A BBC Sherlock Extreme AU Story
As promised, here is one, last encore to end Possession. It's an answer to several prompts from some of you (you guys know who you are), who requested for something harder than my usual love scenes. So please be warned, this is really harder than I've usually written Johnlock, and may not be suited to everyone's taste.
It's also an answer to JayyBee's request for John's red pants to make an appearance somewhere in the story before it ends, so here it is. The concept of John's Red Pants belongs to Reapersun, of course. Naturally, I have to publish this story on a Monday. Happy Red Pants Monday, everyone!
More author's notes at the end of the chapter. Reviews are welcome, as always.
They were already kissing by the time they stumbled through the door of the bedroom that Sherlock had chosen in his mind palace.
The kisses were rough, eager. Most definitely hungry. The sort that could only be induced by incredulous joy and immense relief at things suddenly and unexpectedly going right in life at the very last minute.
John's hands were trembling as he roughly pulled off Sherlock's coat from his shoulders and tore his scarf from his neck.
"Are you sure, John?" Sherlock asked in between kisses.
"Yes. Hell, yes," replied John. "I want you to take me. Take me hard."
He captured Sherlock's face in his hands and broke their kiss long enough to whisper fiercely, "I thought I was never going to see you again, you bastard. I thought you've left me. I want your long, hard, lovely cock so deep inside me now that you'll never be able to leave."
"I thought I've already made it clear that I'm never going to let you go, John," said Sherlock.
"Not enough," said John against Sherlock's mouth. "No words could possibly be enough. You'll need to show me."
"Gladly." The word was a deep growl.
John felt Sherlock's long fingers twisting into his hair, abruptly angling his head up the better to meet the slant of Sherlock's kisses— forceful and deep and thorough, almost cruel in their intensity. The sweetest caresses John had ever had.
Dimly, he felt Sherlock stirring him backwards, guiding him through the few steps needed for them to get to the bed. John felt the sumptuous slide of cool silk beneath him as he was lowered onto the wide bed, followed by the weight of his lover on top as Sherlock moved to straddle him, their kiss never breaking.
John moaned softly into Sherlock's mouth as he felt his lover's tongue slide against his in a slow, urgent tease. Then he felt Sherlock finally break the kiss to move his mouth lower, touching his cheek, his jaw with open-mouthed kisses. Ah, the velvet feel of those lips, the warm wetness of his tongue as Sherlock followed the line of John's neck…down, down, finally stopping at that junction where his frantic pulse leaped.
"There was always a risk when we're together, when I was awake," he heard Sherlock murmur against his throat. "Your proximity, the way it affected me in ways I never allowed myself to show you. All throughout my courtship, the hunger was always there, my constant companion, deep down inside. All those times I was alone in your office with you, you'd never guessed at the extent I had to hold myself back, wanting your blood. Wanting all of you.
"You were in grave danger every single second you were with me, John. Did you not realize that? I would look at you looking back at me, thinking you could never guess of the things I longed to do to you. I could have snapped and taken you and I would have reveled in the taking until sanity returned, too late."
"Except you didn't," replied John, kissing Sherlock's hair, stroking his back possessively. "You never lost control, when it came to me. It's the exceptions that matter."
"Oh, John," groaned Sherlock. "I'd like to lose control now."
John felt desire coil inside him, hot and tight, at hearing those words.
"By all means," said John, fiercely.
He felt the sharp sensation of Sherlock's teeth grazing along the line of his neck, followed by his tongue. Just that and nothing more. For now. Still, it was enough to elicit a small moan from John.
"Hmm…delicious John," whispered Sherlock, nuzzling his neck. "You have no idea how long I've lusted after your blood. Though as much as I would want it, I want something else more urgently right now. You've brought this on— taught me to crave for sex. You will give it to me, John. Give yourself to me."
"Yes," said John. "Oh God, yes."
John felt Sherlock's hands skimming over his clothing, the light caress gradually taking on the feel of claws, digging through his shirt. The sudden sound of popping buttons and ripping fabric was a small shock. John felt Sherlock sharply dragging away the remnants of his shirt, replacing the feel of cloth with his clever, wet tongue.
Yes, thought John, winding his hand into Sherlock's curls and arching his body against that hungry, open mouth. More.
A shudder of delight as Sherlock licked across his chest with broad, flat strokes of his tongue, lavishing his nipples with saliva before moving down farther to tease with tongue and teeth, nipping none too gently at his abdomen, down the trail of sparse, coarse hairs just starting at the rim of his trousers.
John felt Sherlock undo the zip of his trousers, felt fingers brushing at what lay beneath. Felt those fingers suddenly cease their teasing.
Then he heard Sherlock's voice, rich and dark with amusement, "Well, well. What do we have here."
John could feel himself flushing. God, how did he look to Sherlock just now, spread beneath him with his trousers pulled down to his knees? Did he appear too eager? Was he—
Sherlock's next words took him by surprise. "I didn't realize that you'd have this side to you, John. I wouldn't have guessed in a million years what you've been hiding beneath those respectable coat-and-tie ensembles that you always wore to the office."
John was sure he had no idea what Sherlock was talking about. He raised his head to look at Sherlock, and did a double take as his eyes alighted on the sight revealed by his open trousers.
For some reason, he was wearing red pants underneath his trousers. A shade of red as bright as arterial blood.
He stared at it for a second more in complete incomprehension before meeting Sherlock's amused gaze.
"Explain," prompted Sherlock.
John started to shake his head, at a total loss on how to go about with an explanation. "You're serious?" he said. "I mean, this is a dream. I could be wearing diapers inside my trousers for all we care."
"Yes, you could be," said Sherlock thoughtfully, reaching out with a finger to trace John's straining member through the damp red cotton of the pants. "Except your mind chose red pants. Why, John?"
John made a noise somewhere between a groan and whimper at the light, teasing touch. "Is it really important right now?" he said through gritted teeth.
Oh God, he needed Sherlock to do that again, but the bastard had withdrawn his hand. And it seemed he was not likely to continue with his advances until John had satisfied this stupid need of his for a good talk in the midst of their heated foreplay.
"Indulge me, John," was all Sherlock said.
John exhaled an exasperated breath, tried to pick up the shattered remnants of his brain and force himself to put together a single, coherent thought.
"Look, maybe this wasn't me at all," he said. "Maybe you're the one who put the red in those pants. Have you thought of it that way?"
"Good," murmured Sherlock, nodding. "Interesting theory. What else?"
"There's nothing else there," snapped John. "You wanted the pants to be red, not me. Red must be your favorite color, isn't it? The most predominant color of your psyche, colored by the most important substance to sustain your existence. Your food. This is you speaking of your need to take me, devour me in a sexual context. Am I wrong?"
"Not quite, but why must it be in the pants, John?" said Sherlock, with the patience of a schoolmaster lecturing to a favorite pupil. "I could have made you wear a red jacket, a red shirt and I would still find you attractive. Why red pants, in particular?"
"I'm sure you'd be willing to tell me that yourself," said John in a low, needy voice.
"It's obvious, isn't it?" obliged Sherlock, already dipping his head down. "I chose to put you in red pants because it's something I'd have to take off you to fuck you properly."
"Oh God," groaned John, unable to believe just how cheesy yet sexy that sounded, coming from Sherlock. He'd never felt so hard in his life.
He saw Sherlock take the elastic band of the pants in his teeth and felt him pull the fabric down. A slow torture in itself. John's head hit the sheets once again as he felt the cool air on his imprisoned cock, now freed from its constraints.
A startled moan erupted from his throat as he felt a line of fire being traced up from the underside of his shaft and he knew he had to raise his head again to see. He lifted his head just in time to see Sherlock, his tongue speared into a fine point as it licked its way up his shaft, pausing to swirl around the head before taking it into his hot, avid mouth.
John fisted a hand, shoved his knuckles against his mouth and bit down hard to staunch his voice, the other hand sliding to grip at Sherlock's curls as he felt Sherlock suck him in, something of his hunger showing at last as he devoured that jut of sexual flesh with such craving, such single-minded intent. John strained upward frantically, thrusting his hips, trying to make Sherlock accept more than what he was taking in, but strong hands very quickly appeared to hold him down, hold him immobile against the bed. Almost immediately, he felt Sherlock's mouth release its hold on him.
"You're not the one in charge here, John," he heard his lover say severely. "Not this time. You are to take anything I'm willing to give you, not impose any of your demands."
Oh God, so he was being punished now. God only knew what else Sherlock had in store for him.
John sobbed out a breath and lay back flat on the bed, panting, looking defiantly and distinctly unapologetic.
A smile in Sherlock's voice as he said, "Such pride. I shall take great pleasure in reducing you to begging soon enough. You know I can, and I will."
John hissed in a breath as he felt Sherlock's thumb and forefinger circle the base of his shaft, felt his tongue return to his glans. But instead of taking it into his mouth, Sherlock was licking at it with small, quick, delicate strokes, like a cat licking cream.
John realized that he was making noises— unfamiliar, agonized little noises at the back of his throat. Wholly embarrassing, and yet he was powerless to stop them from coming out. Just as he was powerless to stop his hips from bucking upward into that cruel, lovely mouth.
Those hands pinning him down once again, and the cold withdrawal of that talented tongue.
"John." Sherlock's voice was laced with warning.
John looked away, his expression dazed. Panting, he started shaking his head. Whether it was from a continued sense of defiance or helplessness, John was no longer sure.
"Stubborn, aren't we?" he heard Sherlock murmur. "Let's see how far we'll have to go before I break you down completely. On your knees, John."
It took a moment for John to obey the command. With a half-stifled grunt, he shifted his suddenly languid legs about him and twisted himself into position, his head pillowed by his forearm.
His flesh leaped as he felt Sherlock's hands on the globes of his arse, massaging the flesh in a firm, ungentle grip. Felt himself being slowly spread open. A harsh intake of breath as he felt Sherlock's tongue licking a hot, wet stripe over that sensitive cleft, so newly exposed.
A jolt went through him at the sensation of that tongue returning to circle on that tight, closed ring of muscle.
Oh, that felt so good. John had no idea how that could feel so good, but it did. That felt— oh, bloody hell…!
John cried out as he felt Sherlock's tongue pierce into him. Again. And again.
Oh. Oh! Oh God…!
Dimly, he felt Sherlock's hands on his thighs, keeping him open, keeping him down as he squirmed and thrashed against that teasing tongue. He couldn't help it, couldn't help but move, even if he knew that Sherlock would retaliate by withdrawing himself completely from him. Which he very soon did.
John bit back an oath, forced himself to take deep calming breaths as his body adjusted to the sudden absence of that hot mouth, those unkind hands.
A minute passed. Two minutes. Sherlock was waiting it out, wearing him out.
Three fucking minutes!
Then John did the unthinkable.
"Please," he whispered.
He heard Sherlock shifting to loom over him. "Louder, John," he said. "I don't think I caught that."
"Please what?" Sherlock asked, his voice rich with amusement and dark triumph. "You'll have to be more specific, John."
Oh, fucking hell!
"I want you inside me," said John. "Please. Now."
"Hmm," murmured Sherlock. "Inasmuch as I would like to oblige, I don't think you're ready."
John turned his face away from his forearm into the pillow below him, and shouted a garbled obscenity into it.
"I don't think you're ready," repeated Sherlock, the fingers of one hand returning to knead John's arse. "You will need further…preparations."
John jumped a little as he felt Sherlock's fingers bite into his arse, just as he simultaneously felt something push itself deep inside him.
John felt his breath leave his body in a rush at the voluptuous intrusion, felt himself closing in on that one finger greedily. He clenched his body eagerly against it, ground against it as Sherlock worked it in and out of his body in smooth, sensuous movements.
John had had rectal exams before, and he had partially dreaded the feel of this act as something that might remind him of the discomfort he had to endure periodically in the hands of his urologist. He need not have feared. This was not simply an impersonal finger quickly feeling around for his prostate. This was a slow, careful exploration, made by a digit— no, two digits now— that sought and found and refused to remain straight, curling and twisting deep inside him and— oh, God!— sending John almost to the brink as they scraped over his prostate.
Sherlock felt the tension suddenly escalate inside John and withdrew his fingers slowly, languidly.
"Turn over, my love," he mumured, but John was too busy moaning into his pillow, almost too far gone to hear or comprehend Sherlock, so that in the end, Sherlock had to be the one to turn him over.
The sight of John completely subdued and open beneath him was almost too much for Sherlock. John was so hard that a single touch could set him off. Sherlock reined himself in and forced his voice to be level, almost gentle, as he said, "It's time, John."
"Fuck, yes," said John, panting. "Come on, then, love."
Sherlock had prepared John very well indeed. He was slick and open, accepting Sherlock smoothly as he made his first push into John's body.
Sherlock had to grit his teeth at the incredible sensation of John, tight and wet, clinging around him, against his flesh. A perfect fit. He knew it. He just knew it. This man was just perfect for him in every way. Breathlessly, he watched the complex play of emotions across John's face as he slowly withdrew a few inches, only to plunge in deeper into his lover. Withdrawing slowly again, then thrusting deeper. Deeper still, until he was inside John to the hilt.
John was trembling as he felt Sherlock's warmth against him. Inside him, Sherlock was huge. Ah, huge.
"John, open your eyes."
He did not realize that his eyes had flitted shut. With some effort, John peeled them open, his lips forming around one single word: "Move."
With a growl, deep and guttural, Sherlock obliged. All gentleness was now gone, all restraint forgotten as he surged into John, his hips snapping against John's as he moved against him and inside him. His thrusts were deep, his pace a combination of urgency and voluptuous deferment. Greedily, he milked the sensation of excruciating pleasure out of each moment, never once taking his eyes off his lover.
"Oh, fuck!" he heard John shout, felt his lover's arms and legs go around him to bring him in and hold him close. Felt John strain against him, taut as a bow, matching him stroke for stroke with a hunger all his own.
His beautiful, beloved John.
John. Oh, John. Could we have believed this to be possible between us, when we first met? Your mind grappling with my mind, your darker leg now wrapping over my silvery one. Unlike closing with unlike across whatever likeness may be found between us. Enough likeness for us to be joined by a rich complicity that has all the elements of what you human beings call love. Not a dangerous disadvantage after all, but the very key to our survival. And the greatest mystery of all- something I would love to unlock with you. But right now...right now, John oh John what you do to me...!
Close. So close now. He wouldn't be able to hold on. He heard John cry out as his hand closed round John's quivering length and squeezed.
"Come, John." The words were growled against John's skin, moist with sweat. "Come on."
He watched as John's lips curled back in a snarl of frustration, watched as John mutely shook his head, an expression of pained confusion on his face. Not yet. For some reason, he was not yet ready. He was strung up too tightly from all the excitement, unable to uncoil. Unable to let go.
And Sherlock couldn't. Couldn't hold on for a second longer.
He moved his head to nuzzle at John's neck. And bit down savagely on that junction where he would normally feed, drawing blood, as he started to unravel in John's tight embrace.
"Oh my God!" screamed John, fisting his hand hard into Sherlock's hair as the sudden, unexpected pain ripped through him and pushed him over the edge.
And then they were falling, shouting their release even as they fell, even as they continued to move together past the boiling rage of their orgasm, through the spreading pool of spasms of intense relief, all the while never letting go of each other.
It took a while for them to recover, and this time it could not— would not— be rushed.
Contentment, at last.
Sherlock lay with his head pillowed on John's chest and felt his lover's heart beat in a still-frantic pace; he felt the rhythmic pull of air in and out of John's lungs, still fast and slightly irregular.
Felt John's chest suddenly heaving.
He looked up to see John quietly laughing.
"God. Oh, God. Sherlock," John said, looking down at him with such tenderness.
Unbridled joy coursed through Sherlock as he watched his John.
"That was…" John trailed off as he searched for the proper word.
"Perfect," supplied Sherlock after a moment. "It was perfect, John."
"A perfect end to everything that we've gone through so far," said Sherlock.
John thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No."
Sherlock frowned, puzzled. "No?"
"A perfect beginning for whatever else lies in store for us," corrected John, smiling.
Sherlock smiled back. "True," he said before settling back down in John's arms.
And it was all quite true. In a way, they had only just begun.
They could both feel it, feel the pull and the lure of great adventures to be shared together in their dreams that would last a lifetime.
They could hardly wait to get started.
Author's Notes: Kirkus reviews posted their appraisal of The Vampire Tapestry by saying that Ms Charnas "uses the inhuman condition to explore the specialness of humankind", and I feel that this is also true of Possession, wherein we contrast Sherlock's vampire coldness with John's warm humanity. I've mentioned this to several readers before, that Sherlock seemed to flow so naturally from my pen, but I had to struggle with writing John. John is a very special character precisely because of his very ordinariness— a trait so easily abused and neglected, and I would never want that to happen to him while I am writing him. John can ground somebody as special and otherworldly as Sherlock (whether or not he is a vampire), and that is a fantastic trait, very rarely found in real life. I hope I have done him justice in this fic, just as I have Sherlock. The entire story is a love song dedicated to these two infinitely special literary characters that Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss have recreated in BBC Sherlock.
The writing of Possession was influenced by two vampire stories— "The Unicorn Tapestry" and "The Lady of the House of Love" by Angela Carter. But while Ms Charnas summed up her vampire Weyland as "I am not the monster who falls in love and is destroyed by his human feelings. I am the monster who stays true", and Ms Carter's vampire really did die to achieve her humanity, I thought it fitting to strike a balance halfway between these two stories for Vampire!Sherlock as a reflection of John's gradual, humanizing influence on him, whether in the BBC series or as a vampire. He is the monster who falls in love and is not destroyed or created, but simply transformed. Hopefully into a good man.
Thank you so much once again for your continued support for this story. It was a great pleasure to be writing for such a lovely audience. No goodbyes; rather, see you all really soon in another story!
Here's a short excerpt on what to expect in the medieval romance AU that I am planning on writing:
"You can heal people," said Lestrade urgently. "Start healing him, then!"
The soldier gazed down at the writhing form in front of him, in the throes of fever and delirium, and he could not help but remember the vivid details of their fight just yesterday. He had bested this man in hand-to-hand combat, yet he was now this man's captive. His hostage.
This man before him who was no less than his enemy.
John raised hooded eyes to glare at Lestrade. "Give me one good reason why I should help you save him?" he asked.
Lestrade swallowed. "If he dies," he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. "If Monseigneur dies, we are all. Dead."
Do tell me what you think! Until next time!