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Oct. 16th, 2013 06:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
itsnotatrickIn the morning, he feels refreshed.
It is not a wholly pleasant feeling. The morning is new, raw, as raw as the marks on his shoulders and thighs. His body aches from sleep and leftover pain. But he is rested and focused and relaxed. He takes his time waking up, takes advantage of the silence in the room. The peace and quiet. When has he ever enjoyed peace and quiet?
He goes to take a shower and doesn't look in the mirror, but the cold impact of the water stings against his skin. He feels even better afterwards. He dresses efficiently (if not quickly) and calls downstairs for a cab.
-----
The ride back to the house is exquisite agony. Every bump in the road, every just-quick-enough turn that causes friction between him and the seat makes something flare up, brings back some memory of the previous evening. Even his chest is mildly sore, and the odd breath will add that extra bit of sensation, those little sparks of pain. Sherlock keeps his breathing as even as he can, and stares out the window, and only once indulges himself by closing his eyes.
-----
Over the next several days, the marks gradually fade, as does the pain. But in the moments when he still feels them, the jolts inject a brief hum of static into the otherwise constantly-flowing stream of information in his brain. It isn't like morphine; nothing so overwhelming or reliable. But it's something.
When he's alone, when there's room to shift and experiment and he can be certain he won't be interrupted, he allows himself to be aroused by it.
It's a simple thing, surprisingly so for someone who was never tuned in to his body this way before. The right amount of pressure applied to the relevant spots, the right memories called up (with the right amount of detail; not just the crack of a cane across his backside or his shoulder or his side, but the sensation of cuffs around his wrists, the darkness, the scent of Patrick's cologne, the measured tone of his voice)… Sherlock finds himself hard, without the displeasure of it being an inconvenience.
A quiet voice in his head wonders if this is really the best use of his time when he's never bothered about it before, but Sherlock argues that voice away. He's an unemployed ex-junkie living off his brother's charity in a mansion. He's got all the time he's ever going to have. He might as well learn to masturbate properly while he's at it.
At first, he wants to do it the way Jane guided him to, without so much as touching himself, without an ounce of friction. It doesn't work. The feeling isn't intense enough, he gets distracted or frustrated. A hand is necessary, then. Friction is necessary. But Sherlock takes his time, reaching for some shadow of the sense of release he achieved that first time. He delays his own orgasms as long as possible in the effort, holding back with everything he's got while he remembers the chill of ice against his back and the guiding words. Pull everything downwards until it overflows.
Better, at least, than treating the act like a chore.
-----
"If you do plan on seeing him again, you must remain discrete."
Mycroft is in the doorway, offering this piece of advice with no preamble. There's been no discussion of where Sherlock was or what he got up to on that day previous to now, and certainly no mention of any him.
"I'm not planning on seeing him again." It is not, technically, a lie. He hasn't decided one way or another, and thus, no plans have been made.
"Aren't you? I would have thought, by the relaxed slope of your shoulders and the intermittent limp in your left leg when you'd first returned, that you were rather pleased with the affair. In which case you should take every precaution, should you arrange a second assignation, to keep things quiet. But if I'm mistaken…" Here Mycroft smirks, a silent expression of and I know I'm not, "…no matter."
Sherlock looks up from his computer with a pointedly focused gaze. "Is that all?"
Mycroft is still smirking, and in the moment, Sherlock hates him and everything about this conversation.
"Yes, Sherlock. That's all."
It is not a wholly pleasant feeling. The morning is new, raw, as raw as the marks on his shoulders and thighs. His body aches from sleep and leftover pain. But he is rested and focused and relaxed. He takes his time waking up, takes advantage of the silence in the room. The peace and quiet. When has he ever enjoyed peace and quiet?
He goes to take a shower and doesn't look in the mirror, but the cold impact of the water stings against his skin. He feels even better afterwards. He dresses efficiently (if not quickly) and calls downstairs for a cab.
-----
The ride back to the house is exquisite agony. Every bump in the road, every just-quick-enough turn that causes friction between him and the seat makes something flare up, brings back some memory of the previous evening. Even his chest is mildly sore, and the odd breath will add that extra bit of sensation, those little sparks of pain. Sherlock keeps his breathing as even as he can, and stares out the window, and only once indulges himself by closing his eyes.
-----
Over the next several days, the marks gradually fade, as does the pain. But in the moments when he still feels them, the jolts inject a brief hum of static into the otherwise constantly-flowing stream of information in his brain. It isn't like morphine; nothing so overwhelming or reliable. But it's something.
When he's alone, when there's room to shift and experiment and he can be certain he won't be interrupted, he allows himself to be aroused by it.
It's a simple thing, surprisingly so for someone who was never tuned in to his body this way before. The right amount of pressure applied to the relevant spots, the right memories called up (with the right amount of detail; not just the crack of a cane across his backside or his shoulder or his side, but the sensation of cuffs around his wrists, the darkness, the scent of Patrick's cologne, the measured tone of his voice)… Sherlock finds himself hard, without the displeasure of it being an inconvenience.
A quiet voice in his head wonders if this is really the best use of his time when he's never bothered about it before, but Sherlock argues that voice away. He's an unemployed ex-junkie living off his brother's charity in a mansion. He's got all the time he's ever going to have. He might as well learn to masturbate properly while he's at it.
At first, he wants to do it the way Jane guided him to, without so much as touching himself, without an ounce of friction. It doesn't work. The feeling isn't intense enough, he gets distracted or frustrated. A hand is necessary, then. Friction is necessary. But Sherlock takes his time, reaching for some shadow of the sense of release he achieved that first time. He delays his own orgasms as long as possible in the effort, holding back with everything he's got while he remembers the chill of ice against his back and the guiding words. Pull everything downwards until it overflows.
Better, at least, than treating the act like a chore.
-----
"If you do plan on seeing him again, you must remain discrete."
Mycroft is in the doorway, offering this piece of advice with no preamble. There's been no discussion of where Sherlock was or what he got up to on that day previous to now, and certainly no mention of any him.
"I'm not planning on seeing him again." It is not, technically, a lie. He hasn't decided one way or another, and thus, no plans have been made.
"Aren't you? I would have thought, by the relaxed slope of your shoulders and the intermittent limp in your left leg when you'd first returned, that you were rather pleased with the affair. In which case you should take every precaution, should you arrange a second assignation, to keep things quiet. But if I'm mistaken…" Here Mycroft smirks, a silent expression of and I know I'm not, "…no matter."
Sherlock looks up from his computer with a pointedly focused gaze. "Is that all?"
Mycroft is still smirking, and in the moment, Sherlock hates him and everything about this conversation.
"Yes, Sherlock. That's all."
