Chapter 4 - If Everyone Cared (part 1)

15. června 2013 v 9:51 |  English version

July 10th, continued
Kandahar Air Base, Kandahar province
John drapes his towel over the chair and lies down on the bed that's not piled with his gear. He shifts onto his side and moves over until his back is pressed against the wall, leaving almost two feet of empty bed in front of him. Sherlock comes out of the bathroom, rubbing his towel through his hair.
"Not much question about positions," he says, surveying the margin of available mattress. "It's going to have to be one of us on top of the other or we'll never fit on the bed."
"Come on, we can make like sardines for a bit, first," John says, crooking an eyebrow invitingly.
Sherlock drops his towel on the floor and gets onto the bed. He slips one knee between John's legs, slotting their limbs together as economically as possible, and folds his lower arm under his head to solve the problem of where to put it. John lets his body-weight tip away from the wall slightly, pressing chest to chest and belly to belly with Sherlock.
For a while there's a kind of languor to them, to the turn of mouth against mouth and the trail of fingers on skin. John winds an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, fingers idling in his hair or following the bony crests of his vertebrae down to the curve of his behind. Sherlock's hand shapes the rise and fall of John's ribs, or slips around his shoulder and trails down over the roped muscles at the back of his arm. Sherlock pulls away a bit to work his mouth against the skin below John's ear, and then down the side of his neck. He smears his thumb over the curve of muscle at the top of John's arm, where the words Royal Marines and the emblem of 40 Commando are inked in thick, slightly blurred black lines. He takes his thumb away and places his mouth there instead, tonguing over the letters. John inhales heavily, his upper lip curling.
Sherlock shifts lower on the bed, kissing and licking and tugging John's flesh between his teeth, leaving petals of pinked skin behind as he works from collarbone to chest, from ribs to waist. John's breathing grows deeper and harsher. His body repeatedly tenses and then falls away in an uneven, unordered sort of non-rhythm under Sherlock's touch. Sherlock wriggles farther down the bed and bites softly into the heavy ridge of muscle above John's hipbone. He rings his thumb and index finger around the softness of John's cock and licks delicately around the furls of his foreskin.
"Shit," John whispers, and then "isn't it my turn to do that to you?"
"Don't worry," Sherlock says. "I don't have a generous bone in my body - I'm doing this for entirely selfish reasons."
He takes John's cock into his mouth, his hand wandering over John's hip, down his thigh, and back up to the curve of his balls.
"Oh, that - that's working," John murmurs. "That's definitely working."
Sherlock sweeps his hand up John's torso and flicks his index finger across one nipple. John hisses his breath in. Sherlock draws back and lets John's cock drop from between his lips.
"Oh, well done," he murmurs, and laps with the tip of his tongue around the thickening flesh.
He moves his weight over John a little, giving John enough space to shift from his side onto his back a bit. Sherlock pushes up onto his elbow and looks up the length of John's body. John's staring back, eyes narrowed, tongue tip sliding slowly around his parted lips. Sherlock growls softly and dips his head to lick roughly at the curve of John's ribs, while his fingers move in slow sweeps along John's cock.
"Christ," John says, his body flexing luxuriously.
Sherlock tightens his grip on John's cock and gives it an earnest downwards stroke that pulls his foreskin back. John huffs his breath out, squirms fully onto his back, and arches into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock shifts up over him, breathing kisses onto the creamy freckled skin of John's collarbones. He works his fist slowly on the shaft of John's cock as it hardens completely.
"Fuck," John murmurs into Sherlock's hair.
"Oh, bugger," Sherlock says, lifting his head. "I'm fairly sure I'm not carrying lubricant."
"Fairly sure?" John snorts in amusement.
"I didn't pack my own bag," Sherlock explains.
"Front pocket of my pack," John says. "I carry Vaseline - for the wind burn."
Sherlock smirks, dipping to kiss him lightly before unwinding himself from the bed. He turns to the other bed, and digs into John's pack. There is, as promised, a half-used plastic tube of Vaseline stuck into the front pocket. He squeezes some onto his fingers and rubs his thumb across the smear, softening it. He reaches behind himself, his shoulder and triceps shifting as he works his fingers between his buttocks.
"Fucking - hell," John says quietly. "That's - that looks incredible."
Sherlock looks at John over his shoulder, a sly sidelong glance. He bends forwards fractionally, shifts his legs apart, and pushes his fingertips into the ring of his anus.
"Christ, you don't mess about, do you?" John marvels.
He wraps his hand around his cock and squeezes hard enough to make the rigid shaft flex in his fist. Sherlock presses out another smear of grease onto his fingers, before tossing the tube back into John's pack. He turns, cants one long thigh over John's hips, and straddles John with one knee against the wall and the other on the outside edge of the bed. He reaches back and slicks his fingers down the length of John's cock, back up, twisting around the head and then down again. John growls softly, arching into the contact. Sherlock leans forwards, lines himself up, and pushes back. John snatches a breath, sharp and sudden.
"You might want to grab hold of something," Sherlock says darkly.
John clutches at Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock blows his breath out noisily and rolls his head on his neck to coax the tension from his body as he presses back and down. His eyes flutter wide; his mouth wavers softly. John arches again, blinking rapidly. Sherlock pushes down relentlessly, farther and farther. John puts one splayed hand to the base of Sherlock's belly, seeking the pressure of his cock pushing up into Sherlock's body.
"Fucking Jesus," John whispers. "Fucking Jesus, that's sweet."
Sherlock pushes down until he's sitting solidly on John's hips, and then he grinds his weight down even more and rocks a little. His mouth falls open and his eyes drop half closed. John draws his knees up, bracing his feet flat on the bed.
"Can I move?" he husks.
"Not - not yet," Sherlock says, "just - "
John grimaces a little as he spreads both hands on Sherlock's thighs again. Sherlock plays his weight from front to back, gradually establishing a real slide up and down on John's cock. John can't wholly stifle a movement of slight response, a subtle rock of his hips under Sherlock. Sherlock groans loudly, leaning back until his head falls back and he's a single long arching line from the uplifted tip of his chin, down the complex flex of his throat, down his heaving chest and his hollowed belly, to the tightly sprung bow of his thighs as he holds himself pinioned on John's cock. He takes hold of his cock in his slicked hand.
"Come on, John," he coaxes. "Come on."
John snarls softly and starts to thrust up in short, smooth stabs. The narrow bed was never intended for this; it creaks in protest, and the frame knocks against the wall every time John lifts Sherlock's weight on his hips and then drops it back down again. John shoves his left fist against the wall next to his head, and exerts enough push to dampen the impact of the bed-frame.
"Jesus fucking Christ," John growls, the kick of his hips turning ruthless as he slams himself up into Sherlock's body.
"Oh God, oh good," Sherlock gasps, his voice sliding down through registers of sound until it's a low rumble of breath. "So good - so good - "
He pumps himself lightly, quickly, an off-rhythm counterpoint to John's tempo.
"Fuck, you feel fucking beautiful," John says breathlessly.
Sherlock claps his free hand to his mouth and sinks his teeth into the fleshy base of his thumb in order to muffle the sound of his voice breaking around each breath.
"Oh, fuck, you're getting so tight," John gasps.
Sherlock yanks his head forward and down to glare at John, eyes slitted, lips drawn back from where his teeth are indenting deep white pits into his hand. Every exhale is a stifled grunt, every inhale a high, nasal surge of air. His spine flexes as he brings his weight forwards again, upright instead of arched, so he can shove and jerk and twist against John's thrusts. He groans in desperation and then in dilating relief as his cock jerks in his fist. He exhales in a chain of stuttering grunts around his hand as his semen arcs spectacularly in the air and then spatters across John's chest. John gives up trying to brace the bed and grabs Sherlock by the hips, his body jerking in a desperate attempt to catch the trailing edge of the wave himself. Sherlock drops his hand from his mouth and clutches at John's arms as John thrusts furiously, indifferent to the disorganized roll of Sherlock's hips above his.
"Fuck, oh fuck yes," John mutters as he shoves up under Sherlock, holds, shaking, sustaining the deepest possible push as he comes.
Sherlock laughs breathlessly even as John jerks and quivers under him. John's body slackens, jolts, slackens further until he's unraveled under Sherlock. Sherlock reaches forwards, drags his fingers through the pool of his own semen in the hollow of John's breastbone, and draws a streak down onto John's stomach. John jumps minutely every few seconds, little aftershocks burning through his major muscle groups until he finally shivers out the last traces of tension and lies still. Sherlock rises up on his knees, pulling their bodies apart. He tumbles back onto one elbow and straighten his legs, letting one slip off the outside of the bed and draping the other over John's thigh. John wipes a hand down over his face, and pinches the skin between his eyebrows.
"Jesus," he says hoarsely. "I think I just blew a fuse.".
"It was rather - exceptional," Sherlock grins.
He pushes his toes into the thick belly of muscle on the underside of John's arm. John strokes his palm up Sherlock's shin, disordering the silky dark hairs lying against the pale skin.
"Just imagine how great we'll be when we've had some practice together," John smirks.
Sherlock grins, then they both sober slightly, but Sherlock shakes his head emphatically.
"We're going to have plenty of time to get completely sick of each other," he says.
John laughs, smoothing the back of his hand up the inside of Sherlock's thigh.
"I'd like that," he says, squirming around enough to reach the soft, damp crease of Sherlock's groin with his fingertips.
Sherlock rocks his knee inwards to trap John's fingers.
"You're covered in come," he says approvingly.
John tucks his chin to look down at himself. He stripes his free hand through the pool sitting in the dip of his chest and puts his fingers in his mouth. Sherlock chews on his already flushed and swollen lower lip. He hooks his extended foot under the towel lying on the floor next to the bed and elevates it to bed-level.
"Thanks," John murmurs, plucking the towel from Sherlock's foot and wiping himself clean, before tossing the towel at Sherlock.
Sherlock cants his knee out again to wipe himself, while John draws a shivery line down the inside of his thigh with the edge of his thumbnail. Sherlock drops the towel on the floor again.
"Come here. You're too far away," John says, stirring his knee against Sherlock's hip.
Sherlock groans bitterly, but unfolds himself from the tangle of John's legs and gets off the bed, giving John room to rearrange himself. John wriggles up until he's propped head and shoulders against the wall, knees drawn up a bit. Sherlock gets back onto the bed, managing to curl around him, lying on his side with his head on John's chest, right arm draped across his waist, thighs under his knees. John fingers through the damp curls clinging to Sherlock's temple.
"You want to get some sleep?" he murmurs.
"No," Sherlock says. "You?"
"Not yet," John murmurs, his fingertips following the heated upper edge of Sherlock's ear. "You got a bit of sun. You need to be careful, that skin."
Sherlock turns his face into John's chest, inhaling luxuriously. John trails his fingers down Sherlock's neck and out along his shoulder.
"I could never live anywhere except London," Sherlock says abruptly.
"Me neither. I love London," John says at once.
"And I play the violin," Sherlock says, laying the words out precisely.
"Seriously?" John says.
Sherlock unfurls his left hand from where it's lying between them, and holds it up to display the slightly reddened striation across the pad of each fingertip.
"That's from the strings?" John says. "Wow. I'm impressed."
"You?" Sherlock asks, dropping his hand to John's side.
"I play the stereo," John says, amusement roughening his voice.
"Philistine," Sherlock smiles against John's chest.
"You can be cultured for both of us," John says, going back to combing his fingers through Sherlock's hair.
There's the sound of a door slamming somewhere down the hallway, and then raised voices and fists pounding on doors. John lurches up into a sit, and Sherlock scrambles off the bed onto his feet.
"Med teams out!" someone yells in the hallway. "Evac called for Outpost Rath!"
"Get up," Sherlock snaps, lunging for his clothes still lying on the bathroom floor. "We're going with them."
"Yeah, you're not going on a nighttime evac," John says, rolling off the bed and striding into the bathroom. "I'm supposed to keep you alive, not get you killed."
"Harlow's patrol team is the nearest thing to a lead that I've got," Sherlock says, as both of them pull their clothes on.
"So I'll go," John says.
Sherlock scowls discontentedly but nods after a second's hesitation. John straps on his body armor, and picks up his helmet and assault rifle. They both go out into the hallway, which is now a mill of men in combat gear. John glances up and down the hallway until he catches sight of the watch-officer.
"I need a ride-along on this," he says loudly enough to be heard over the general din.
"Nicholson," the watch-officer calls to a fair-headed medic, "take this guy with you."
Sherlock and John follow Nicholson out of the accommodation building to the concrete pad where several helicopters are standing, rotors turning, as the evacuation teams climb aboard. The first helicopter is already stepping up from the ground. Nicholson climbs aboard one of the others, and John follows him. The helicopter lifts; the turbulence from its rotors tugs at Sherlock's hair and clothes, and then the helicopter sweeps round and flies out into the dark.
Fifty minutes later, Sherlock's standing beside the landing pad next to the hospital when the helicopters return. He knows what the first one is carrying the second it touches the ground. The medics wait for the wheels to settle fully, and pass the stretcher down with slow care. The body on it is completely wrapped in a heavily blood-stained blanket, the face covered. The next helicopter carries two bodies, the next two more. Men are gathering around the landing pad, watching as the stretchers are passed down and carried into the hospital. The dead men's gear is handed down too, and piled in the tented area at one side of the hospital entryway.
The last helicopter hasn't fully contacted the ground when the door is thrown open, and two medics jump down to receive the stretcher from other hands. John scrambles down alongside it, saline bag held aloft in one hand while the other presses to the blood-slicked skin of his patient's neck. John is bare-headed, his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, and the cover of his body armor and the thighs of his combat pants are blood-stained.
"B positive," he says loudly. "Tell me someone is pulling blood - pull blood."
The stretcher is hurried across the pad to the entryway of the hospital.
"Come on, Lane, stay with me," John says urgently to his patient.
"John," Sherlock says, pushing as close to the stretcher as he can among the medics surrounding it. "I need - "
"Get away from us," John snarls, twisting his head towards Sherlock but never taking his eyes off Lane.
Sherlock catches his breath sharply and steps back, even as the stretcher and its attendants are hurried through the double doors leading to the operating rooms.

Buď první, kdo ohodnotí tento článek.

Nový komentář

Přihlásit se
  Ještě nemáte vlastní web? Můžete si jej zdarma založit na

Aktuální články

Není-li uvedeno jinak, jsou zde veřejněná literální díla mým autorským počinem. Je-li dílo převzato od jiného autora, je to jasně uvedené v úvodním článku. Je-li pod dílem podepsán SallyPejr, jedná se o moji práci. Většina postav v sekci Fanfiction jsou vlastnictvím původních autorů, kteří vytvořili díla, na jejichž motivy je fanfikce zaměřena. Není-li uvedeno jinak, jsou doprovodné obrázky převzaty z internetu. Články mohou obsahovat tématiku nevhodnou osobám mladších 18-ti let nebo tématiku, která není vhodná pro většinu společnosti. Nelíbí se, nečtěte...