do u have the tent?
jst checking. c u after skool?
Yes. Your spelling makes my head ache.
I kno ;)
Sherlock sniffed delicately at the sleeping bag. It smelled like it had been there longer than she had been alive, which, to be honest, was a distinct possibility.
“Hurry up, Sherlock! Don’t wander about, you’ll fall through the ceiling.”
She rolled her eyes, hefting two heavy sleeping bags and two rollmats over her shoulder, making her way back to the square of light through which Mycroft’s head poked.
“Out of the way, I need to get down.”
“Pass me those first.”
“I’m not a child, I can manage them.”
He raised a sceptical eyebrow, but backed down the stairs. She resisted the urge to throw the bags at his perfectly groomed head.
“She’s not arriving for another two hours, Sherlock.”
God, Mycroft was insufferable. If only Joanne would hurry up and get here, they could leave. Why had she insisted on nine? Damnable hour. They might not even get there before dark.
An hour later, and she had erected and dismantled the tent in the garden to check it was serviceable, checked and double checked the contents of her rucksack (three notebooks, pencils varying in hardness from 4H to 6B, a small trangia cooking stove with kettle and saucepan, thick woollen socks, tea, a flask of milk, a pair of flannel pyjamas with a pattern of daffodils, a compass, a map in a plastic wallet, a bar of chocolate, plastic specimen pots, a headtorch, a magnifying glass and – reluctantly – two tuna mayonnaise sandwiches on brown bread in a tin box), pulled her sturdy walking boots on and was sitting on the back step of the house, eyes fixed on the gap in the hedge.
At half past eight, there was a flurry of movement, and the small shape of Joanne Watson emerged pink cheeked and bright eyed into the garden. She was wearing a pair of faded yellow denim dungarees, a pink flowery hat and a cherry red jumper, all of which clashed horribly with each other and with the heavy brown boots on her feet. Her hair was tied into two thick, butter-coloured plaits.
“Do you have them?” said Sherlock.
“Yes,” said Joanne, still short of breath from running across the fields from her house. “Do you want to see?”
Sherlock peered curiously into her bag as Joanne brought out two black boxes. They each had a string to loop round your neck, and three dials on the front. They looked a little like walkie talkies.
“There’s headphones,” said Joanne, pulling out a tangled mess of wires from her bag, “but they work fine without. I think it’s better.”
“Brilliant!” said Sherlock. “Do you need anything before we go? Do you have a torch? You don’t need a sleeping bag.”
Joanne laughed delightedly. “No, yes, and I know, we’ve gone through this about twenty times. Let’s go!”
Sherlock stood, shouldering her rucksack and handing Joanne one of the sleeping bags so she could attach it to her own. Her feet ached gloriously in the heavy boots.
“We’re going!” she called into the house, half hoping that he wouldn’t hear. No such luck. Mycroft emerged onto the step with a stupid smile on his face and ruffled her hair; she shook it off irritably.
“Yes, yes, back tomorrow lunch, don’t go swimming, don’t light the stove near the tent, keep a torch at all times, blah blah blah. I’m fifteen. We’ll be fine!”
“Hm,” he said, turning to Joanne. “Look after her, will you?”
Joanne’s cheeks pinked and she gave him a little smile. Sherlock rolled her eyes.
“Um. I will. Bye Mycroft!” And then Sherlock was tugging at her hand and they were running, giggling, through the gap in the hedge, through the field thick with yellow oilseed rape (Joanne looked like a poppy, bobbing red through the stalks) and into the woods, tripping and laughing and joyous with the freedom of it.
“There, there!” A whisper.
“Point it that way….up!”
“Do you hear it?”
“It’s right above us!”
“Is it? It sounds cute.”
Sherlock wrinkled her nose. Cute. Bats weren’t cute. They were fascinating. She held the detector above her head again, listening to the distinctive clicking sounds of its echo-location as it got closer and closer, fluttering above her head. It couldn’t be more than a few metres away as it swooped in. Next to her, Joanne gasped softly.
“Sherlock. It’s so close.”
She strained her eyes into the darkness, but saw nothing. It was black as pitch this far into the woods, the weak light from the moon entirely obscured by the trees, thick with leaves. With the torches off, everything became a miasma of sound; Joanne’s soft breathing, the shifting sounds both of them made as they squirmed to get comfortable in the moss, the hiss of the bat detector and the thrilling ticktickticktick as one approached. Sherlock fumbled for her notebook, and wrote, as best she could in the blackness, Pipistrellus pipistrellus: I.
“What other kinds might we hear, Sherlock?” breathed Joanne.
From the sound of it, she was lying down completely on the moss.
“Noctule, perhaps,” said Sherlock. “Though they’re vesper bats. How’s your Latin?”
“Evening bats?” came the hesitant response.
“Mm. So we might have missed them. Daubenton’s too, if we were close to water.”
“We could check the map.”
They picked their way back to the tent, keeping to the thin, barely-there path. From the map, there was a stream less than ten minutes walk from their campsite.
“Let’s go,” said Joanne. Sherlock grinned up at her in the eerie torchlight.
Joanne shifted, then yawned hugely next to her.
“No,” murmured Sherlock. She lay on the bank of the little stream, bare legs dangling over the edge. Here, where there was a break in the trees, a little moonlight could get through and it glinted from the surface of the water. The bat detector was quiet. Everything was quiet. Sherlock let her eyes drift shut, let her breathing slow. Joanne shuffled close to her and tangled their fingers together, gazing up into the leaf-shadowed sky. Sherlock’s skin felt electrified where they touched.
“That’s the Big Dipper,” she whispered, so quiet that Sherlock almost missed it.
“Hm?” she blinked slowly. Joanne was pointing upwards.
It didn’t look much like a plough, or a dipper. It looked like an unconnected group of stars, each probably billions of light years away from the other. She pointed at another part of the sky anyway.
“And that one?”
“Um,” said Joanne uncertainly, “Leo, I think. That’s Regulus. The bright one.”
“Bright star,” murmured Sherlock slowly, “would I were steadfast as thou art, not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, and watching, with eternal lids apart, like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite, the moving waters at their priestlike task,”
“That’s lovely,” said Joanne, her voice quiet and close. “Who wrote it?”
“Keats,” said Sherlock.
“Do you like poetry, then? I haven’t the patience for it usually.”
“I like some.”
“Will you read me some more like that?”
Sherlock rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand, other arm resting over her stomach. She could see the sketchy outline of Joanne in the moon’s glow, the frizz of her hair catching the light and haloing around her head, the gleam of her half-open eyes and her damp lips.
“Now she shines among Lydian women like the rose fingered moon,” she said, looking up at the sky and feeling her heart beating fast in her chest at her own daring, “rising after sundown, erasing all stars around her and pouring light equally across the salt sea and over densely flowered fields lucent under dew.” She glanced sideways, and Joanne was turned towards her, eyes bright. Sherlock licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry, and found that she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
“Her light spreads on roses and tender thyme and the blooming honey-lotus-” and Joanne was pushing herself up on her elbow and pressing her mouth with the softest press against Sherlock’s, a fluttering sweet contact that had all of Sherlock’s breath contract in her lungs without warning. Something burst, or clenched, or spilled out within her, and she gasped, opened her mouth, shivered all at once.
Joanne pulled away, but her trembling fingers clutched at Sherlock’s dress briefly where it was bunched around her knees and the whisper of contact between them and the skin of Sherlock’s leg felt like Joanne was touching her everywhere. Sherlock moaned a little, heard Joanne’s tight intake of breath in response, and suddenly Joanne was above her, all around her, kissing her, kissing her. Sherlock could feel the warmth of Joanne’s body through the space between them, and she needed less space, more warmth, and Joanne was spilling down on top of her and still kissing her with greedy desperation, all wet and hot and consuming, making breathless halting noises as she sucked at Sherlock’s mouth and fluttered her fingers everywhere over Sherlock’s body.
“I want,” Sherlock managed, into her mouth, and then her head fell back as Joanne spread her legs and Sherlock could feel her against her leg, hot through the thin yellow denim. Joanne pressed her face against Sherlock’s neck and breathed deep and shivering and they both pulled back to look at one another.
“Um,” said Joanne, “I—”
“Do you want to—” said Sherlock, and “I’ve never,” said Joanne.
“I want to…see. Can I see?” said Sherlock, and even in the dull light she saw the colour rise on Joanne’s face. “God,” said Joanne. “God, Sherlock.” She bit her lip, let out a shivery breath. “Yeah.”
“Let’s go back,” said Sherlock, feeling her stomach squirm with tense anticipation. Her legs wobbled a little as she rose to her feet and helped Joanne up. She looked down at their joined hands, then, and softly brushed her thumb against Joanne’s. Joanne let out a small, nervous giggle and brushed back, and then they were running back towards the tent, tugging each other and giggling, and when they were almost there and Sherlock could see the blinking bike light they’d left on illuminating the canvas, Joanne pulled her sideways and pressed her up against a tree, breathing against her mouth.
“Oh,” Sherlock said, “come on,” but Joanne just stepped back slightly, bold in the dark, and ran both her hands slowly up Sherlock’s belly, slow, slow, until they were both pressed hard and trembling over Sherlock’s breasts and Sherlock knew that her nipples were stiff, and that Joanne would feel them through her dress, and she arched up against her.
“I’m really-” Joanne swallowed, giggled, pressed her face into Sherlock’s neck. “I’m really wet,” she whispered, low and fast. “Are you?”
“Oh,” Sherlock sighed, “yes,”
“Let’s,” said Joanne, tugging her towards the tent and when they were inside and lit strangely from the light of the torch, Joanne leaned forward and stroked at the hem of Sherlock’s dress. The soft downy hairs on her knees. Sherlock shivered.
She arranged herself cross legged and slowly pulled the hem of the skirt up until Joanne had almost stopped breathing. Then she pulled a little more, until she was sat with her dress around her waist, legs spread, and Joanne was staring at her, at where she was covered only by a pair of pale blue pants.
“You, too,” she said, and Joanne struggled quickly out of her dungarees and her jumper, leaving her in just a pink t-shirt and pink pants. She wasn’t wearing a bra, or any kind of vest, and Sherlock stared at her nipples where they were hard and obvious through soft cotton. She wondered what they would feel like under her fingertips.
“Take your dress off,” said Joanne, voice soft and slow as honey. Sherlock pulled it off as fast as she could, watching as Joanne’s eyes hooded at the sight of her. “Oh,” said Joanne, and pulled off her t-shirt hurriedly. They stared at each other, Sherlock’s heart beating so fast and loud she was quite sure Joanne could hear it. Her mouth was dry. She was so, so wet. She licked her lips, unable to stop herself from squirming a little against the scant friction of her pants.
“I don’t know what I—can I—I want to,” Joanne swallowed, moving up onto her knees and leaning towards Sherlock. Sherlock sat back on her elbows, spreading her legs and feeling utterly filthy and glorious. Joanne ghosted a finger directly over her where she had completely soaked through her pants and her arms almost collapsed. She throbbed, tight, hot, she wanted.
“Can I?” murmured Joanne, hooking her finger into the elastic, questioning. Sherlock nodded thickly. Joanne dragged them down, down, heaving in a shuddering breath as Sherlock was exposed. She abandoned the pants when they were still halfway down Sherlock’s thighs, instead reaching out two tentative fingers to slide slippery and quivering between Sherlock’s legs. Sherlock’s head fell back hard against the cold groundsheet as Joanne’s fingers moved in tiny little circles against her and without much warning she was gasping, spasming, coming in a long, blossoming wave.
“God, Sherlock,” Joanne whined, “God, are you coming?”
“Unh,” Sherlock said.
“Can I--,” said Joanne, “I--,” and then her breath was warm and close and her tongue was there, flicking softly against Sherlock’s…Sherlock’s clitoris, oh God. She was…she was, oh.
“Oh,” Sherlock moaned, and Joanne’s tongue moved a little bit, soft delicate licks, and Sherlock spread her legs as far as she could, shameless, breathless, desperate as white hot liquid pleasure curled up and inside her and she arched against Joanne’s mouth and wailed.
“Oh, shhh,” Joanne whispered, half gasping half giggling as she dragged her lips up onto Sherlock’s belly, damp and warm.
“There’s nobody to hear us,” said Sherlock breathlessly, sitting up on her elbows to watch as Joanne darted her little pink tongue out against Sherlock’s skin. She arched a little, then dragged Joanne up towards her and tugged her pants down impatiently, feeling as Joanne first tensed then melted against her.
“I wanted to see,” said Sherlock. “Sit back. Let me—” and Joanne was pulling away and kicking her pants from one ankle and then spreading her long golden legs, biting her lip. Sherlock swallowed, looked, couldn’t stop looking. Her fingers fluttered against the underside of Joanne’s knee, and she saw the little movement Joanne’s cunt made at that. She did it again, and Joanne gasped, glistened, pinched at her own nipples.
“Sherlock,” she breathed, and then seemed to lose what she was going to say as Sherlock teased at her soft pubic hair. Brushed it lightly, shaking fingers only just touching.
“Oh, god,” whined Joanne, “will you,” and Sherlock fell forward onto her elbows, breathing in deep and smelling the sharp honeysweet smell of her. Joanne spread her legs, writhing a little on the sleeping bag and letting out little soft ‘uh,’ noises as Sherlock spread her fingertips against the soft skin of Joanne’s inner thighs and pressed her nose into curling pubic hair. She darted her tongue out, trembling, and Joanne made a noise like a sob, thighs jerking.
“I’m…Sherlock, I’m, oh,” and the feel of her pulsing against Sherlock’s tongue had Sherlock moaning, mouthing at her greedily and holding her by her hips as she squirmed and whined.
Then she was dragging Sherlock upwards, kissing her, licking slowly into her mouth and clutching at her back, her hips, the slope of her thigh.
“That was…you’re,” and then she was kissing Sherlock again before she could finish her own sentence, and they couldn’t stop kissing. It was addictive, the taste of her mouth, the slide of her soft hot little tongue. She shuddered, suddenly, and Sherlock realised she was laughing.
“Oh my god,” she said, pulling away and rolling onto her back. “Oh my god.” She glanced at Sherlock and grinned, mouth wet. Leaned over to give her a soft little smudge of a kiss. Sherlock shivered.
“Want to share a sleeping bag, then?” Joanne murmured, sly.
“Shared body heat,” said Sherlock, eyeing the long lines of Joanne’s naked body.
“Yeah, that,” said Joanne, pulling her close again, kissing, kissing.
“Is that,” Joanne whispered, when they were tangled together warm and sticky in the dark, “-is that the kind of thing you normally read, that poem?”
“Only for you,” said Sherlock, burying her hot face in the crook of Joanne’s neck, lips moving against her collarbone. Joanne sighed, squirmed, swallowed audibly.
“Sherlock,” she said, haltingly. “I-”
Sherlock shut her up with her mouth. “Obvious,” she murmured, and it was hard to kiss when they were both smiling so much that their teeth clacked together.