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Silent Treatment

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Sherlock was on the sofa, face down, his hair sopping wet and dripping over his forehead. He hadn’t changed out of his dressing gown in three days, and he hadn’t spoken in four.

“Morning, Sherlock.”

Each day since Tuesday, John had come down to find him just lying there.

It wasn’t his thinking pose, which generally involved stretching out on his back, eyes closed. It was his brooding pose. Curled up, face pressed into the back cushions, dressing gown tucked around him with his bare feet poking moodily out at the bottom. He was usually damp in the mornings, which meant that he was at least showering, and on Thursday there had been an entire loaf of bread missing from the breadbin, but in the last three days John had only seen him moving from the sofa to the bathroom and occasionally the kitchen.

The first day, he’d tried cajoling. Food didn’t work, which was expected, but even a text from Lestrade had only provoked the slitted opening of one pale eye and a loud snort before Sherlock had shoved his face back out of sight.

The second day, John had begun to get frustrated.

Shouting had zero effect. He tried the silent treatment, but he was pretty sure that Sherlock wasn’t even aware he was in the room most of the time, never mind paying attention to what he was saying. Eventually he’d just resigned himself to speaking at Sherlock. It was quite therapeutic, really. Much better than sitting staring at Ella had ever been.

John sipped his tea and tried to read the paper. It was difficult, with Sherlock’s legs pressed warm and solid against his back, but he wasn’t going to be relegated to the other side of the room just because Sherlock refused to get off the sofa. He’d tried asking. He’d tried just moving Sherlock, which was an experiment that would not be repeated (he rubbed reflexively at the bruise on his shin). Eventually he’d just sat on Sherlock’s legs until they’d been shifted to the side, and with that they’d reached a sort of détente. Still, his bony backrest wasn’t nearly as relaxing as it should have been. With Sherlock silently moping around the flat in nothing but a thin layer of silk, he was much harder to ignore than Normal Issue Sherlock, whose sharp eyes and sharper tongue made it hard to spend much time admiring his other…qualities.

Also, silk had a tendency to cling.

John shifted to shake out his paper, and his elbow brushed against Sherlock’s bum, which was just…right there. Covered in blue silk, which was sticking to Sherlock’s damp skin, so thin that it dipped right into the shallow dimple right at the base of Sherlock’s spine. John took a long, stoic drink of his tea, but he couldn’t stop glancing at it. He dragged his gaze sternly back to his paper and gave himself a little mental shake. He was just going a bit mad, that was all, what with spending the last four days with Sherlock the Zombie and nobody else to talk to.

He wondered what Sherlock would do if John gave into the urge to just…touch. He wanted to. The press of Sherlock’s legs against his back made the hair prickle on the nape of his neck, but it was incidental. If he pressed himself a little more firmly against them than he needed to, to stay on the sofa without sliding off, then Sherlock would never know. But a deliberate touch? Would he say something? His heart was beating fast at the thought of doing it, and he wondered if Sherlock could feel it, the fluttering vibrations through his ribs. He moved his arm, small increments, until it was pressed to Sherlock’s upper thighs. The warmth of them bled right through John’s shirt.

He flicked to the sports section, rugby apparently all his addled brain could cope with, and even then he couldn’t stop glancing down at Sherlock. At the sulky, silk-draped shape of him. Would he be warm? Still damp from the shower?

Before he could think any more about it, his greedy, traitorous arm - already pressed against Sherlock’s thigh - moved, and John’s index finger was suddenly pressed right into that little smooth dip.

Sherlock hadn’t particularly been moving before, but he froze very, very obviously.

There was a long, tense silence, and then Sherlock gave a soft little sigh, almost inaudible, and relaxed again. John’s hand trembled. His heart was beating so fast and hard that it felt like the only sound in the room, and his other hand was hovering awkwardly, newspaper forgotten on the floor. He put down his cold tea. His finger did fit there very nicely.

Sherlock was warm. The curve of his back was smooth and irresistible, and it was impossible for John not to give it a little stroke. The silk shifted over Sherlock’s skin, clinging a little where it was still damp, dipping between the cheeks of his bum. Sherlock was unmoving, but John could see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Gently, he let his hand fall until it was just resting on the lush, warm curve of Sherlock’s arse. His mouth was dry. Sherlock was breathing very fast.

He wasn’t quite touching. The silk was between them, and so it wasn’t real, he didn’t really have his hand there, thumb pressing just a little bit inwards. Except that it was so thin he could see the little imprints of hairs on Sherlock’s thighs. He could feel against his thumb that Sherlock’s skin was still slightly damp here. He pressed in a little further and just touched and god, god, Sherlock moaned.

It was quiet, yes, but it was also the first proper sound Sherlock had made in days and he was moaning because John was practically fingering him. And John could feel him, hot and fucking twitching. He exhaled shakily, pressed a little more firmly. Rubbed through that damp silk, and Sherlock was trembling almost imperceptibly against him, face pressed to the cushions. John desperately wanted to see his expression.

It would be so easy to just pull Sherlock’s dressing gown up to pool around his waist, but somehow that felt like it would disturb the delicate, unspoken something that was happening. Instead, he trailed two fingers down over Sherlock’s thigh until he reached bare, vulnerable skin. The hair there was dark and sparse, and he stroked at it with his thumb.

Sherlock hadn’t moved since John had sat down next to him, but at the touch of fingers to his leg, he ever so slightly spread them. John swallowed.

He wanted to say something, but what was appropriate? Hey, you alright with me groping your arse? seemed a bit blunt. And anyway, if Sherlock wasn’t alright with it, surely he’d be doing something other than lying there and spreading his legs and oh, pushing back a little against John’s hand. John wet his lips, and managed to shift until he could slide both hands up Sherlock’s legs, pushing the dressing gown up until the tops of his thighs were exposed. They were pale, muscular. Sherlock often looked skinny, because of his height, but up close he was big and solid, utterly masculine.

John traced a little circle with his thumb, watching the muscles jump and twitch at the contact. He was breathing hard, he realised. Panting. His heart was beating madly in his chest, and his fingertips tingled where they were tracing over Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock was…oh.

Sherlock was moving his hips, and John had thought that he was just squirming a little, but those movements were slow, shivery, rhythmic. He was frotting against the sofa.

Fuck.

John felt that thought hit him squarely in the gut, hot and thick, and then he was shoving the silk up around Sherlock’s waist shamelessly and suddenly there he was, with his hands on Sherlock Holmes’ bare arse in their living room at ten in the morning.

And god, what an arse it was. Soft, like the rest of him wasn’t. Pale and plush with the dusting of fine hairs on it lit prettily by the light streaming in through the window, and before he could second-guess himself he was leaning down to press his mouth against it. Sherlock jerked underneath him, and John heard a noise muffled into the sofa.

“Sherlock,” he breathed against soft soft skin, unsure why he was saying it or what response he wanted, but almost as soon as he said it Sherlock was moving, shifting his leg so that it dropped off the side of the sofa. Spreading himself open.

John exhaled and it sounded like a moan. It was a moan. He dragged his lips down over the crease of Sherlock’s thigh, where he smelled of soap and skin and something dark and delicious, and mouthed at it greedily, feeling Sherlock shift and shiver under him, and nothing about this was tentative any more. Sherlock was squirming back against John’s mouth, hands clutching the fabric of the sofa, and John was suddenly very aware of what he wanted. Fuck, yes.

He pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s skin and allowed himself a moment to pant and shiver, and then slid his tongue out slowly, just along the lower curve of his bum. Sherlock moaned. Oh, he moaned, and moaned loud and deep, the sound sliding sweetly along John’s spine, making him open his mouth and suck a wet kiss on the tender skin on Sherlock’s thigh.

A barely audible sigh, muffled into the sofa. He licked Sherlock again, hoping for more moaning. Licked a little closer, because the thought had him lightheaded with arousal, and then he was slicking his trembling tongue up between the cheeks of Sherlock’s arse, touching it delicately against that dusky little hole. It was blood-hot, contracting slightly against his tongue, and almost unbearably erotic.

“Oh, fuck.”

Sherlock. Voice scratchy as all hell, deep and choked. John felt a distance sense of smug triumph, even as he moaned and pressed his face into Sherlock’s arse and licked.

“Fuck,” Sherlock was growling, and now he’d said it he couldn’t seem to stop. “Fuck, oh, fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Mmm,” said John, feeling filthy as Sherlock swore and twisted and tried to keep still. He pressed the flat of his tongue against him, licked him slow and shameless, mouth wet. The feel of it against his tongue was incredible, so soft and sensitive and responsive, god, the way Sherlock was moving and twitching back against his mouth.

John kissed him. Hot, wet kisses, tongue sliding out, slipping just inside as he pointed it experimentally. The skin inside Sherlock was so soft, and he pushed in to lick at it, delicate tasting licks, pulled back to plant a chaste peck right on his pretty pink arsehole. Then more, sweet little closemouthed presses until Sherlock was gasping.

He felt the rhythmic movements first, pulled back just a bit to look and found Sherlock’s right hand shoved underneath him. He was going to make himself come. God, it was so hot, the thought of Sherlock fucking his fist and being licked by John and coming like that. John squirmed, fumbled to unbutton his jeans, pressed his mouth back against Sherlock who was soft and open and clutching at his tongue, like he wanted more of it. John licked him harder, flicked at him and fucked him with his tongue, shoved his hand into his boxers and found himself slippery-wet and leaking.

“I’m coming,” said Sherlock, all of a sudden, “oh, keep going, keep going, fuck!” And yes, yes, he was tensing up hard and shivering and coming with a whimpering sort of sob into the sofa cushions and John just pushed his tongue inside and was coming at the thought of it, spilling hot over his hand and his trousers and the sofa and moaning weakly into Sherlock’s arse as he stroked himself through it.

Sherlock panted, and even though he was already lying down, he sort of…flopped, going utterly boneless underneath John. John mouthed aimlessly at the skin pressed to his face, giving it a bit of a kiss. Sherlock hummed.

John opened his mouth, before realising he had no idea what to say. He hoped, just a little, that Sherlock could be happy living on the sofa forever with John’s face on his bum, because he was sure if he had to make eye contact he might implode with sheer awkwardness.

He began climbing off, ready to scurry to the bathroom, when Sherlock twisted around and pulled him downwards with an iron grip. They were nose to nose, and Sherlock was staring right into his eyes, expression utterly unreadable. John felt a blush spreading over his face; even the tips of his ears felt hot. Sherlock’s dressing gown was still up around his waist and John could feel him, sticky and still a little hard. His insides did a sort of flip-flopping leap.

“Um,” he said. Licked his lips. Sherlock’s eyes darted down to them, and back up.

“Mm,” a slow, deep rumble, and then he was kissing John, all soft mouth and hot curious tongue, slick and good. He pulled back, leaving John as limp as a ragdoll, gasping stupidly on the sofa.

“You can do that again,” he said. Then he stalked off into the bathroom, dropping the dressing gown on the floor as he went.

John sat staring at it for several minutes. Then he made tea.