could see the strop building from three yards away. “It’s fine.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Show me.”

“It’s nothing, just a tiny cut.” He took a step backward as John approached, and found himself backed up against the kitchen table.

John held out his hand, summoning the sort of patience he reserved for small children, hypochondriacs, and more and more frequently, his flatmate.

“I just haven’t taken the plaster off.”

John’s eyebrows rose. “Which would explain why the tip of your finger is red and swollen, and why you’ve been avoiding using that hand all day?”

There was a long pause, during which Sherlock attempted multiple variations on a glare, all of which John ignored. Finally, Sherlock exhaled huffily and held out his hand.

The redness was even more pronounced up close, and the fingertip was hot to the touch. John turned his hand over gently, holding it firmly when Sherlock tried to pull it away again.

“I’m going to take this off,” John began, and Sherlock made a small sound of protest. “And you are going to explain to me why you didn’t just come to me in the first place.”

“I told you, it’s nothing.”

He carefully peeled off the plaster, revealed a small infected wound beneath. He squinted. “What the… Was it a splinter?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s tone was one of resignation. He offered no further explanation.

He’d clearly tried to remove it, but a small piece had broken off and remained lodged beneath his skin. “Did you put anything on it?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in response.

“Fine. At least I’ve caught before it got worse. Sit.” He pointed to the nearest kitchen chair.

Sherlock glared in response.

A half an hour and some tense moments later, the splinter was removed and the wound cleaned out, and Sherlock’s finger had been rebandaged with a liberal amount of antibiotic ointment. He sat at the table while John cleaned up, frowning at his hand.

“It still hurts.”

“Don’t be such an infant. Want a nurofen?”

“Yes.”

John dug the bottle from the cupboard where he kept medical supplies, and filled a glass from the tap. He set both in front of Sherlock, and watched as Sherlock swallowed the pills down.

John sighed and leaned against the table next to him. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

“It was horrible.”

“Hmmm. I’d offer you a lollipop, but I’m fresh out.”

“Very funny.”

John shook his head. “I’m serious, Sherlock. You’ve been shot, for God’s sake. You’ve been beaten, probably tortured, for all I know. Why the hell would a splinter turn you into a blithering child?”

Sherlock frowned. “I was not--”

“All right, fine. That was a bit harsh. But still.”

Sherlock shrugged and looked down at his bandaged finger. “Fingers are different.”

“Different how?”

“I don’t know.”

John reached for Sherlock’s uninjured hand and Sherlock tensed. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He turned Sherlock’s large hand over in his, and pressed his thumbs against the palm in a gentle massage.

The tips of Sherlock’s ears went pink, but he didn’t try to pull his hand away.

“I think I understand,” John said, continuing the massage. “I don’t like anyone to touch my ears. It makes me incredibly self-conscious.” He stroked the length of each finger in turn, applying gentle pressure, and Sherlock went completely wide-eyed and still, as if he were torn between staying there and fleeing for the safety of his room.

“It’s not” --Sherlock swallowed audibly-- “My fingers are... sensitive.”

John nodded. “They’d have to be, the way you play.” The violin had been unusually quiet this week, now that he thought of it. “Not to mention the way you type.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “Not just like that.”

John froze, understanding dawning. “Ah… Is this okay?”

There was a long pause. “Yeah.”

John continued his massage, watching Sherlock’s face carefully. He worked all the small muscles in his hands, pressed small circles around the joints, and then intertwined his fingers with Sherlock’s in order to stretch open his palm.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the hard kitchen chair, but he didn’t pull his hand away. He exhaled slowly, and in the midst of it, John heard a small sound almost like a moan.

John lifted Sherlock’s hand to his mouth without even stopping to think. He’d already closed his lips around the tip of Sherlock’s middle finger before the implications of what he’d done occurred to him. Sherlock gasped and John froze, and they did not look at each other. They breathed for a moment, and then John couldn’t help himself: his tongue circled the tip of that finger again.

Sherlock’s head fell back against the chair. He pressed his injured hand against the front of his clearly strained trousers. John sucked his finger in to the knuckle, and Sherlock stroked his own erection through the fine fabric.

Oh my God.

John had no idea how they’d got to this point, where John was fellating one of Sherlock’s fingers and Sherlock was on the verge of pulling himself off at the kitchen table on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday afternoon, but here they were. It was probably an incredibly stupid idea, but they’d already started. The awkward conversation they’d have to have in a few minutes wasn’t likely to get much worse just because someone got off. Would it?

John took a deep breath, and took in another finger.

Sherlock began stroking his palm up and down his erection in earnest, his breathing erratic. John watched him, matched the movements of his tongue to Sherlock’s hand, and then realized with a sort of sinking acceptance that he was also getting hard, and oh, but that was a whole ‘nother level of fucked-up-edness where Sherlock was concerned that he’d have to dwell on later.

Much later. For now, he slid his free hand under the waistband of his jeans and pants, and squeezed. He sucked Sherlock’s fingers and wriggled his tongue between them, and Sherlock made a sound almost like frustration. It was a moment before it occurred to John that Sherlock was trying to get himself off with his injured hand.

John stepped forward, one leg between Sherlock’s spread knees, and pushed at his shoulder. Sherlock took the hint and slid forward in the chair to grind himself wantonly against John’s thigh. John unfastened his jeans and tugged raggedly at his own cock, and Jesus, were they really doing this?

As if in response, Sherlock made a sound low in his throat and pressed his forehead against John’s side. John pulled himself harder, and it was gloriously quick and dirty, and accidentally bit Sherlock’s fingers when he came. Sherlock’s cry was muffled by John’s jumper, and he sagged against John a moment later, panting.

They stood there like that for several long, awkward seconds, neither of them wanting to be the first to break contact. The spell would be over and weirdness would ensue, and John had no idea how--

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

John blinked and looked down at him. He was, unexpectedly, smirking.

“If I’d known the thoroughness of your medical service, I’d have said something sooner.”

John gaped at him for a full second before finally bursting into laughter. He sat back and let his sticky hand fall uselessly to his side, and pressed the other over his eyes for a moment. “That was… I don’t even know what to say, Sherlock.”

“Are you…” Sherlock trailed off and John looked down to see that his expression had closed a bit.

“No, no,” John said, turning toward him. “It’s fine, it’s… good. I just… You’re okay with this?”

Sherlock stood, shifting his trousers a bit awkwardly. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

John decided it was best not to answer that question. Instead, he stepped forward and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s.

He lost himself there for quite a long time.

***