vulgarweed (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
vulgarweed) wrote2013-10-13 08:41 pm
vulgarweed) wrote2013-10-13 08:41 pm
Bone-Fiddle-verse P-With-ridiculous-Plot: "Rode Hard and Put Away Wet"
Title: Rode Hard and Put Away Wet
For:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
htebazytook
Fandom: Sherlock (AU, Bone Fiddle-verse)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17/Explicit
Word Count: ~3300
Warnings/content: Violent weather, ridiculous hurt/comfort, some of the worst dirty talk ever.
Summary: April 3, 1974. He'd heard about this. He'd had an Army buddy from Kansas who'd made lots of jokes about flying houses and wicked witches, even though it was clear that underneath it all, tornadoes weren't funny at all.
You are like a hurricane
There's calm in your eye
And I'm getting blown away . . .
(Neil Young)
April, 1974
John and Sherlock have had an awful fight and John is back down in his trailer again enjoying some peace and quiet (well, not enjoying it all that much really – but pretending he is).
And then the room went nearly dark as night as though someone had turned off the sun. The air felt charged and dangerous and the trailer shook in the assault of the wind. John went to the tiny window, and looked up at the roiling dark green clouds in sudden fear.
He'd heard about this. He'd had an Army buddy from Kansas who'd made lots of jokes about flying houses and wicked witches, even though it was clear that underneath it all, tornadoes weren't funny at all.
But this wasn't supposed to happen here. Not in the mountains. John had never heard of it happening here. Fuck.
Find shelter. That's what you do.
Underground. In a basement. Which he didn't have. Trailers were the worst, he'd always heard. Better to go lie in a ditch.
He was on his way out the door to do just that if he couldn't make it to Mrs. Hudson's house, when the wind started to hit, and all along the ridge he could see trees bent half over in whirling waves. And then above the wind, he heard a familiar sound, oddly distorted but comforting: his own name, shouted in that voice he'd been so sick of hearing mere hours before.
No, John thought. He shouldn't be here. He should be in the basement. That his house has. That's where I should be too. Oh fuck, I might get us both killed.
Still, John came running out from the trailer, and he saw something he'd never thought he'd see: Arthur, racing down the hill at full gallop, leaping shrubs and hillocks and that old grey wooden fence like a steeplechase champion. And on his back, wild-haired and wild-eyed, was Sherlock, still in his pajamas, deep red bathrobe flying out behind him. No saddle, no bridle – just grim determination and a small hint of panic.
“Come on, John, come on,” Sherlock bellowed frantically, as Arthur bore down on John and slowed to a skidding, gravelly almost-stop, still fidgeting and all but bouncing on his hooves. “Get up, he can carry us both a little way, come on.”
“There's no way!” John almost screamed as Sherlock's iron grip on his wrist was achieving nothing. He couldn't scale Arthur's flank with no foothold.
“Wait, this way,” Sherlock said, tugging on Arthur's mane to bring him round by John's pickup truck.
“Oh yeah,” John said, hopping up on the lip of the truck bed and very awkwardly hoisting one leg up as far as it would go. He made a horribly ungainly sort of sideways upward leap and managed to land more or less on Arthur's back, doing something unpleasant to his groin on Arthur's spine. Sherlock still hadn't released John's hand, and that hurt more than it helped. But somehow he got positioned, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist as the wind roared around them and almost blew all three of them over sideways.
As Arthur charged grimly up the hill, they passed Mrs. Hudson's driveway and saw her waving frantically from her basement door – oh, perfect, yes, she had her little cottage built on an incline so the basement opened on level ground, and she was screaming something inaudible at them. Sherlock whipped Arthur's head around towards her, and the horse dutifully cantered right for the door.
The rain came like a shower spigot opening full-blast, cold and blinding, and the hail mingled in with it stung as it pelted down on them. The dismount wasn't at all graceful – John nearly fell into Sherlock's arms-- but it was just in time, and Mrs. Hudson ran out far enough to give Arthur a little pat on the rear to make sure he got into her basement too, ducking his head down under the low ceiling.
So three humans and a horse weathered West Virginia's—and the world's--worst tornado outbreak in recorded history, in the cozy if unfinished confines of Mrs. Hudson's basement, surrounded by garden tools. Which Sherlock was doubtless categorizing in his mind by their potential uses in sensational crimes.
But there was a shuddering roar, and a protest of brick and wood as the house shook, and John hugged Mrs. Hudson close, and – though he would always deny it later – Sherlock clung to them too (though he may have tried to disguise it as protective shielding), and he may or may not have buried his face between them for a moment, before looking up at the low ceiling in something resembling a primitive awe. Even in these circumstances, he could still get to John just by existing– his touch, his scent, his keen, flawed beauty.
The silence that fell when the awful noise, like all the roaring coal trains in the world, had passed was uncanny. The patter of rain sounded far, far away.
“I think it's passed,” Mrs. Hudson said.
“It would seem so,” said Sherlock.
Gingerly, Mrs. Hudson approached the stairs and went up them slowly. “House is still here,” she said with a little smile when she opened the door that led to the kitchen.
“I think we'd know if it wasn't,” said John.
She popped into the kitchen and came back with a carrot in her hand for Arthur. He whuffed and accepted it with a drooly crunch, and thanked her for her hospitality by refraining from relieving himself on her cellar floor. Carefully John and Sherlock opened the basement door and looked warily out, and both were nearly knocked down by over a thousand pounds of claustrophobic horse. Arthur gave them a surly look over his shoulder, as if to inform them that he had no interest in giving them a lift anywhere if it wasn't a dire emergency anymore, and started trotting willfully up the road towards his pasture.
“Sherlock. Guess we gotta assess the damage,” John said, feeling a sick fear in the pit of his stomach as he looked out upon acres of broken branches and strewn debris. It was worse now than it had been in the storm's oncoming, since he was no longer in fear for anyone's life – just for their homes and worldly possessions. He gave a little silent prayer of thanks for Mrs. Hudson's house being intact, at least.
They strode quickly down the hillside to John's trailer.
“Oh,” Sherlock said, and damned if he didn't look disappointed and disgruntled. “It's still here.”
“Sorry,” John said with a little smile to lighten the tension as they turned back up the road towards Sherlock's house. “You didn't set this up on purpose hopin' to wreck it, did you? Sometimes I wonder how far your superpowers go.”
“I can't control the weather, John,” Sherlock chuckled. “But it was a wasted opportunity.”
“Can Mycroft control the weather?”
“No. The CIA's experiments in that regard were a dismal failure. I tease him about them frequently.”
“I love brotherly love.”
Just about then, the gables of Sherlock's house appeared above the bend in the road just as they always had, and John was sure he heard Sherlock exhale. Coming up into the yard, it was clear the tornado had passed close but missed. The incredible collection of historic, rare, inexplicable, and sometimes downright dangerous junk had rearranged itself in fascinating ways – heaps and whorls and clusters. Sherlock vibrated and growled at it, but John was sure he was actually going to enjoy spending days putting it back into the maniacally precise order of chaos Sherlock preferred. “You know, I think it actually looks better,” John said.
But Sherlock had already burst into a sprint behind the house, and then the last worry fell away – the beehives had survived, missing only a few panels and bent in places only slightly, a few restless bees swirling sluggishly around in confusion. John grinned openly to see it, delighted and relieved on Sherlock's behalf.
John noticed then that Sherlock was wincing and limping a little now that the adrenaline had worn off. “Are you all right?”
“Riding bareback at that speed over rough terrain wearing nothing but pajamas is – inadvisable,” Sherlock said between gritted teeth. “I calculate Arthur made four unnecessary jumps too many. He resents being gelded and was trying to do the same to me.”
“Ow,” John groaned and flinched sympathetically.
“It's just as well,” Sherlock drawled in a piteous tone. “I would have made a terrible father . . .”
John looked at him in mild horror, looking for the droll quirk of a hidden crooked smile that made up the creamy candy center of the melodrama. Yup, there it was.
“It's a pity I'm much too old to make a castrato,” Sherlock went on.
“Your voice sounds fine,” John said. “And I like you as a baritone.”
“Yes, you do, don't you?” Sherlock said, leaning low. “It's awful, our bed is intact and I'm no shape to celebrate it. And I may never eliminate normally again . . .”
“Oh, that sounds awful,” John said, deadpan. “I'll call the rescue squad.”
“No, John, don't,” Sherlock said, his voice going husky and almost-pained, but far more expressive of something else. “My injuries are in very intimate parts of my body. I'd much rather have my personal physician taking care of me.”
John let out a breathy little sound. “Well then,” he said, startled at how low his own voice had gone. “Better get inside so I can examine you.”
“Will you examine me very thoroughly?”
“Oh yes. Every single inch of your terrible injuries. I won't miss a single contusion or rupture or hematoma, I promise.”
“And will you kiss it better?”
John couldn't help but fucking giggle, and damned if Sherlock wasn't actually choking on it himself. “Oh yes. Everywhere.” He glanced down. “I can already see there's significant swelling in your penis. I'll have to take a very good look at that.”
They didn't make it upstairs. On the couch, Sherlock lay back and let John strip off his rain-soaked pajama pants and push his legs apart to inspect the damage closely. Sherlock rested one long calf up on the sofa back, and let his head drape off the armrest pathetically, but he had more of the demeanor of a sultan expecting to be serviced than a patient in terrible pain. The hand of his that had dangled nearly to the floor rose up to John's head when John began to examine him closely, using his most precise and accurate medical instruments – his fingers and his mouth. “Oh yes,” John murmured. “Erectile function unimpaired, that's a very good sign.”
“That doesn't mean I'm fine,” Sherlock said, his voice reverberating deeply. “That happens to men when they're hanged too.”
John laughed inappropriately before continuing his slow tease up that long, very healthy-seeming shaft and the perfectly normally responsive slickening head, which he investigated very thoroughly with the inside of his mouth, searching for the smallest of lacerations, the faintest hint of a damaged blood vessel. All seemed well, but the sounds Sherlock was making were suggestive of acute – well, discomfort wasn't really the word, most likely. Best to continue the examination, then.
John kept his hand working there slowly in case any new damage happened to manifest in the next few minutes, and went down to carefully examining Sherlock's testicles and perineum for swellings, hot spots, and tenderness. Naturally the best instrument for this was John's tongue, which was also useful for very carefully massaging and palpitating the anal sphincter and its tender (and oh, so tasty) surroundings. Sherlock's husky moans had increased in pitch and volume, and John was going to say that he understood, it must hurt terribly, but sometimes the pain is worst in healing, when Sherlock cried out, “Tell me if you taste blood.”
That just wasn't sexy. John lifted his head out of Sherlock's traumatized undercarriage far enough to say, “It may be best to tie some cloth in your mouth, so you don't bite off your own tongue in your agony.” Sherlock looked like he considered it for just a moment, then he lowered his lust-darkened eyes in fake contrition. John took the opportunity to ask, “You sure this is okay? You are a little bruised. Really.”
Sherlock laughed softly. “If I wasn't enjoying it, you'd know it.”
“Yeah, I'm sure you'd make that clear.”
Then the room tilted, and John was on his back on the floor, with a very healthy and energetic Sherlock yanking at John's belt buckle and opening his shirt, whipping his jeans and underwear off. “Perhaps the good doctor needs to feel a little more empathy,” he growled. John just whined in relief at the sensation of his long-trapped hard-on freed at last, proud and aching in the cool, humid air. “Maybe he doesn't understand exactly what that evil creature did to me.”
“I sure hope it wasn't anything like this,” John said, giggling again. “Still, dumb animal,” he said, looking up at mussed, flushed, downright edible Sherlock. “Between your thighs, getting ridden hard like that, and not even appreciatin' it.”
“I think it's time to turn the tables,” Sherlock said close in John's ear as he grabbed the tube of KY John had taken out of his medical kit just in case. “I did ride to your rescue.”
“Yes, my knight in shining . . . PJ's. Take me.”
“I will,” Sherlock proclaimed, his voice deep and raspy and full of need.
“Fuck,” John moaned as he spread his legs wide, opening and lifting, feeling his cock leaking onto his belly as he realized he was about to get wrecked. He'd gotten the hang of this now, gotten that versatile little opening trained to realize the push of Sherlock's cock wanting to get in was a very good thing to feel and it would only get better if . . . John gasped and arched upward as Sherlock entered him with one firm, long stroke, sinking into his center. “Oh fuck. Fuck yeah, God, stick it all the way in me, give it to me deep, fuck."
Sherlock's answering moan snapped John's eyes back open to look at Sherlock's face – so fierce and so needy at once, so overwhelmed, perpetually surprised by the intensity of the pleasure his body could give him. John wanted to write poetry about that someday but all that Sherlock was going to get out of him now was that one word, naming the obvious. “fuck, more, please, Sherlock, fuck me. . .”
Even Sherlock was beyond a snappy comeback now as he pulled and pushed with a rolling slide of his lean hips, long straight strokes in and out of John's body, crying out louder and louder with each sweet slap of skin on skin. “Oh . . . John . .” he breathed. “Wrap your legs tight and hold on.”
John did, nearly lifting himself off the floor and giving himself a little leverage to push back, struggling to meet Sherlock halfway on every one of those sure, deep, greedy thrusts. The slick oceanic slide of the thick shaft stroked his prostate through his thin inner walls, and John began to tremble, tightening. Then Sherlock lowered himself, adjusted his position so John's cock was pressed between their sweaty bodies, and with a broken, shocked cry, John hit his peak suddenly and violently, shaking hard and shouting as he filled the gap between their bellies with come.
Thunder cracked over their heads and Sherlock looked up for a split second, completely alert, to the window where he could see the skies were normal storm-gray (like his eyes right now, John thought). Violent rain pattered the roof, but no hail. Sherlock resumed fucking John deep and hard; John still clung to him, kept him in the grasp of his legs, urged him on. “Yeah, that's it, Sherlock. Show me it's all working fine. Come on. Come inside me, nice and hard, wanna feel it, I wanna see it.”
“John.” That was all Sherlock could say as the lightning flashed and his body tensed; the rest was all that sound that drove John mad – that harsh, pleading cry Sherlock gave as he came undone, jerking hard inside John, filling him with convulsive, twitching strokes. For a few glorious moments he was lost, mouth open, eyes scrunched closed, before he shuddered more gently and collapsed onto John's chest. Sherlock slowly inched down a little, withdrawing carefully. John buried his fingers in Sherlock's sweaty curls and massaged his head as their breathing slowed and the rain continued.
“Fujita scale,” Sherlock murmured as he trailed a fingertip in a tiny puddle of come on John's chest, just inches from Sherlock's nose.
“What?”
“Measures a tornado's intensity,” Sherlock said drowsily, “by the damage it causes. Mostly. Other factors come into play of course. Scale of F1 to F5.”
“I think that fuck was at least an F3,” John said, trailing a fingernail down Sherlock's neck.
“I hope I didn't really damage you,” Sherlock said. John couldn't really see his smile, but he could feel it against his damp skin.
“Naw, I can take a pounding,” John said. “When it's you in my . . . storm cellar.”
There was a horrible moment of mortified silence. Even the thunder didn't seem to want to touch that one.
Sherlock shook John's belly with his nearly-silent laughter. “John, your pillow talk is even worse than mine.”
“Nah, I think it's about the same.”
***
For the next few days, Sherlock was obsessed with tornadoes and their destructive effects. He spent all his time by the chattering radios, madly transcribing bulletins from Nixon's baby NOAA and NORAD, having damage reports wired and mailed. Their little holler twister had been part of a mass uprising – 148 tornadoes in 13 states, more than three hundred people dead, the towns of Campbellsburg, Kentucky and Guin, Alabama, and Xenia, Ohio, nearly wiped off the map.
Just once, John was pretty sure he noticed Sherlock's fascination taking a physical form.
“Is this turning you on?” he asked incredulously.
“Perhaps there's a trace of a Pavlovian response,” Sherlock muttered.
John laughed in wonder. “Is that a funnel cloud in your cumulonimbus or are you just happy to see me?”
Sherlock just groaned and shook his head, smiling.
But by the next week, this new-found interest in homicidal weather had vanished nearly as quickly as it came, leaving a nothing but a trail of related debris behind.
“Is it because there's nothing you can do about it?” John asked.
“Weather operates according to laws of atmospheric physics,” Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn't have a mind.”
“That's what you like, isn't it?” John said. “A mind that you can match wits with. A human trail that you can follow.”
“Yeah, that's it,” Sherlock said noncommittally. “That said, though, there is a squall line approaching from the west that suggests there may be some exciting lightning activity around 5:23 PM. So I'd like to request your company in our bedroom at that time.”
“I think I can schedule you in.”
~~end
As to why Sherlock made the vehicular choice that he did (besides getting Arthur out of harm's way too) I drew a helpful map to illustrate why that was smart!
Author's note: The tornado outbreak on April 3-4, 1974, was the worst in recorded history until the record was surpassed in 2011. 148 tornadoes touched down in 13 states and killed more than 300 people; the towns of Cambellsburg, KY and Xenia, OH were partially wiped off the map. (I went to college just a few miles up the road from Xenia, in Yellow Springs, and it was still a traumatic memory in the region as of the late '80s and early 90s). Tornadoes are rare in West Virginia and the rest of the Appalachian region, but they do happen. In the '74 outbreak, there were indeed several just south and east of Beckley, right about where Arthel County might be. I did take fictional liberties, though, as the WV and southwestern VA ones all happened in the dead of night and just before dawn.
For:
htebazytookFandom: Sherlock (AU, Bone Fiddle-verse)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17/Explicit
Word Count: ~3300
Warnings/content: Violent weather, ridiculous hurt/comfort, some of the worst dirty talk ever.
Summary: April 3, 1974. He'd heard about this. He'd had an Army buddy from Kansas who'd made lots of jokes about flying houses and wicked witches, even though it was clear that underneath it all, tornadoes weren't funny at all.
You are like a hurricane
There's calm in your eye
And I'm getting blown away . . .
(Neil Young)
April, 1974
John and Sherlock have had an awful fight and John is back down in his trailer again enjoying some peace and quiet (well, not enjoying it all that much really – but pretending he is).
And then the room went nearly dark as night as though someone had turned off the sun. The air felt charged and dangerous and the trailer shook in the assault of the wind. John went to the tiny window, and looked up at the roiling dark green clouds in sudden fear.
He'd heard about this. He'd had an Army buddy from Kansas who'd made lots of jokes about flying houses and wicked witches, even though it was clear that underneath it all, tornadoes weren't funny at all.
But this wasn't supposed to happen here. Not in the mountains. John had never heard of it happening here. Fuck.
Find shelter. That's what you do.
Underground. In a basement. Which he didn't have. Trailers were the worst, he'd always heard. Better to go lie in a ditch.
He was on his way out the door to do just that if he couldn't make it to Mrs. Hudson's house, when the wind started to hit, and all along the ridge he could see trees bent half over in whirling waves. And then above the wind, he heard a familiar sound, oddly distorted but comforting: his own name, shouted in that voice he'd been so sick of hearing mere hours before.
No, John thought. He shouldn't be here. He should be in the basement. That his house has. That's where I should be too. Oh fuck, I might get us both killed.
Still, John came running out from the trailer, and he saw something he'd never thought he'd see: Arthur, racing down the hill at full gallop, leaping shrubs and hillocks and that old grey wooden fence like a steeplechase champion. And on his back, wild-haired and wild-eyed, was Sherlock, still in his pajamas, deep red bathrobe flying out behind him. No saddle, no bridle – just grim determination and a small hint of panic.
“Come on, John, come on,” Sherlock bellowed frantically, as Arthur bore down on John and slowed to a skidding, gravelly almost-stop, still fidgeting and all but bouncing on his hooves. “Get up, he can carry us both a little way, come on.”
“There's no way!” John almost screamed as Sherlock's iron grip on his wrist was achieving nothing. He couldn't scale Arthur's flank with no foothold.
“Wait, this way,” Sherlock said, tugging on Arthur's mane to bring him round by John's pickup truck.
“Oh yeah,” John said, hopping up on the lip of the truck bed and very awkwardly hoisting one leg up as far as it would go. He made a horribly ungainly sort of sideways upward leap and managed to land more or less on Arthur's back, doing something unpleasant to his groin on Arthur's spine. Sherlock still hadn't released John's hand, and that hurt more than it helped. But somehow he got positioned, and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist as the wind roared around them and almost blew all three of them over sideways.
As Arthur charged grimly up the hill, they passed Mrs. Hudson's driveway and saw her waving frantically from her basement door – oh, perfect, yes, she had her little cottage built on an incline so the basement opened on level ground, and she was screaming something inaudible at them. Sherlock whipped Arthur's head around towards her, and the horse dutifully cantered right for the door.
The rain came like a shower spigot opening full-blast, cold and blinding, and the hail mingled in with it stung as it pelted down on them. The dismount wasn't at all graceful – John nearly fell into Sherlock's arms-- but it was just in time, and Mrs. Hudson ran out far enough to give Arthur a little pat on the rear to make sure he got into her basement too, ducking his head down under the low ceiling.
So three humans and a horse weathered West Virginia's—and the world's--worst tornado outbreak in recorded history, in the cozy if unfinished confines of Mrs. Hudson's basement, surrounded by garden tools. Which Sherlock was doubtless categorizing in his mind by their potential uses in sensational crimes.
But there was a shuddering roar, and a protest of brick and wood as the house shook, and John hugged Mrs. Hudson close, and – though he would always deny it later – Sherlock clung to them too (though he may have tried to disguise it as protective shielding), and he may or may not have buried his face between them for a moment, before looking up at the low ceiling in something resembling a primitive awe. Even in these circumstances, he could still get to John just by existing– his touch, his scent, his keen, flawed beauty.
The silence that fell when the awful noise, like all the roaring coal trains in the world, had passed was uncanny. The patter of rain sounded far, far away.
“I think it's passed,” Mrs. Hudson said.
“It would seem so,” said Sherlock.
Gingerly, Mrs. Hudson approached the stairs and went up them slowly. “House is still here,” she said with a little smile when she opened the door that led to the kitchen.
“I think we'd know if it wasn't,” said John.
She popped into the kitchen and came back with a carrot in her hand for Arthur. He whuffed and accepted it with a drooly crunch, and thanked her for her hospitality by refraining from relieving himself on her cellar floor. Carefully John and Sherlock opened the basement door and looked warily out, and both were nearly knocked down by over a thousand pounds of claustrophobic horse. Arthur gave them a surly look over his shoulder, as if to inform them that he had no interest in giving them a lift anywhere if it wasn't a dire emergency anymore, and started trotting willfully up the road towards his pasture.
“Sherlock. Guess we gotta assess the damage,” John said, feeling a sick fear in the pit of his stomach as he looked out upon acres of broken branches and strewn debris. It was worse now than it had been in the storm's oncoming, since he was no longer in fear for anyone's life – just for their homes and worldly possessions. He gave a little silent prayer of thanks for Mrs. Hudson's house being intact, at least.
They strode quickly down the hillside to John's trailer.
“Oh,” Sherlock said, and damned if he didn't look disappointed and disgruntled. “It's still here.”
“Sorry,” John said with a little smile to lighten the tension as they turned back up the road towards Sherlock's house. “You didn't set this up on purpose hopin' to wreck it, did you? Sometimes I wonder how far your superpowers go.”
“I can't control the weather, John,” Sherlock chuckled. “But it was a wasted opportunity.”
“Can Mycroft control the weather?”
“No. The CIA's experiments in that regard were a dismal failure. I tease him about them frequently.”
“I love brotherly love.”
Just about then, the gables of Sherlock's house appeared above the bend in the road just as they always had, and John was sure he heard Sherlock exhale. Coming up into the yard, it was clear the tornado had passed close but missed. The incredible collection of historic, rare, inexplicable, and sometimes downright dangerous junk had rearranged itself in fascinating ways – heaps and whorls and clusters. Sherlock vibrated and growled at it, but John was sure he was actually going to enjoy spending days putting it back into the maniacally precise order of chaos Sherlock preferred. “You know, I think it actually looks better,” John said.
But Sherlock had already burst into a sprint behind the house, and then the last worry fell away – the beehives had survived, missing only a few panels and bent in places only slightly, a few restless bees swirling sluggishly around in confusion. John grinned openly to see it, delighted and relieved on Sherlock's behalf.
John noticed then that Sherlock was wincing and limping a little now that the adrenaline had worn off. “Are you all right?”
“Riding bareback at that speed over rough terrain wearing nothing but pajamas is – inadvisable,” Sherlock said between gritted teeth. “I calculate Arthur made four unnecessary jumps too many. He resents being gelded and was trying to do the same to me.”
“Ow,” John groaned and flinched sympathetically.
“It's just as well,” Sherlock drawled in a piteous tone. “I would have made a terrible father . . .”
John looked at him in mild horror, looking for the droll quirk of a hidden crooked smile that made up the creamy candy center of the melodrama. Yup, there it was.
“It's a pity I'm much too old to make a castrato,” Sherlock went on.
“Your voice sounds fine,” John said. “And I like you as a baritone.”
“Yes, you do, don't you?” Sherlock said, leaning low. “It's awful, our bed is intact and I'm no shape to celebrate it. And I may never eliminate normally again . . .”
“Oh, that sounds awful,” John said, deadpan. “I'll call the rescue squad.”
“No, John, don't,” Sherlock said, his voice going husky and almost-pained, but far more expressive of something else. “My injuries are in very intimate parts of my body. I'd much rather have my personal physician taking care of me.”
John let out a breathy little sound. “Well then,” he said, startled at how low his own voice had gone. “Better get inside so I can examine you.”
“Will you examine me very thoroughly?”
“Oh yes. Every single inch of your terrible injuries. I won't miss a single contusion or rupture or hematoma, I promise.”
“And will you kiss it better?”
John couldn't help but fucking giggle, and damned if Sherlock wasn't actually choking on it himself. “Oh yes. Everywhere.” He glanced down. “I can already see there's significant swelling in your penis. I'll have to take a very good look at that.”
They didn't make it upstairs. On the couch, Sherlock lay back and let John strip off his rain-soaked pajama pants and push his legs apart to inspect the damage closely. Sherlock rested one long calf up on the sofa back, and let his head drape off the armrest pathetically, but he had more of the demeanor of a sultan expecting to be serviced than a patient in terrible pain. The hand of his that had dangled nearly to the floor rose up to John's head when John began to examine him closely, using his most precise and accurate medical instruments – his fingers and his mouth. “Oh yes,” John murmured. “Erectile function unimpaired, that's a very good sign.”
“That doesn't mean I'm fine,” Sherlock said, his voice reverberating deeply. “That happens to men when they're hanged too.”
John laughed inappropriately before continuing his slow tease up that long, very healthy-seeming shaft and the perfectly normally responsive slickening head, which he investigated very thoroughly with the inside of his mouth, searching for the smallest of lacerations, the faintest hint of a damaged blood vessel. All seemed well, but the sounds Sherlock was making were suggestive of acute – well, discomfort wasn't really the word, most likely. Best to continue the examination, then.
John kept his hand working there slowly in case any new damage happened to manifest in the next few minutes, and went down to carefully examining Sherlock's testicles and perineum for swellings, hot spots, and tenderness. Naturally the best instrument for this was John's tongue, which was also useful for very carefully massaging and palpitating the anal sphincter and its tender (and oh, so tasty) surroundings. Sherlock's husky moans had increased in pitch and volume, and John was going to say that he understood, it must hurt terribly, but sometimes the pain is worst in healing, when Sherlock cried out, “Tell me if you taste blood.”
That just wasn't sexy. John lifted his head out of Sherlock's traumatized undercarriage far enough to say, “It may be best to tie some cloth in your mouth, so you don't bite off your own tongue in your agony.” Sherlock looked like he considered it for just a moment, then he lowered his lust-darkened eyes in fake contrition. John took the opportunity to ask, “You sure this is okay? You are a little bruised. Really.”
Sherlock laughed softly. “If I wasn't enjoying it, you'd know it.”
“Yeah, I'm sure you'd make that clear.”
Then the room tilted, and John was on his back on the floor, with a very healthy and energetic Sherlock yanking at John's belt buckle and opening his shirt, whipping his jeans and underwear off. “Perhaps the good doctor needs to feel a little more empathy,” he growled. John just whined in relief at the sensation of his long-trapped hard-on freed at last, proud and aching in the cool, humid air. “Maybe he doesn't understand exactly what that evil creature did to me.”
“I sure hope it wasn't anything like this,” John said, giggling again. “Still, dumb animal,” he said, looking up at mussed, flushed, downright edible Sherlock. “Between your thighs, getting ridden hard like that, and not even appreciatin' it.”
“I think it's time to turn the tables,” Sherlock said close in John's ear as he grabbed the tube of KY John had taken out of his medical kit just in case. “I did ride to your rescue.”
“Yes, my knight in shining . . . PJ's. Take me.”
“I will,” Sherlock proclaimed, his voice deep and raspy and full of need.
“Fuck,” John moaned as he spread his legs wide, opening and lifting, feeling his cock leaking onto his belly as he realized he was about to get wrecked. He'd gotten the hang of this now, gotten that versatile little opening trained to realize the push of Sherlock's cock wanting to get in was a very good thing to feel and it would only get better if . . . John gasped and arched upward as Sherlock entered him with one firm, long stroke, sinking into his center. “Oh fuck. Fuck yeah, God, stick it all the way in me, give it to me deep, fuck."
Sherlock's answering moan snapped John's eyes back open to look at Sherlock's face – so fierce and so needy at once, so overwhelmed, perpetually surprised by the intensity of the pleasure his body could give him. John wanted to write poetry about that someday but all that Sherlock was going to get out of him now was that one word, naming the obvious. “fuck, more, please, Sherlock, fuck me. . .”
Even Sherlock was beyond a snappy comeback now as he pulled and pushed with a rolling slide of his lean hips, long straight strokes in and out of John's body, crying out louder and louder with each sweet slap of skin on skin. “Oh . . . John . .” he breathed. “Wrap your legs tight and hold on.”
John did, nearly lifting himself off the floor and giving himself a little leverage to push back, struggling to meet Sherlock halfway on every one of those sure, deep, greedy thrusts. The slick oceanic slide of the thick shaft stroked his prostate through his thin inner walls, and John began to tremble, tightening. Then Sherlock lowered himself, adjusted his position so John's cock was pressed between their sweaty bodies, and with a broken, shocked cry, John hit his peak suddenly and violently, shaking hard and shouting as he filled the gap between their bellies with come.
Thunder cracked over their heads and Sherlock looked up for a split second, completely alert, to the window where he could see the skies were normal storm-gray (like his eyes right now, John thought). Violent rain pattered the roof, but no hail. Sherlock resumed fucking John deep and hard; John still clung to him, kept him in the grasp of his legs, urged him on. “Yeah, that's it, Sherlock. Show me it's all working fine. Come on. Come inside me, nice and hard, wanna feel it, I wanna see it.”
“John.” That was all Sherlock could say as the lightning flashed and his body tensed; the rest was all that sound that drove John mad – that harsh, pleading cry Sherlock gave as he came undone, jerking hard inside John, filling him with convulsive, twitching strokes. For a few glorious moments he was lost, mouth open, eyes scrunched closed, before he shuddered more gently and collapsed onto John's chest. Sherlock slowly inched down a little, withdrawing carefully. John buried his fingers in Sherlock's sweaty curls and massaged his head as their breathing slowed and the rain continued.
“Fujita scale,” Sherlock murmured as he trailed a fingertip in a tiny puddle of come on John's chest, just inches from Sherlock's nose.
“What?”
“Measures a tornado's intensity,” Sherlock said drowsily, “by the damage it causes. Mostly. Other factors come into play of course. Scale of F1 to F5.”
“I think that fuck was at least an F3,” John said, trailing a fingernail down Sherlock's neck.
“I hope I didn't really damage you,” Sherlock said. John couldn't really see his smile, but he could feel it against his damp skin.
“Naw, I can take a pounding,” John said. “When it's you in my . . . storm cellar.”
There was a horrible moment of mortified silence. Even the thunder didn't seem to want to touch that one.
Sherlock shook John's belly with his nearly-silent laughter. “John, your pillow talk is even worse than mine.”
“Nah, I think it's about the same.”
***
For the next few days, Sherlock was obsessed with tornadoes and their destructive effects. He spent all his time by the chattering radios, madly transcribing bulletins from Nixon's baby NOAA and NORAD, having damage reports wired and mailed. Their little holler twister had been part of a mass uprising – 148 tornadoes in 13 states, more than three hundred people dead, the towns of Campbellsburg, Kentucky and Guin, Alabama, and Xenia, Ohio, nearly wiped off the map.
Just once, John was pretty sure he noticed Sherlock's fascination taking a physical form.
“Is this turning you on?” he asked incredulously.
“Perhaps there's a trace of a Pavlovian response,” Sherlock muttered.
John laughed in wonder. “Is that a funnel cloud in your cumulonimbus or are you just happy to see me?”
Sherlock just groaned and shook his head, smiling.
But by the next week, this new-found interest in homicidal weather had vanished nearly as quickly as it came, leaving a nothing but a trail of related debris behind.
“Is it because there's nothing you can do about it?” John asked.
“Weather operates according to laws of atmospheric physics,” Sherlock shrugged. “It doesn't have a mind.”
“That's what you like, isn't it?” John said. “A mind that you can match wits with. A human trail that you can follow.”
“Yeah, that's it,” Sherlock said noncommittally. “That said, though, there is a squall line approaching from the west that suggests there may be some exciting lightning activity around 5:23 PM. So I'd like to request your company in our bedroom at that time.”
“I think I can schedule you in.”
~~end
As to why Sherlock made the vehicular choice that he did (besides getting Arthur out of harm's way too) I drew a helpful map to illustrate why that was smart!
Author's note: The tornado outbreak on April 3-4, 1974, was the worst in recorded history until the record was surpassed in 2011. 148 tornadoes touched down in 13 states and killed more than 300 people; the towns of Cambellsburg, KY and Xenia, OH were partially wiped off the map. (I went to college just a few miles up the road from Xenia, in Yellow Springs, and it was still a traumatic memory in the region as of the late '80s and early 90s). Tornadoes are rare in West Virginia and the rest of the Appalachian region, but they do happen. In the '74 outbreak, there were indeed several just south and east of Beckley, right about where Arthel County might be. I did take fictional liberties, though, as the WV and southwestern VA ones all happened in the dead of night and just before dawn.