It starts when Watson bounces the basketball off of his nose -- or, rather, that's when it begins in earnest. If Sherlock were to say that he had never entertained thoughts of Watson in what might be termed "compromising positions" before that evening, that would be a lie. While he is not above dissembling when it suits his purposes, he does strive for honesty with himself.
Previous impure thoughts aside, that event marks a certain turning point in their relationship -- more specifically, the version of it that exists only in Sherlock's sweatier imaginings. He has, of course, spent a certain amount of leisure time contemplating various positions and methods he might make use of to perform cunnilingus on her (his favorite at the moment involves him on his knees with at least one of Watson's lovely thighs thrown over his shoulder -- but he digresses), and perhaps slightly less on the topic of penetrative intercourse, with variations including position and receptive partner.
That said, until that night, his fantasies have been strictly vanilla. In general, Sherlock prefers to indulge himself with partners with whom he has a relationship best described as professional. It allows for a degree of clarity he finds lacking in typical romantic relationships, and if one partner is unwilling to engage in a particular practice, no feelings need be hurt when he seeks out another. He has been under the impression that, were he and Watson to form a sexual dyad, he would need to continue to find such outlets for his less-traditional proclivities.
However... he felt a distinct spark of pleasure when the basketball struck his eye, and in retrospect, he is quite sure that it was not solely his own -- that is to say, Sherlock would be willing to lay a considerable sum of money on Joan Watson having a streak of sadism in her psychosexual makeup. It isn't uncommon in surgeons, after all; one has to have something of the sort to willingly cut into flesh, either sadism or sociopathy, and Watson is certainly no sociopath.
No, Sherlock is increasingly convinced that a sexual relationship between Watson and himself would be quite likely to include elements of sadomasochism. He finds that possibility more than a little arousing.
As he sorts his locks, he pictures orally pleasuring Watson. Again, his mental projection of himself is on his knees before her, but this time, his hands are bound behind his back, and one of hers is in his hair. Of course, he could free himself if he so desired, but more important than that is showing Watson that his lips and tongue are nearly as clever as his mind.
The noises she makes and the grip she has in his hair, he imagines, both work to increase his own pleasure. He teases at the tender flesh of her inner lips with his mouth, tasting the unique flavor of her musk and sweat, working to bring her to climax without the use of his hands. The problem is a most... stimulating one.
Watson's thighs clench delightfully around his head when she orgasms -- Sherlock can imagine this so clearly that he could almost swear his head is, in fact, being compressed -- and he turns his face into the silky skin of the right one, pressing a kiss to it, hoping she finds the rasp of his stubble pleasurable rather than irritating.
The grip on his hair gentles and becomes a caress. "That wasn't bad," Watson says. "Would you like to jerk off for me now?"
Sherlock finds that he would. He remains silent.
She slaps him lightly on the cheek. "Look at me when I talk to you."
He decides that his curiosity to see what might happen next overrides his desire to obey, and keeps his eyes lowered.
Watson yanks his head up by the hair. "I said look at me." He glances up and meets her eyes, and sees that she is clearly enjoying her role. "Now answer the question."
"I'm afraid I've forgotten it," Sherlock says.
"I asked if you'd like to jerk off for me," Watson says, softly but with a hint of menace.
"I believe I would," he says. "My hands would aid considerably in the process, however."
Watson gazes down at him. "Too bad," she says. "I want to see you do it without them."
Sherlock blinks, momentarily taken aback at the depth of his own perversion. "I can't imagine that watching me writhe like a landed fish would be all that aesthetically pleasing," he says.
"That," Watson says, "is not the point."
The humiliation burns through him like -- like good strong Jamaican ginger beer, and he gets up unsteadily. Watson takes him by the elbow and helps him up onto his bed, where his cock rubs against the sheets. He exhales.
"Go ahead," Watson says, and when he doesn't move, gives his backside a good hard smack. "I said go ahead," she repeats. "Do you think I have all night?"
So he begins to move his hips, pressing his cock into the mattress to generate suitable friction. That, combined with the awkward position of his hands and the sure knowledge that Watson is watching him closely, has him spilling his seed with a muffled groan in nearly no time.
"That's good," Watson tells him, stroking his shoulder.
Sherlock shakes himself free of his reverie, realizing that he has been standing with a lock in his hands for, the stiffness in his fingers would indicate, nearly ten minutes. Yes, this is an interesting development indeed.
The next morning, Sherlock is pleased to see Watson enter the kitchen in a defensive stance and a pair of boxers, and nearly as pleased to have used zeugma to describe the scene to himself. The legs win out, though, if by a narrow margin.
"Good morning, Watson," he says over his mug of tea. "I see you're improving your self-protective abilities."
Watson glares at him over her shoulder. "And why are you so chipper this morning?"
"I had a most satisfying orgasm and slept like the proverbial baby," he informs her. "Quite distinct, as I'm sure you know, from actual babies, which are known to wake repeatedly through the night." He sips his tea. "When was the last time you had a truly satisfying climax, Watson?"
She sits down across the table from him, with yogurt and granola in hand. "That's none of your business," she says, and takes a bite.
"If we are going to be partners," he begins sternly, but Watson cuts him off.
"But, if you insist on knowing, my vibrator does the trick very nicely." Watson takes another bite of yogurt, rather emphatically.
"That is very important for me to know," Sherlock tells her earnestly.
"Oh, I'm sure." Watson continues to eat her breakfast while Sherlock covertly observes her, the way her lips move around the spoon, the precise movements of her hands.
"You know, after last night, I would like to tender you an invitation," Sherlock says. "Should you wish to threaten me again, I believe it would be in both of our best interests."
"Really," Watson says. "You want me to throw things at you?"
"As they say, the best defense is a good offense."
"Uh-huh," Watson says, giving Sherlock the distinct impression that she doesn't believe him. "I may take you up on that."
"Good," Sherlock says. "That would be splendid." He coughs, aware that he may have overplayed his hand. "I'm afraid that I... have... a prior engagement. Do enjoy the rest of your morning." And he beats a hasty retreat.
He does have an engagement, in fact; it just happens to be a few hours later than he may have implied. No matter -- Sherlock is certainly well able to keep himself entertained. He lies supine on his bed, arms crossed behind his head, legs slightly apart, and prepares to sink into the life of the mind.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the direction his mind chooses is, once again, his... partner. Sherlock feels a sot of stirring at the use of that term, a decidedly pleasant sensation, one he would like to feel again. Yes, his partner, Joan Watson, and the various activities he would like to engage in with same.
Sherlock's thoughts turn to Watson's clever hands, and he begins to enumerate things she could do to him with them. There's spanking, of course, and pinching; scratching, especially if she could be induced to grow her nails a bit; manual intercourse, including fingering; choking...
Oh, now there's a thought. Breathplay is not normally one of Sherlock's favorite diversions, being rather too dangerous in untrained hands, but Watson's are anything but. The image of her clasping him by the throat with one of those lovely, capable hands is... captivating, one might say.
He pictures Watson closing her hand on his throat, just hard enough to make him conscious of every breath passing through his airway, and his cock stirs. Yes, that will do nicely. The Watson in his head runs her nails down his throat to his sternum, leaving bright lines of pleasure in their wake. Oh, yes.
Later, at Eleanor's, Sherlock explains his situation to her as best he can.
"And, you see -- seven -- we work very well together," he says. "Eight."
"You know," Eleanor says, pausing in her relentless swinging of the flogger, "there's really only one way to know if your Dr. Watson would be interested in this kind of relationship."
"Nine!" Sherlock exclaims, as the flogger strikes his already-sensitive rear end with extra force. "She's not my Dr. Watson, more's the -- ten -- pity." He cannot quite keep the edge of petulance out of his voice.
"That's five more strokes for mouthing off," Eleanor says. "Keep counting, and tell me one of your fantasies."
As he counts, he tells Eleanor about the fantasy in which Watson made him masturbate without the use of his hands. "I expect I thought she'd enjoy the aspect of -- fifteen -- of humiliation," Sherlock says.
"Or getting to admire your ass," Eleanor says, patting the aforementioned part of his anatomy so gently it nearly doesn't sting. "I'm tempted to steal that idea, in fact."
"I expect to be credited," Sherlock says, getting carefully to his feet, "and perhaps a share in any profits."
"Did I say you could get up?" Eleanor gives a push between Sherlock's shoulderblades, sending him back over the bench. "And if you're lucky, I may mention that a client gave me the idea. Now hold still while I put this on you."
This is an over-the-counter sunburn remedy, containing aloe and menthol by the scent, and rubbing alcohol and lidocaine as well by the sting and relief Sherlock feels as she smooths the stuff over his sore arse. "If you insist," he says, a bit too late.
"You should ask her," Eleanor says, replacing the cap on the bottle. "I almost want to make it an order."
"You wouldn't," Sherlock says, aghast.
"No, I wouldn't. You can get up and put your pants on, by the way." He does, and watches as Eleanor puts away her tools and gets out a box of off-brand vanilla wafers. "Juice or coffee?" she asks.
"Juice, please," Sherlock says, because he knows that when Eleanor makes coffee, it involves the microwave and a packet of crystals.
"Catch." She tosses a bottle of orange juice to him, underhand, and Sherlock is struck by the memory of Watson doing similarly. Eleanor laughs. "Should I have hit you with it?"
"You know how I dislike being understood," Sherlock tells her, taking a handful of biscuits from the box.
"Then you should wear a mask," Eleanor says. "I have one with a nice zipper for your mouth."
"I'll take that into consideration," Sherlock says loftily.
As he walks home, wind whipping past his ears, Sherlock contemplates Eleanor's idea of simply asking Watson. It does have a certain stark elegance to it. However, he is aware that he has become... dependent, to a degree, upon the partnership he and Watson have developed, and this makes things much more difficult.
Ordinarily, he would weigh the pros and cons of each course of action in the space of an eyeblink. That is what he does, after all. In this case, though, he has a relationship of incalculable value on either side of the equation, and no desire to risk either of them.
Sherlock is still absorbed in this dilemma when he reaches the brownstone, and continues to be such as he ferrets out his keys and unlocks the door. This is his only excuse for being unprepared for the attack as he enters.
The attacker approaches, oddly enough, from above; he has barely become aware of their presence when they leap onto his back and wrap an arm around his neck. Said arm is quite familiar, as are the trousers and shoes on the legs around his waist, Sherlock realizes.
"Say uncle!" demands Watson.
"Have you gone mad?" Sherlock asks, or tries to; her grip on his throat is -- dear God -- as strong as he could have wished. Instead, he shifts his weight hard to the left, causing them to crash into the coatrack, upon which Watson had apparently perched awaiting his return, and collapse in a heap of outdoor garments.
Watson is unperturbed. "Say uncle," she repeats, shifting her grip to use her hand instead and placing one knee in the pit of his stomach.
Sherlock looks up at her. There is a scarf on her head, her cheeks are flushed, and her hair is disheveled -- this adds a new data point which disproves his earlier theory that she is equally at her most attractive with her hair down or up; clearly, she is never more attractive than when her hair is an utter mess. He is mesmerized.
"Say it," Watson insists, "I got you." And then her eyes widen, which Sherlock blames on the inevitable physiological reaction to being choked by a beautiful woman. "Oh," Watson says.
"Uncle," Sherlock gasps out, hoping to be allowed to move his erection to a slightly less inconvenient position.
Watson doesn't move. On the contrary, her pupils dilate slightly, and her lips part. "Oh," she says again.
"I believe you've taught me a lesson," Sherlock manages to say. "The graceful response would be to allow me to make my exit, tail between my legs."
"Is that really what you want?" Watson asks him. From anyone else, it would have been in a condescending tone, the implication that they suspect it is not what he wants clear as day. From Watson, it is merely curious, a request for clarification.
So Sherlock lies. "Yes," he says.
Immediately, Watson releases him, and it is all he can do to keep from yearning after her with his hips. "I'm sorry," she says.
"Oh, no need for apology," Sherlock says. "No need at all. I'll be in my room."
"All right," Watson says. She is still observing him; Sherlock, unable to decide how he feels about this, flees to his sanctum sanctorum.
"Sherlock?" It's been hours. "Sherlock, I'm ordering Thai for dinner. Do you want anything?"
"You just ate Thai last night," Sherlock calls back, getting to his feet and opening the door to be better heard. "Is this some sort of rut you've fallen into, Watson?"
She appears outside his door, unruffled. "Last night, I had pad thai. Now I feel like drunken noodles. Do you want some or not?"
"I'll have the same," Sherlock tells her. "And do make sure they send chopsticks this time."
"You just don't feel like washing forks," Watson accuses him, which, being true, he opts to ignore.
"I'm quite busy," he says instead. "Let me know when the food arrives."
"I will." Watson turns to leave, and Sherlock watches her go. He has, of course, memorized the rhythm of her walk, but he can always use a bit of a refresher in such things.
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock hears the delivery car drive up and shouts, "Watson!"
"The buzzer didn't even ring yet!" she shouts back, and, of course, it does so a moment later. "That's creepy, I hope you know!"
He arrives at the door just as it closes and takes a steaming container from Watson's hands. "Well done procuring sustenance, Watson," he tells her.
"Come eat with me," Watson says. She waves two pairs of paper-wrapped chopsticks at him. "I've even got your chopsticks."
He acquiesces and follows her to the couch. "If you insist," he says, and sits in his usual spot. Watson curls up in hers and balances her food on her knees.
Sherlock has barely lifted his second bite of noodles to his lips when Watson says, "I didn't think you were attracted to me."
The noodles slip out of Sherlock's mouth, but land safely back in the container. "Who says that I am?" he retorts childishly, and reattempts the bite of food.
"Oh, please," says Watson. "Like you're the only one who can detect the physical signs of arousal?" She sets down her chopsticks and begins to tally them on her fingers. "Dilated pupils. Elevated heart rate. Increased blood flow to erectile tissue. Shall I continue?"
"Might not those also be signs of activation of the sympathetic nervous system, as might occur when one is attacked by a madwoman in one's own home?"
"They might," Watson agrees. "I just don't think they are, or not entirely." He realizes that she has turned towards him slightly, posture open, and wonders if it's a deliberate attempt to convince him to open himself.
Well, it won't work. "Well," Sherlock says, trying to fit a wealth of condescension into the lone syllable.
"Okay, we don't have to talk about it," Watson says. "I just thought I'd mention it and let you know that it's, ah..."
"Flattering to your feminine ego?" Sherlock suggests.
"I was going to say reciprocal," Watson says tartly, "but please, keep guessing."
Sherlock is rendered momentarily speechless. "I see," he says when he finds his wits again. "Well, do feel free to dispense with the formality of wearing clothing while indoors, then. I certainly shall."
"I wouldn't," Watson says. The loveliness of the smile at the corner of her mouth is barely marred by the bit of Chinese broccoli stuck there. "Not until you've finished your noodles and washed your hands, anyway. There are some places better left un-jalapeñoed."
"Point taken," Sherlock says. He supposes that jalapeños might substitute nicely for ginger in the practice of figging, but that's never been one of his predilections. Might do to mention it to Eleanor, though.
He finishes his meal without further interruption from Watson, but when he begins to rise, she says, "Wait." There is a faint but noticeable flush along her high cheekbones and on the tips of her ears.
Sherlock sits back down. "Yes?" he says.
"You don't have to answer this," she says quickly. "It's personal."
"I shall reserve the privilege," he says. "Go on."
"I saw the handcuffs," Watson says. The flush has spread to her nose, which he finds -- God help him -- cute. "Do you prefer wearing them, or putting them on other people?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asks, surprised. "I far prefer to wear them."
"Oh," Watson says. "Good. I mean -- good."
"I appreciate your approval," Sherlock says. He means to sound dry, but it comes out embarrassingly earnest. He coughs. "Well. Is there anything else?"
Watson clears her throat. "Ah, no. I'm good."
"Then I shall take my leave."
Back in his bedroom, Sherlock takes out his violin and begins to play. Bartók suits his mood, particularly the fourth movement of his String Quartet 4; he conjures up imaginary musicians for the other three parts and allows himself to be swept up in the music.
He's not sure how long he spends on it; violin is one of the few pastimes that causes him to truly lose track of time. What he is sure of is that Watson has been standing by the door, listening, for a while.
Sherlock lowers his instrument. "Enjoy the show, did you?" he asks mildly.
"Very much," Watson says. "It sounded... odd, but in an interesting way."
"It's even more so with the other three parts," Sherlock says. After a moment, he asks, "Was there anything else?"
"Oh!" Watson jumps, as if she had forgotten she was standing nearly in his doorway. "I, ah... I was thinking about... what we were talking about earlier."
"Handcuffs," Sherlock supplies.
"Look, you can tell me I've added 2 plus 2 and come up with 5, but considering our last few talks, I thought you might be... interested." She shifts her weight uncertainly.
"Interested," he repeats.
"In... broadening our partnership. To include things like handcuffs."
Sherlock looks at her steadily. "Are you interested in putting me in handcuffs?"
Watson smiles. "Among other things," she says. "How do you feel about kissing?"
"I consider myself somewhat of a connoisseur," he says, staring at her mouth.
"I'll give it my best shot." Watson crosses to him, takes the violin he's forgotten he was holding, and places it gently in its case, out of the way.
"Love me, love my violin," Sherlock says, though what he really means is Screw the violin and screw me.
Watson smirks at him as though she's heard his thoughts. "I take good care of my toys," she says. Her arms come up around his neck, and she leans in so close that he can feel the ghost of her breath on his lips.
Sherlock holds still, waiting.
"You're shaking," Watson whispers. "It's okay."
"I never shake," Sherlock informs her. "It must be you."
She grips him firmly by the back of the neck. "No lies," she says. "Now, would you like me to kiss you?"
"Yes," Sherlock says.
"Say please," Watson directs him. She's still so close to him that the plosive in please nearly makes their lips meet.
"Yes, please," he corrects himself, and finally, Watson kisses him. It seems simultaneously to last forever and no time at all, and when Watson breaks it, she does so by tugging on the nape of his neck until he lets her go.
"How was that, Mr. Connoisseur?" Watson asks him. Her lips are even more enchanting when wet, it seems.
"More than adequate," Sherlock says, "but I should like more data before forming a stronger opinion."
"I bet you would," Watson says. "...Well, maybe a little." She leans in again, and Sherlock finds himself quite lost in the sensation, unable to think of much beyond where to rest his hands and whether Watson will let him do this every day from now on until he dies at her feet.
That gives him an idea good enough to cease kissing for the moment. "Watson," he says.
"That's my name," she replies.
"If it would be amenable to you --" She kisses his neck, open-mouthed, with a hint of teeth. "-- I would very much like --" That's a bit more than a hint, there. "-- to -- dear God!"
"Spit it out, Sherlock," Watson says, a smothered laugh audible in her voice.
"I want to go down on you," he blurts out before she can nibble on him again.
"Oh, good idea," Watson says. "How are you with kneeling?"
"I love it," Sherlock says. "In point of fact, I live to be on my knees for you."
"Don't lay it on too thick," Watson says. "Here, or...?"
"You have no idea how badly I want you in my bed," Sherlock says.
Watson takes off her trousers and folds them, then perches on the end of Sherlock's bed, still in her blouse and underwear. "Undress first," she says. "You can kneel on your clothes that way, instead of... whatever that is."
Sherlock does so as quickly as he can without tripping himself on his own trousers. His clothing does make a far more suitable cushion than... frankly, he isn't sure what that is on the floor either. He cups Watson's hips in his hands, sweeping his thumbs over the silky skin, and presses a kiss to her lower abdomen.
Watson quivers delectably and arches towards him. "Go ahead," she says, and when he goes to remove her undergarments, "Leave them for now."
"All right," he says, and bends his head to where they are just beginning to soak through with Watson's juices. He helps the process along with his mouth, using his tongue as artfully as he can to coax noises from her throat.
"Okay, you can take them off now," Watson says, "but don't use your hands."
Sherlock carefully bites the elastic edge and pulls it away from her body, then down. He considers stopping when his nose reaches her outer folds, but no, he isn't ready to risk Watson's displeasure. Down he pulls, past her knees, her gently curving calves, until he is crouched low on the floor and she steps out of the low openings.
"Good job," she says. "Now come back up here and finish what you started."
"May I use my hands?" Sherlock asks, rising back up to his knees.
She considers. "This time," she says, which causes Sherlock to smile briefly, despite himself. "I like fingers, but not too deep."
Sherlock nods sharply, then gets down to the business of making love to Watson. Her hands slide into his hair after a few moments; he pulls away, mouth slick, and says, "Do feel free to pull, if you like."
Her grip tightens immediately; Sherlock hums with pleasure, and Watson pulls harder. "I do like," Watson says. The comment is unnecessary, but the slight huskiness of her voice is delightful.
All too soon, Sherlock finds Watson gasping and clenching around the tip of his tongue. She bucks her hips into his face as she climaxes, and he feels more accomplished than he has in... oh, a day or two at least.
"Oh my god," Watson says. She tugs his hair again. "Up, up."
He stands up over her, cock bobbing ludicrously, and gazes down. "I serve at your pleasure."
"Damn right you do," Watson says. "Here. If I tell you to stay where I put you and not move your hands, will you do it?"
"Anything," Sherlock says. "Well, nearly anything. I will do many things for you, Watson."
She laughs. "Well said. Now go sit with your back against the headboard, and hold onto the bars behind you."
"Like this?" He spreads his arms wide, and relishes the burn of the sheets on his arse.
"No, down by your butt." Watson shrugs out of her blouse. "I want you to have some leverage."
"Leverage," Sherlock repeats, adjusting his position and watching as she removes her brassiere.
"Try to keep up," Watson says cheerfully. She climbs onto the bed and applies a condom to his erection, then straddles him and -- God in his heaven -- sinks down upon him.
"Watson," Sherlock says reverently. He bends his head to kiss the slope of one breast.
"That's good," Watson says. She rises and falls, like the tide, and turns his face up to hers with two fingers under his jaw. "Are you good?"
"I am excellent," Sherlock says. "If you could just -- with your nails --"
"Like this?" She rakes him from shoulder to flank, lightly but steadily, and rises and falls again.
"Harder -- please --" He kisses her breast again, over her heart, and she scratches him more deeply, drawing a sobbing breath out of him.
"There we go," Watson says, so softly she may not have intended him to hear her. She goes on taking her pleasure from him, occasionally gouging his back, and Sherlock mouths at her perfect breasts until he's dizzy with the need for release.
"Going to come for me?" Watson asks. "I want you to."
That's more than he can handle; at Watson's urging, Sherlock orgasms, muffling his groans in her throat. She slips her fingers beside his softening cock to bring herself off again, and Sherlock closes his eyes, overwhelmed.
"That was..." Watson sighs, nearly the same sound she makes upon tasting very good tiramisù. Sherlock prefers this version. "Good," she finishes.
"I must agree," Sherlock says.
"I thought it would be," Watson continues. She eases herself off of him and collapses in a languid heap beside him.
"Did you?" he prods. Soon he will have to get up and dispose of the condom, but for now, it can wait.
"Oh, like you never thought about it?" Watson sniffs.
"I most certainly did," Sherlock says, "but it is your fantasies we are discussing at the moment." He waves one hand in the air. "Regale me."
"I will," Watson says, then yawns jaw-crackingly. "After I nap."
"I suppose I can wait," Sherlock says. Watson only snores in reply; when he glances over, her face is mashed into the pillow. The tableau is terribly endearing.
Sherlock only realizes that he has gone to sleep when he awakens to Watson crooning his name. "Sherlock... Sherlock..."
"What?" he demands, struggling out of sleep.
"I'm awake," Watson informs him. "And it's still early."
Sherlock glances at the clock, which reads 11:30 PM. "I believe there was some talk of regaling me with fantasies," he says hopefully.
"I believe there was," Watson says. "And I always find that I do my best regaling to captive audiences."
"It just so happens that I have a lovely pair of handcuffs in my skull drawer," Sherlock says.
Watson pauses midway through reaching out. "What did you say?"
"My skull drawer," Sherlock repeats. "It's where I keep my collection of skulls, Watson, obviously. Yes, the one on the left." He folds his arms behind his head.
"...And your handcuffs?" Watson asks.
"Of course." She rolls her eyes at him, but he can detect fondness behind it, as well as arousal.
"Sit up," Watson tells him, once she has retrieved the cuffs from between the squirrel and possum skulls. "Hands in back."
Sherlock lets her cuff his hands together, her capable hands moving him where she wants him. "And then you'll tell me about your fantasies, since I've been so well-behaved," he says.
"All right," Watson says. She settles on the bed in front of him, cross-legged, and licks her forefinger as though she's about to turn a page. Instead, she delves into her folds and rocks her head back. "Let's see. There was this one time when I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking of you."
"Is that so," Sherlock says, riveted.
"Yeah," Watson says. "I kept getting this picture in my head of you on your knees, and all the things I could get you to do from there."
"One of my favorites," Sherlock agrees.
"I thought about pegging you, too," Watson says. "Would you like that?" Her fingers are still moving, torturously slowly.
Sherlock swallows. "Yes," he says. "I rather think I would."
"It's been a while since I used my strap-on," she continues, "but I'm sure we could practice enough to get it right."
"Like riding a bicycle, I expect." Sherlock's mouth is watering from how badly he wants to taste Watson.
She notices. "Do you want to eat me out again?"
"Desperately," he confesses.
"Enough to do it without me uncuffing you?" Watson presses.
"Yes." Watson waves a hand in a go-ahead gesture, and Sherlock propels himself forward to flop fishlike onto his chest, just as he had in his fantasy. Watson eases herself forward under his mouth, wrapping her legs around his back.
This time feels more intense, somehow; it's all he can do to keep from drowning in Watson, almost literally. Watson rides his face, arching into his mouth with the leverage from her feet on his back. Sherlock gives it all he's got.
"Yeah, that's good," Watson says softly. "That's right, like that. Oh, yeah," and it's even better than Sherlock imagined it would be, because the real Watson is always better than an imaginary one. He wonders if she feels the same, or if the Sherlock in her head is easier to cope with.
She pinches his earlobe. "Don't stop," she says, so he continues, trying to up his game, as it were. It's not difficult to lose himself in the task; in fact, he finds it so arousing that he starts to rub himself against the mattress.
Watson makes a surprised, pleased sound. "You like this?" Rather than pull his mouth away to answer verbally, Sherlock hums enthusiastically, and Watson cries out, then pulls herself away. "Oh my god," she says. "Stop -- I mean, stop touching me, but -- keep doing what you're doing."
She's watching him. "Why?" he asks.
"You look good," she says. "That, and the idea that you just couldn't wait... what's not to like?"
"Watson," Sherlock says, feeling wrecked, as though waves are crashing upon him.
"Sherlock," Watson replies, still watching him.
"I am -- more than a little fond of you," Sherlock says. "I thought you -- ah -- ought to know."
"I know," Watson says. "I'm pretty fond of you, too. And those marks on your ass are a good look for you."
"They would look better if they were yours," Sherlock tells her, and his orgasm hits him like the biggest wave of all.
When he comes down, Watson is still there.