A friendly smack or two
Feb. 12th, 2014 07:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
majestic_duxkPairing: Sherlock and John
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: G
Kinks: touch
Summary: Sherlock has never been much for touch. So he can't understand it when John casually touches him
for this kinkmeme request
Sherlock thought he knew everything there was to know about John. And it wasn’t that he was boring – oh far from it. There was some give within a certain set of variables, and that was what kept things interesting. Aside from the fact that it was John and he liked John.
But sometimes, he was surprised.
“No Sherlock! Don’t touch that.”
Sherlock withdrew his fingers rapidly, and blinked slightly. John had rapped him across the knuckles.
“I don’t want you experimenting with my lunch. I miss enough meals as it is. Surely you have some cadmium sugar…”
“Arsenic,” corrected Sherlock absently, rubbing his knuckles.
“Poisonous is the point. You don’t need my lunch. Go buy something fresh if you want but hands off my lunch.”
Sherlock hadn’t gone and got anything new. Instead he threw himself on the couch and stared at his knuckles. Why had John done that? Did he think he was a child? He recalled that children were occasionally rapped across the knuckles, in form of a mild punishment? And why would John be using such a form?
Sherlock… didn’t know. And that was unacceptable.
------------
“Oi Sherlock! Stop prodding my lunch. If you actually want to eat I am happy to make yo something, but I don’t trust you sticking your hands in there.”
John didn’t even get up this time. So it wasn’t the same response. Was it proximity? Did John need to be closer in order to trigger the physical reaction? This obviously required more research.
---------------
John was talking quietly to Lestrade.
“John,” Sherlock demanded. “I need you to look at this.”
Both men made their way to Sherlock, although John was rolling his eyes. “And what exactly do you need me for, Sherlock? I doubt there is anything I could observe that you haven’t already seen.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Of course. But it is good for the police to see that you, a civilian can observe so much more than they.”
“That isn’t quite fair, Sherlock.” Lestrade started to say. While John joined in with, “Not just a civilian, Sherlock. I’m a doctor and war veteran. Both of those help with observation. Now where I am I supposed to be looking.”
“Right here John!” Sherlock pointed with a flourish. John looked impressed.
“I can’t see round you, Sherlock. If you want me to look there, you’ll have… oh bugger it.” And John grabbed Sherlock lightly round the waist, and twisted him around, before dropping to the ground to look at where Sherlock had pointed.
John was talking, but Sherlock wasn’t hearing. What had just happened? Why had John done that? He hadn’t seemed angry. He sounded much the same as usual – that combination of affectionate and exasperated. But he laid hands on Sherlock. It was remarkably intimate.
But it didn’t seem sexual. John’s hands didn’t linger, and he went immediately to his next task. Sherlock’s brow furrowed. So what was the intent behind such a thing? In his experience, touch was associated with strong emotion – anger, passion, anger. But John didn’t appear to have any strong emotion behind that particular touch.
“… 24 hours. Sherlock, are you even listening to me?”
Obviously this required more research.
-----------------------------------------------
Sherlock continued to catalogue John’s physical incursions. There seemed no pattern to the touches.
A (friendly) hand on the shoulder. But was it friendly? And why the shoulder? It wasn’t the closest point of his body to John’s hand. He could have easily reached for his wrist. Or hip. Sherlock calculated that there were 15 easily available and socially acceptable body parts that John could have reached for that had better access. So why the shoulder? It had been his left shoulder, so was there some synchronicity with his own wound?
An (exasperated) bump with the shoulder. John’s left shoulder had made contact with Sherlock’s arm. It hadn’t been hard. It hadn’t hurt. It had been accompanied with an exasperated ‘Oh Sherlock’, thus leading to the conclusion that the movement had in and of itself been
A (distracted) tap with fingertips. John had been on his way out the door, and had just tapped Sherlock gently. Sherlock was still unsure as to the actual reason. Was it apology for leaving him? A reminder that he was actually leaving, and would not be able to fetch a pen?
Weeks passed, and Sherlock catalogues each and every touch, no matter how small. It was frustrating to not have any conclusive evidence any which way.
He stood in the kitchen, holding the latest petri dish of eyeballs (6 weeks at sub oxic conditions had not slowed the deterioration substantially. That was interesting. He must send John to get more eyeballs from Molly), and once again catalogues his findings.
There was no recognisable pattern. The type of touch (pressure, movement) was changeable, as was the place of touch (although the majority of touches were centered on the arms, hands and head, there were enough in other place – waist, leg, knee, shoulder – for the pattern to be unpredictable.)
Similarly, the intent behind the touches changed – from exasperation, to excitement, attention getting, safety (although Sherlock still believed that John had not needed to bodily hail him back from the edge of the building – he hadn’t been going to jump (again)), (self) comfort. There was a little more consistency here though. Not one touch had been instigated in anger.
This had been an interesting discover. One Sherlock had to link to his own response to the touch. He welcomed it, which was not an entirely welcome realisation. Sherlock had always shied away from physical contact, preferring to not sully himself with the great unwashed. So why was John different? He was pondering his own fallibility when John interrupted.
“Out of the way Sherlock,” John cheerfully called, giving his behind a firm tap on the way past. “I’m dying for a cuppa and your… Good grief! How old are those eyeballs? Their all green! And if those are the ones I am thinking of I am sure they were different colours… Don’t we have rules about how old body parts are before they have to be disposed of?”
“They are more like guidelines, John,” Sherlock replied, feeling slightly out of his depth. That had been a familial touch to his arse. “And it is more to do with the potential odours. As you should have observed you cannot smell anything, therefore they are within the allowable limits of what can be stored in the refridgerator.”
What exactly had John been thinking? This was the first time he touched that part of his anatomy. Traditionally either an erogenous zone, or perhaps used for punishment, Sherlock had felt no strong emotions from John, nothing that indicated that Sherlock’s person was in any immediate danger.
That, dear brother, was what we may refer to as a ‘manly pat on the arse’ MH
I notice you didn’t bother help to catalogue any other move SH Sherlock rapidly texted in reply.
You did not seem to require assistance with your assessment of previous situations MH
I didn’t require it now. SH
He cleared his throat. “John.”
“Yes, Sherlock?”
“Was that a…” He hated to use any of Mycroft’s expressions, regardless of how unlikely the words were to ever pass his brothers lips. “A ‘manly pat on the arse.’
John paused in the process of adding hot water to the tea mugs. “Well. I’m a man. And that was a pat. On your – another mans’ – arse. So yes,” he concluded, still cheerily. “That was a ‘manly pat on the arse.’ Well deduced, Sherlock!”
Sherlock pursed his lips. Damn it. He’d liked that too.
John seemed to pick up on his unease, and turned to face him, propping one hip against the kitchen counter. “You know Sherlock, it’s absolutely acceptable to like touch. To welcome it even. It makes us human.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Most humans may require it John, but this body is merely transport. It requires a bare minimum of food and sleep, but other than that it has no inherent needs.”
John frowned slightly, then his face cleared. “I know what your problem is. You need a hug.” He grinned broadly, and opened his arms wide. “Now come here you!”
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: G
Kinks: touch
Summary: Sherlock has never been much for touch. So he can't understand it when John casually touches him
for this kinkmeme request
Sherlock thought he knew everything there was to know about John. And it wasn’t that he was boring – oh far from it. There was some give within a certain set of variables, and that was what kept things interesting. Aside from the fact that it was John and he liked John.
But sometimes, he was surprised.
“No Sherlock! Don’t touch that.”
Sherlock withdrew his fingers rapidly, and blinked slightly. John had rapped him across the knuckles.
“I don’t want you experimenting with my lunch. I miss enough meals as it is. Surely you have some cadmium sugar…”
“Arsenic,” corrected Sherlock absently, rubbing his knuckles.
“Poisonous is the point. You don’t need my lunch. Go buy something fresh if you want but hands off my lunch.”
Sherlock hadn’t gone and got anything new. Instead he threw himself on the couch and stared at his knuckles. Why had John done that? Did he think he was a child? He recalled that children were occasionally rapped across the knuckles, in form of a mild punishment? And why would John be using such a form?
Sherlock… didn’t know. And that was unacceptable.
------------
“Oi Sherlock! Stop prodding my lunch. If you actually want to eat I am happy to make yo something, but I don’t trust you sticking your hands in there.”
John didn’t even get up this time. So it wasn’t the same response. Was it proximity? Did John need to be closer in order to trigger the physical reaction? This obviously required more research.
---------------
John was talking quietly to Lestrade.
“John,” Sherlock demanded. “I need you to look at this.”
Both men made their way to Sherlock, although John was rolling his eyes. “And what exactly do you need me for, Sherlock? I doubt there is anything I could observe that you haven’t already seen.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Of course. But it is good for the police to see that you, a civilian can observe so much more than they.”
“That isn’t quite fair, Sherlock.” Lestrade started to say. While John joined in with, “Not just a civilian, Sherlock. I’m a doctor and war veteran. Both of those help with observation. Now where I am I supposed to be looking.”
“Right here John!” Sherlock pointed with a flourish. John looked impressed.
“I can’t see round you, Sherlock. If you want me to look there, you’ll have… oh bugger it.” And John grabbed Sherlock lightly round the waist, and twisted him around, before dropping to the ground to look at where Sherlock had pointed.
John was talking, but Sherlock wasn’t hearing. What had just happened? Why had John done that? He hadn’t seemed angry. He sounded much the same as usual – that combination of affectionate and exasperated. But he laid hands on Sherlock. It was remarkably intimate.
But it didn’t seem sexual. John’s hands didn’t linger, and he went immediately to his next task. Sherlock’s brow furrowed. So what was the intent behind such a thing? In his experience, touch was associated with strong emotion – anger, passion, anger. But John didn’t appear to have any strong emotion behind that particular touch.
“… 24 hours. Sherlock, are you even listening to me?”
Obviously this required more research.
-----------------------------------------------
Sherlock continued to catalogue John’s physical incursions. There seemed no pattern to the touches.
A (friendly) hand on the shoulder. But was it friendly? And why the shoulder? It wasn’t the closest point of his body to John’s hand. He could have easily reached for his wrist. Or hip. Sherlock calculated that there were 15 easily available and socially acceptable body parts that John could have reached for that had better access. So why the shoulder? It had been his left shoulder, so was there some synchronicity with his own wound?
An (exasperated) bump with the shoulder. John’s left shoulder had made contact with Sherlock’s arm. It hadn’t been hard. It hadn’t hurt. It had been accompanied with an exasperated ‘Oh Sherlock’, thus leading to the conclusion that the movement had in and of itself been
A (distracted) tap with fingertips. John had been on his way out the door, and had just tapped Sherlock gently. Sherlock was still unsure as to the actual reason. Was it apology for leaving him? A reminder that he was actually leaving, and would not be able to fetch a pen?
Weeks passed, and Sherlock catalogues each and every touch, no matter how small. It was frustrating to not have any conclusive evidence any which way.
He stood in the kitchen, holding the latest petri dish of eyeballs (6 weeks at sub oxic conditions had not slowed the deterioration substantially. That was interesting. He must send John to get more eyeballs from Molly), and once again catalogues his findings.
There was no recognisable pattern. The type of touch (pressure, movement) was changeable, as was the place of touch (although the majority of touches were centered on the arms, hands and head, there were enough in other place – waist, leg, knee, shoulder – for the pattern to be unpredictable.)
Similarly, the intent behind the touches changed – from exasperation, to excitement, attention getting, safety (although Sherlock still believed that John had not needed to bodily hail him back from the edge of the building – he hadn’t been going to jump (again)), (self) comfort. There was a little more consistency here though. Not one touch had been instigated in anger.
This had been an interesting discover. One Sherlock had to link to his own response to the touch. He welcomed it, which was not an entirely welcome realisation. Sherlock had always shied away from physical contact, preferring to not sully himself with the great unwashed. So why was John different? He was pondering his own fallibility when John interrupted.
“Out of the way Sherlock,” John cheerfully called, giving his behind a firm tap on the way past. “I’m dying for a cuppa and your… Good grief! How old are those eyeballs? Their all green! And if those are the ones I am thinking of I am sure they were different colours… Don’t we have rules about how old body parts are before they have to be disposed of?”
“They are more like guidelines, John,” Sherlock replied, feeling slightly out of his depth. That had been a familial touch to his arse. “And it is more to do with the potential odours. As you should have observed you cannot smell anything, therefore they are within the allowable limits of what can be stored in the refridgerator.”
What exactly had John been thinking? This was the first time he touched that part of his anatomy. Traditionally either an erogenous zone, or perhaps used for punishment, Sherlock had felt no strong emotions from John, nothing that indicated that Sherlock’s person was in any immediate danger.
That, dear brother, was what we may refer to as a ‘manly pat on the arse’ MH
I notice you didn’t bother help to catalogue any other move SH Sherlock rapidly texted in reply.
You did not seem to require assistance with your assessment of previous situations MH
I didn’t require it now. SH
He cleared his throat. “John.”
“Yes, Sherlock?”
“Was that a…” He hated to use any of Mycroft’s expressions, regardless of how unlikely the words were to ever pass his brothers lips. “A ‘manly pat on the arse.’
John paused in the process of adding hot water to the tea mugs. “Well. I’m a man. And that was a pat. On your – another mans’ – arse. So yes,” he concluded, still cheerily. “That was a ‘manly pat on the arse.’ Well deduced, Sherlock!”
Sherlock pursed his lips. Damn it. He’d liked that too.
John seemed to pick up on his unease, and turned to face him, propping one hip against the kitchen counter. “You know Sherlock, it’s absolutely acceptable to like touch. To welcome it even. It makes us human.”
Sherlock sniffed. “Most humans may require it John, but this body is merely transport. It requires a bare minimum of food and sleep, but other than that it has no inherent needs.”
John frowned slightly, then his face cleared. “I know what your problem is. You need a hug.” He grinned broadly, and opened his arms wide. “Now come here you!”
