Chapter 3 -All Words Converge (part 2)

13. června 2013 v 11:48 |  English version

John and Sherlock have been assigned shared quarters. The room is slightly bigger than the one Sherlock had at Camp Bastion, but with two single beds crammed into it, as well as the table, chair, and closet, the effect is actually more claustrophobic. John dumps his gear on one of the beds. Sherlock stakes his claim to the table by putting his duffel bag on it, leaving his bed clear. The bathroom is identical to the one in Camp Bastion, right down to the discoloration of the concrete around the drain grating.
"Harlow's story about the report being attributed to the wrong patrol," Sherlock says, as he watches John unbutton his shirt. "Could it happen?"
"Anything - and I do mean anything - that can be achieved by inefficiency, stupidity, or venality has been achieved here," John smirks, stripping his shirt off.
"Ah," Sherlock says, "human nature: the vast unchangeable. I want to talk to the rest of Harlow's team as soon as possible."
"We're losing the light," John says, glancing through the window at the darkening sky. "I'm not taking a civilian on a night excursion - Maiwand district is a fucking mess after dark."
Sherlock exhales nasally, but nods.
"I'm going to take a shower," John says. "I washed in a coffee can this morning."
He pulls his tee shirt off over his head, his identity tags clinking softly as their chain catches and then drops free to fall against his chest. He tosses his tee shirt onto his bed and walks into the bathroom. Sherlock pulls his shirttails out of his pants and starts unbuttoning as he moves to the open doorway. John's sitting on the closed toilet, unlacing his boots and heeling them off.
"Six men in the patrol," Sherlock says thoughtfully. "That's a lot of people to keep a secret."
"You think one of them will talk?" John asks, peeling his socks off.
"I think one of them will believe someone else has talked," Sherlock says.
John lifts his eyebrows skeptically.
"You don't agree," Sherlock says, his eyes moving appreciatively over the thick curves of John's shoulders and chest. "You think they'll trust each other with that secret."
"They already trust each other with their lives," John says.
Sherlock shoulders his own shirt off and tosses it back out the bathroom door. John's eyes narrow a little as he considers the long, slender lines of Sherlock's torso. He exhales a rueful smile, and shakes his head fractionally.
"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks.
"Nothing, just - us, here, now," John says, lifting his gaze to meet Sherlock's. "The timing on this isn't ideal, that's all."
Sherlock presses his lips together, half-grimace and half-smile.
"Shall we wait, then?" he asks. "Maybe in a year or so, when you've finished this tour, we could - "
"Don't," John says softly, his eyes closing momentarily as if there's physical pain in the soft edges of Sherlock's words.
Sherlock's mouth quirks unhappily. He drops his chin a little, looking at John from under his brows.
"It's fine," John says, his expression clearing to a determined smile. "It's more than fine."
"How long until dawn?" Sherlock asks quietly.
"Nine hours," John says.
"All the time in the world, then," Sherlock smiles.
John stands up and they move towards each other. They touch, Sherlock's pale fingers curving around John's face, John's tanned ones around the nape of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock dips his face, John lifts his, and for a moment they just breathe the air on each other's lips. And then they kiss, an open-mouthed drag of lips against lips, and a slow curl of tongue against tongue.
Sherlock's hand slips down John's neck, over his tag chain, and onto the lightly furred skin over his breastbone. John's fingers comb into Sherlock's curls and close into a fist as Sherlock breaks from his lips to mouth along the line of one fair eyebrow.
"I want - God, I want everything," Sherlock says, his voice catching in his throat.
"I know," John says fiercely.
He pulls back and they stare into each other's eyes, both breathing hard, half-panicked at the inexorable slide of the seconds falling away from them.
"I don't even know where to - " Sherlock gasps, and then more sharply, "damn it, focus."
He brushes his fingers of both hands into John's hair, his eyes fixed the short gold and silver strands as they bristle past his fingertips. He draws the edge of his thumbnail down the creases between John's brows, along the half-moon crease at the corner of his mouth, and then down the cleft in his chin. John's smile is just a gleam in his eyes as he studies Sherlock studying him. Sherlock moves his fingertips over the curves of John's face, over the wind- and sun-roughened skin, and the pale gold creases etched in the deeper tan around his eyes. He touches John's mouth, tracing the thin bow.
John parts his lips and licks Sherlock's fingertips. Sherlock catches his breath and slips his fingers aside as he bends to slide his tongue into John's mouth. The kiss is careful, considered, but hard-edged and deep. John's eyes fall closed, Sherlock's stay fiercely focused. When they pull apart again, John's eyes open, dark and heavy lidded.
Sherlock's hands move outwards over the creamy, unmarked skin of John's chest and shoulders, then down to ride the flaring rise of his ribs as he inhales deeply. Sherlock's eyelids flicker heavily, but his gaze remains brutally intense as he touches John's stomach, his fingers fanning over the solidly formed muscle and then dropping to John's belt. Sherlock opens it, and then unbuttons John's pants, his hands quick and sure as he folds the heavy cloth back from John's belly. Then he hesitates, his fingertips wavering for an instant before combing delicately into the fuzz of hair above John's underwear. John sways into the touch, lifting his head to glance from Sherlock's hand to his face.
"God," Sherlock whispers.
His fingers slip down over the stretched cotton of John's underwear, to touch a spot of glossy fluid darkening the cloth over the head of John's cock. John pulls a sharp breath in through his nostrils. Sherlock slips his fingers in between the layers of John's pants and underwear to caress the length of John's erection. John drops his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder and breathes slowly, in big dragging sighs.
"John," Sherlock murmurs.
John drags his head up again, blinking up at Sherlock.
"I still want that shower," he says.
Sherlock pulls his hand out of John's pants with a pout of mostly mock chagrin. John strips his pants down, steps out them, and then skims his underwear off. He kicks his discarded clothing into the corner beside the toilet, well out of the range of water from the shower. He crosses to the shower and turns the water on. It spits, and then starts to spray steadily. Sherlock starts stripping the rest of his clothes off, piling them with John's things.
John steps under the spray. For a few seconds, the water just rolls over the bristled tips of his hair and drizzles off his hairline, but then it begins to soak in, turning his hair mink-brown. Streams of water thread down his cheeks and run off the tip of his nose and chin. Rivulets snake over his chest and turn the hair there to a smooth darkened pelt. Sherlock moves to join him; John turns, smiling and blinking beads of water off his darkened lashes.
The water breaks against John's back. Sherlock is dry except for a haze of tiny droplets collecting in his hair and on the tips of his shoulders. He touches John again, as if John wet and sleek is an entirely new text. His fingertips follow the threads of water over John's skin, letting the streams show him new paths, new places to know. John catches his own lower lip in his teeth, bites hard enough to indent the flesh white and then deep red when he releases it. Sherlock's hand slips down over John's stomach to glance over the half-hard slant of his cock.
John inhales sharply. Sherlock bends his head, and the water smoothes his hair down into tendrils on his forehead.
" … John … "
John snarls his top lip back from his teeth, tugs at Sherlock's hip and nape to pull him in closer. Their bodies align, thighs and hips and bellies, cocks sliding wetly, blundering against each other's skin. John pushes his cock down so that it's caught against Sherlock's inner thigh; Sherlock lifts his so that it's pressed along John's belly.
"Fuck," John husks, pushing closer.
Sherlock squints into the water spray. He reaches past John to take the wrapped bar of low grade soap from the ledge under the shower-head. He shucks the wrapping, and rolls the bar between his palms until they're slick. John takes the soap from him and does the same. They start sliding their hands over each other's skin.
"God, I want you so badly," Sherlock marvels.
"I know, me too," John says, his smile more in his eyes than on his lips.
They breathe in unsteady concert. Their hands slip lower, over the blade of a hipbone, along the hard curve at the back of a thigh. They kiss, fragments of contact and breath and warm shower water running across parted lips. Hands glance, stroke, squeeze. Sherlock groans loudly as John takes hold of his cock, callused fingers wrapping around the thickness of his shaft.
"What do you like?" John murmurs, the words shaped hotly against Sherlock's lips. "Tell me - tell me how to make you come."
"Fast," Sherlock breathes, guiding John's hand to circle just behind the head of his cock, "not tight - lightly."
John grimaces with greed, bites softly at Sherlock's lips as he starts to rub. Water and lather and precum entwine to make an erratic surface of smooth and staccato. Sherlock's breath catches, sounds softly in his throat. John bites gently down the side of Sherlock's neck and along the pale skin stretched thin over his collarbone. He slips his free hand under Sherlock's balls, scoops and strokes. Sherlock lets his eyes fall closed and his brows furrow.
"Beautiful," John growls, forehead pressed to Sherlock's chest as he looks down. "So fucking beautiful."
Sherlock groans, grimaces as he struggles to hold himself upright and balanced against the steady onslaught of sensation. He opens his eyes and reaches out to grip the ledge behind John's head, bracing himself as his body starts to shake.
"There," he says, his voice dropping to a deep growl. "Oh God, there, that's - "
John lifts his head and sinks his teeth softly into the smooth plane of Sherlock's chest as Sherlock's body jolts and his cock jerks in John's grip. His semen spurts onto John's belly and is washed down into his pubic hair. Sherlock breathes in deep, shaking gulps, clinging to John's shoulders as if that's the only thing keeping him on his feet. John presses kisses into the notch at the base of his throat. Sherlock tips his head back and lets the water wash through the sweat and flush on his face. His breathing slows and steadies. He drops his head again and puts his lips close to John's ear.
"Tell me how," Sherlock says, his voice a low hum.
"Tight," John says, his lips curling crookedly. "Start slow, but hold me tightly."
He shapes Sherlock's grip on the shaft of his cock, and guides his hand through the first couple of slow tugs.
"Yeah," he says softly, letting his hand fall away from Sherlock's. "Like that - that's - fuck, that's good."
"John … John … John," Sherlock murmurs.
John clutches a handful of wet hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck, growling wordlessly as he rolls his hips in counterpoint to the push and pull of Sherlock's fist.
"Yeah, good," he breathes, lifting his face, eyes closed and water sticking his eyelashes together.
Sherlock sleeks his free hand down John's chest and pinches at one nipple.
"Ah - fuck," John mutters, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter.
Sherlock tugs at the pip of pink flesh, and works his grip on John's cock harder. John's breathing shatters into rapid shallow gasps, then stops completely.
"Fu - yes," he hisses, as his cock pulses in Sherlock's hand.
He grasps Sherlock's wrist, stilling his hand as his semen stripes out across Sherlock's thigh and slides down his wet skin. John shivers violently, sways a little, and then centers his weight again. His eyes flick open and he grins open-mouthed up at Sherlock, who smiles back, something shocked and utterly joyful tumbling in his gaze.
John twists, turns the water off, and shakes his head vigorously. He pads away, leaving wet footprints on the concrete beyond the immediate shower area, and drags down two of the towels stacked on a rack above the toilet. He throws one to Sherlock, shakes the other one out, and starts toweling himself off. Sherlock remains motionless, the towel clasped in his hands and water dripping from the ends of his hair, until John says quietly,
"Come on. Take me to bed."

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