“I. Said. Drop it!”
John Watson will never forget the sharp edges in those words as they were thrown, lightening quick, at Sherlock Holmes. Never forget how each word was punctuated by a whistle of the riding crop slashing through the air and the sharp, succulent sound of fiberglass and leather meeting flesh.
Let no one notice the lust that burned swift and sharp through him as he stood outside the door, out of sight, out of mind, hearing every sound as Irene Adler fought Sherlock Holmes for her property, and picturing in his mind’s eye what his flatmate must look like. Were red welts appearing, bright and beautiful on alabaster skin? Were the pupils of those pale, icy eyes blown wide with pain and hunger?
Inside the room, Sherlock groaned, and John swallowed back his answering moan. God, what he wouldn’t give to be there, to be the one drawing those sounds from his friend.
He could hear shuffling as Irene scooped up the dropped phone and moved away. John clamped down iron control learned in the military and checked himself quickly. Good, no sign of his previous hunger. He strode into the room, his eyes only briefly taking in the form of his friend, sprawled out over the floor, before moving toward The Woman, seated on the windowsill in the washroom.
She smiled at him, dark and knowing.