That Scent Must Sustain (2): I'll Have This Desire
#2 of That Scent Must Sustain
There's no reason to hold back now.
This is part of a series I'm working on; I have six chapters so far. I'll post them all, and update as I finish more. This is an AU based on Patrick Süskind's 'Perfume'- there will be sex, and violence, and death. You know. All the good stuff. Each chapter is brief, 500-1900 words, to make reading it less of a task. It's also up on AO3, FanFiction.net, and DA.
Four days. He had sat in silence for four days thinking of John. His John? He wished. He could be. His pupils dilated in Sherlock's presence, his heart rate increased just enough to be visual, but still he held back. This was what occupied Sherlock's mind as he lay still on the sofa, withdrawn inside his mind. John Hamish Watson, thirty-seven years of age, single, and utterly refusing to acknowledge his own emotional signs.
It was no matter, he would come around. Sherlock knew it. After days of going over the signs, he knew it would be up to him to make the effort. Bothersome, but it needed to be done. He had vague ideas that could potentially be called a plan, but he had not fully sculpted them into a concrete course of action. He had been close when John leaned over him. His scent filled Sherlock's mind, sending his carefully gathered thoughts racing through his mental palace. He had to abandon the plan, at least until John was farther away. He couldn't focus when he was near. The special blend of aromas that comprised John Hamish Watson were distracting, nearly an aphrodisiac. 'I wish I could bottle that', Sherlock thought offhandedly.
His eyes lit up.
Maybe he could.
He turned to assess John's reaction with eager interest. The doctor's mouth was ajar, his pupils dilated and his head slightly tilted. He was confused, but the dilation- yes, yes, he still felt the same.
"Four days. You mean to tell me you spent four days in one of your mind-trances thinking of- of me? Why?"
Sherlock rose on his side, his hair falling down his brow as he stared holes into John.
"Sit, John. Sit with me and I'll tell you."
John sat beside the couch, turning his eyes up to Sherlock's. Without hesitation the detective placed a hand in his hair, running his elegant fingers through the dishwater strands. He felt John tremble beneath him, his breath releasing in ragged strips. It was a perfect response.
"I need you, John. I need you to touch me, to never let me go. I want you to cover every inch of me, to protect me, to work by my side. I want your blood and skin and teeth, your eyes and liver, I want all of you with me forever. I can see your pulse increase when your eyes chance upon me, the way your pupils widen when we lock gazes. I've noticed how you've started using my shower instead of the one upstairs, how you've stopped complaining about my experiments, how you've even stopped correcting Angelo. I think you're the only person who doesn't notice it- but then again, maybe you do."
He arched his eyebrow inquisitively. John stared at him, obviously deep in thought. He had closed his mouth (unfortunately cutting off the pleasant scent of ginger tea lingering on his palate), but his head was still tilted just so slightly to the side. His flush had deepened.
"Sherlock..."
"If I've made you uncomfortable, John, that was not my intention. You did, after all, ask me to-"
"Kiss me."
Sherlock drew back slightly. He hadn't been expecting that sort of response; as usual, John was full of surprises. This was his chance, his perfect invitation, and he would not miss it.
He leaned down, pressing his lips against John's. He was gentle, cautious even, for fear of scaring the fairly reserved doctor away. He didn't anticipate his blogger's eagerness, however. John parted his lips aggressively, pushing Sherlock back against the sofa as he wrapped his arms around him, running his strong hands over every inch of Sherlock's blue robe. They were a tangle of lips and limbs, pressed deeply into the couch as they licked and bit and caressed every inch of each other.
"John," Sherlock whispered, breaking their connection as he caught his breath, "I need you."
John replied with a growl as he sought the detective's soft lips once more, his whole body vibrating with the sound. He stepped back, pulling Sherlock with him, and scooped him up in his strong arms. Without hesitation he moved them to the bedroom, where he lay Sherlock down gently atop the comforter. John knelt above him, staring, before working up the nerve to undress him.
Sherlock never let his gaze deviate from John's face. He wanted to watch, to document every minute of it. He wanted to replay everything in his mind; the sounds, the tastes, and especially the scents.