Title: Nothing So Simple As Darkness
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Summary: Kissing a John he can't see is unexpectedly exciting.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson; Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1,350
Spoilers: None
Warnings: There's a blindfold.
Beta by: merlottetrollop
For the fan_flashworks challenge: "Shinies". Inspired by the earrings called "Nothing So Simple as Darkness, My Dear".

John is staring at him. Even blindfolded, Sherlock can tell that he's staring, and has been for the last, oh, seven minutes or so.

Sherlock is sitting cross-legged in his armchair with a strip of black cloth wound around his head that completely obscures his vision, listening to the rhythms of nighttime Baker Street, and John is sitting on the sofa, staring at him.

Sherlock knows this because when he first wound the silky material around his head, John had been reading a medical journal on his laptop, but for the last seven minutes, there hasn't been any telltale key-clicking from that direction. The telly is off, and it's too dark to read the paper. Sherlock is the only other interesting thing in the room, ergo, John must be looking at him. Simple process of elimination.

Of course, John could be asleep, but his breathing doesn't indicate that. Quite the opposite, in fact. In the last few minutes, his breathing has grown shallower and faster. Too, John's scent has intensified until it has become a subtle presence of its own. Interestingly, that clean male tang that is uniquely John is now being coloured by the soapy top-notes of popular brand of anti-antiperspirant.

Given all this, it's not difficult for Sherlock to figure out what's going on. John is staring at him, and John is getting aroused.

Sherlock didn't mind at first. But now it's getting distracting,

"I am open to exploring this blindfold kink of yours, John. But it will have to wait. The impressions I gather this evening could be most vital to gaining insight into the mind of the blind assassin, and I can't afford to be distracted.”

"I... I don't have a blindfold kink,” John replies, sounding startled. Sherlock smiles to himself, picturing the look that must be crossing John's face; that adorable mix of astonishment and admiration that he always gets when Sherlock matter-of-factly reveals what John's been thinking. As if Sherlock had read his mind instead of doing a bit of simple observation and deduction. You'd think he'd be used to it by now.

"Don't you?”

"No. Never have before, at any rate. It's just that you look so... so...”

"Hm?” Sherlock turns his face toward John and arches a brow, though he's not sure it will be visible above the blindfold. "Mysterious? Vulnerable?” Sherlock prompts, when nothing further is forthcoming.

Sherlock had felt a bit of both when he'd first knotted the material behind his head. Like a blind seer consecrated to an ancient god, and a kidnapping victim all at once. Then he'd told himself that he was being ridiculous, that such flights of fancy served no purpose whatsoever, and set about to work.

"Sexy." John finally manages, his voice husky.

"Oh.”

Sherlock is not quite sure what to make of this. He is well aware that John finds him attractive, of course; he's also aware of the fact that by many objective standards of measure he could indeed be considered attractive, even “sexy”, but he doesn't see himself that way. Nor does he understand how wearing a blindfold could suddenly make him more so. But then, what other people find sexy about him has always come as a surprise to him. It's always something inconsequential, like the colour of his eyes or the shape of his arse, rather than something he really values, like his quick mind or his dry sense of humour.

John is the exception to the rule. He seems to value everything about Sherlock, the “full package”, as they say. And he is turning out to be kinkier every day, apparently.

Sherlock hears the rustle of khaki as John rises from the sofa, followed by the creak of the loose wooden floorboard by Sherlock's chair.

"I do not have a blindfold kink,” John reiterates from in front of him. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something about protesting too much, but he freezes when he feels something brush the hair on top of his head.

John has just dropped a kiss there. He follows it up with one on Sherlock's forehead, his lips cool and just a tiny bit damp as they brush across Sherlock's furrowed brow.

"I just might have a Sherlock kink, though.” John's fingertips stroke Sherlock's cheek, starting at the edge of the blindfold and running down his cheekbone to his jaw. His fingers, in contrast to his lips, feel quite warm.

He leans in to kisses Sherlock firmly on the mouth, and Sherlock's own lips part with surprise. His breath catches in his throat as he realises that kissing a John he can't see is unexpectedly exciting.

Sherlock's senses are always acute, but now his four remaining ones seem to be working overtime to compensate for the lack of sight. He can tell by the sweetness in John's mouth that John took an extra sugar with his after-dinner tea. He can smell the astringent notes of the lavender soap that John used in the shower this morning. He can hear the rustle of his crisp trousers  as loud as a flag snapping in the wind, as John shifts his weight forward. Sherlock's lips, where they are touching John's, feel electrified—as if a current is passing between them.

This heady combination of sensations sends shivers coursing down Sherlock's spine.

Before he can gather his wits to respond in kind, John pulls his mouth away. Sherlock feels a pang of disappointment, but then John grips Sherlock by the upper arms and squeezes. Sherlock finds himself tilting his head up, as if to watch John's face, though of course all he can see is darkness.

John's hands travel slowly down Sherlock's arms, causing goosebumps to rise in their wake, and come to rest on top of Sherlock's forearms, pinning them lightly to the armrests of his chair.

"If you weren't busy right now, Sherlock, do you know what I'd do?” John's tone is light, conversational, but Sherlock thinks he can hear the desire hidden in it.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"I'd remove all your clothes, piece by piece, until you were wearing nothing but that blindfold. And then I'd tell you to keep your arms right where they are.” He presses down on Sherlock's forearms to emphasise his point.

"Then I'd slide my mouth slooowly down your cock and I'd suck until you forgot where you were. Until you forgot your own fucking name."

The unexpected dirty talk causes Sherlock's mind to stutter to a halt. Lost in the sensations of his own pounding heart, the delicious throb of arousal that is making his trousers uncomfortably snug, and John's presence, looming large all around him, he can't think of single thing to say.

"But, of course, you're busy."

John squeezes Sherlock's arms again, and then withdraws.

Sherlock hears the squeak of the floorboard, and the creak of leather as John sits back down on the sofa. There is a click as John taps his computer to bring it out of “sleep” mode, and a few more as he finds a new page to read.

Bit by bit, Sherlock's brain comes back online. Details of the case he's working on rise up; images of the dead ambassador and the locked room in which she was murdered compete with extremely graphic mental images of John doing things to him. Sherlock stares into the darkness, warring with himself, for some time.

When Sherlock speaks, his voice sounds a bit tight, even to his own ears. Not at all like the calm, self-assured reasoning machine he fancies himself to be.

"John.”

"Yes?” John's tone is too light, too innocent. As if he knows exactly what Sherlock is going to say. As if he was expecting this, damn him.

He probably is. In this arena, John is miles ahead of Sherlock. It's strange to be the one lagging behind for a change. Strange—and a little bit exciting.

Scratch that, it is a lot exciting.

"Come here.” Sherlock now thinks he sounds desperate; a far cry from the imperious he was aiming for. He doesn’t care. It's all John's fault anyway.

"Why?”

Oh, so he was going to have to spell it out was he? The game was on. And it was going to be a fun one.

"As it happens, I'm not that busy after all.”