I really don't know why I'm writing tentacle fic, but here it is.
Couldn't find a beta for this, so all mistakes? Mine, mine, mine.
I own nothing (obviously)
It was dull and warm, the low light and the temperate air giving the, medical facility, government, a rather pleasing cocoon-like quality that Sherlock rather appreciated under the circumstances. He had solved the case. That was the irrefutable fact that he clung to during the weeks? - staff change, but only one, eight hour stints, quiet voices, night-time then, Mycroft still wearing those squeaky shoes - days then, that he'd lain here burning under the fever and aching under the inevitable changes his body was going through.
Really, it was bloody stupid of Mycroft to keep things from him. And Sherlock had known, bloody known, that there was something his reticent brother wasn't telling him, but he'd been so caught up in the chase, in the game, in the not-boredom, that he simply hadn't bothered to analyse it. It had been a mistake. Sherlock hated making mistakes.
Sherlock was uncomfortable, unused to sleeping on his side, and his back ached. Well, it should ache but the pain was distant and unimportant. He frowned, or at least tried to - dry mouth, itchy skin, woolly head – opoids then, most probably morphine or a similar derivative. That would explain the far removed pain.
Sherlock tried to remember, years of chasing away boredom having allowed him to train his brain to think around the stuffed, floating effect. He remembered breaking into the darkened lab, knowing this was the place, chasing, shouting, and pain in his shoulder, sharp and unavoidable. He'd been brought here of course, Mycroft's doing as much as his condition being very much unsafe for public hospital consumption.
He remembered hot sweating agony, and one stupid employee – new, must have been – his excited voice cutting through the haze, suggesting that this was a breakthrough, a positive thing, telling Mycroft that Sherlock would be a perfect subject for initial tests. Mycroft's voice had gone midnight-quiet, that's how Sherlock knew Mycroft had spectacularly lost his temper. Sherlock hadn't heard that particular employee's voice again – fired, or more likely removed, Siberia (Mycroft can be terribly vindictive when irritated) – but every other voice since had been more careful in regards to Sherlock's condition within Mycroft's earshot.
Sherlock wished he could roll his eyes right now. Mycroft never had been good at admitting when he was wrong, never mind when his being in the wrong lead to such an astounding cock-up as this. Sherlock had already deduced that this was most likely an irreversible state of affairs, and felt perhaps he should be more upset than he was. Not to worry, when the opiates and the pain had cleared there'd be time a-plenty to make Mycroft cringe.
Sherlock shook off the companionable hand the nurse had placed on his shoulder and stood up, feeling his knees shake as his body tried to adjust to the change in weight and the shift in its centre of gravity. The hand hovered, and Sherlock shot the nurse a look, just daring her to touch him. She startled and blushed, caught ogling his back. Sherlock shuddered, swallowing down a stupendous tantrum, and turned away from the prying eyes.
"Sherlock, you're up!"
Mycroft's jovial voice – jovial, a sure sign Mycroft was drowning in guilt – sent the overly-curious nurse scurrying from the room, and Sherlock glowered after her. He redirected his glare to Mycroft, allowing himself a small bloom of satisfaction when his brother flinched, just a tiny bit, before stepping up to him, eyes careful on Sherlock's face. Nowhere else. Sherlock gritted his teeth.
"Have you brought my things?"
Sherlock swept everything off the bedside table with a flash of his arm, clattering it all to the floor, taking pleasure from the crashing and the destruction. Mycroft eyed the mess and sighed.
"It's just not..."
Sherlock flipped the bed. Mycroft stepped back and stared at the upturned piece of furniture, the metal frame solid and previously bolted to the floor. He looked back at Sherlock, his expression calculating. Sherlock carefully ignored that the bed was far too heavy for him to have flipped with his two hands – and bolted to the floor, hex-headed flange bolts, 20 inches, grade 8, machine heated – and looked back.
"Perhaps..." Mycroft trailed off, then spun on his heel and disappeared through the door. Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, refusing to glance at the upturned bed. He was annoyed at himself now, he had nowhere comfortable to sit. The bed had been the only place that could...accommodate his affliction. The same nurse from before scurried in, carrying a small stool. Sherlock ignored them both.
Sherlock was pacing when he heard John's voice, sharp with irritation, approaching along the corridor. Everything swivelled towards the door, quivering, waiting...
"...bloody ridiculous," John snapped as he entered, Mycroft (wearing an uncharacteristic cowed expression) following meekly behind.
"You must understand," Mycroft was trying but John dismissed him with a flicked hand on seeing Sherlock. Sherlock saw him falter, register the change, then dismiss it.
"Sherlock!" he said, pulling the taller man into an embrace without flinching or asking. Sherlock hugged him back, surprised at how much he had missed his face – not surprised, it's John, delete surprise as false emotion – then stepped out of his arms and back where he could see his expression.
John was wearing his doctor face, assessing Sherlock's condition, noting things for later perusal, before nodding to himself, seeming pleased with whatever conclusions he'd come to.
"I'm taking him home."
And Sherlock had never loved his blogger more.
"Now John," Mycroft started, using that condescending tone that Got Things Done.
"No," John replied, already packing Sherlock's things, "You're not keeping him here in this...this...padded bloody room like a lab rat because you couldn't put your ridiculous big brother rivalry aside for long enough to realise that some 'classified' information is too bloody important to be classified!"
John shouted the last five words, toe to toe with Mycroft, Sherlock in one hand and Sherlock's meagre possessions in the other. Mycroft had gone rather puce in the face, Sherlock noted with something approaching glee.
"His jacket," John commanded and Mycroft walked stiffly to the small cupboard, retrieving the piece of clothing and placing it over Sherlock's shoulders without comment. John gave Sherlock a small, sidelong glance, and pulled him out into the corridor.
The thing about John was, well, he was John. When Mycroft had seen the results of Sherlock's pursuit through the darkened government laboratory, he had been unable to hide the momentary horror. Mummy was angry. With Mycroft, not Sherlock. Sherlock's inner (not so inner) five-year-old had danced. Sherlock had been imagining the rest of the reactions he'd get when it was common knowledge (he couldn't see how it wouldn't become common knowledge – just another thing to set the world's only Consulting Detective apart from others) ever since.
Donovan would be disgusted and fascinated and pleased. Lestrade would be pitying, Anderson would crow (and oh how Sherlock felt galled at the very thought of that), Mrs Hudson would sputter and stare then call him a dear boy and offer tea (and maybe biscuits – the good kind if she'd been shopping beforehand).
John however - John had just noted the difference, and then adapted. John was unique. John was just John.
They'd spent the first afternoon home rearranging the flat to make it easier for Sherlock and his new bulk, and then John had asked to see. Sherlock had shucked off his shirt, stood tense and allowed it. John had looked for forty-seven seconds, (not touched, not once), and Sherlock could tell he was making his own kind of deductions. Then he had handed Sherlock his (modified) shirt back and they hadn't mentioned it again.
John was just...John.
Sherlock knew that, abstractly, he was lucky. Had he anyone but Mycroft as a brother, he would have been poked and prodded and experimented and assigned a number (and a lock-from-the-outside-only room) a long time ago, but Mycroft's clout meant Sherlock was left alone with only John documenting any changes. He was very grateful (although he'd never admit it) for the power his brother wielded as he lay writhing on his bed, hot and uncomfortable and just aching.
Sherlock had a problem, and it wasn't one he could solve with logic. Sherlock was experiencing Feelings. He wanted...all of him wanted...John.
"Sherlock?" John appeared in his doorway as if summoned by thought alone, dishevelled and in only his underpants – white, black trim, efficient, not for the eyes of others – and Sherlock groaned.
His eyes popped open at John's half-alarmed voice, and found his...appendages (not tentacles, never tentacles) had reached for John, wrapping around him and tugging him into the room, towards the bed, towards Sherlock.
But John came, (of course he did, John always came), his measured stride only slightly impeded by the sinuous trails around his forearm, his shoulders, the top of his thigh, tug tug tugging in encouragement.
They were so sensitive, these new feelers, John's skin sliding beneath them sending hot-wet shakes of urge radiating through Sherlock's spine, out into his limbs, into his muscles and into his brain. Sherlock arched up, too much sensation, and then the bed was dipping and his appendages were pulling John over and down, arranging him.
"Sherlock," John said again, but it was a whisper, slow and reverent, and Sherlock thought he might cry when he felt the tips of John's fingers stroking his new extremities. They shivered in pleasure, sending jolts of uh uh uh through Sherlock's stomach and out of his throat.
The insides of John's thighs were a hot slip against Sherlock's hips, just grazing them, maddeningly light, making Sherlock twist for more. John's chest was against Sherlock's and his appendages were...yes, just the tips...narrowing and pressing...
John's lips parted, his breath exhaling on Sherlock's eyelashes, when the weight disappeared in a writhing rush and a breathy little oomph. Sherlock forced his eyes opened and found John wrapped in his appendages, hovering a few inches above Sherlock's chest, legs held in a delicate spread so that Sherlock had an unimpeded view of John's fluttering furl.
"Sherlock," John moaned, head tipped far back, and Sherlock couldn't help but jolt, one of his appendages appearing by his head holding the baby oil Sarah had left in the bathroom that Sherlock had appropriated for an experiment.
Sherlock's fingers trembled as he opened the oil and allowed an appendage to nudge his hand up, pouring onto the narrowed tips that were waiting, quivering in anticipation...
Glistening, two feelers stroked John's erection, when did that happen? and the sensations make Sherlock's palms throb so he placed them on the smooth skin of the back of John's thighs. John moaned, and Sherlock answered it with one of his own, watching with avid interest as a feeler stroked that little furl, probing and teasing.
Sherlock's breath came out in short little huh huh huh's that matched John's half sobbed huffs, his toes curling and flexing as the feeler twisted, shivering inside him with a quick little corkscrew. Sherlock's brain imploded, his whole mind going black, every neuron dedicated to dealing with how John felt inside and out, and how he looked, wrapped and bound and delicious and so very open.
His appendages all crowded around John's breach, shivering and intent, wanting to get inside, because they're you, not them, reacting to your wants, primal hearing primal, and Sherlock wanted to let them because he wanted to feel it all. He wanted everything of him inside John, touching him, owning him, needing him.
"John," he murmured, watching another feeler wriggle up and in beside the first, hearing the way John's breath hitched and caught in his throat, releasing on a whine, "John, please..."
John's head bounced up and down, maybe mindless, maybe not, but Sherlock had to take it as consent because he bloody well needed, and right bloody now. The little furl was beginning to pinken under all the attention, the stretched narrow tips of four feelers inside already, two more working at its edge, and Sherlock was alive with sensation. His body thrummed and hummed in time to John's punctured pants, muscles shuddering beneath their skin, everything about him focused on John and where he was just letting Sherlock breach him so prettily.
Seven feelers, pressing and pulsing, stretching John's anus, and three more, just three more, pushing to twine inside. And then everything that Sherlock was now, everything that he had become, was inside John, stroking him where no one else could, bringing him pleasure, worshipping him.
And John was sobbing, body juddering, begging Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock and then his appendages were rearranging John, my John, my loyal, smart, dumb, moral, brave, stupid, beautiful, blogging, John, and John was lowered until he was lying across Sherlock's chest, boneless and shivering, and Sherlock's erection was slipping inside him, and John was moaning and biting at his collarbone and it was all so very wonderful.
Later, John's fingers in his hair, and John's modest tongue twisting with his own, and John's perfect, scarred, restless, efficient, warm, so warm, body all along Sherlock's side and wrapped there by not sentient, just...reactive appendages, Sherlock was blissed in a way he'd never been on any of the drugs he'd pumped into his system and John...John was just John.
Thanks for reading. Feel free to leave thoughts.