“You really are a genius,” she said, rolling her eyes. “It’s taken you this long to figure out the timelines are all wrong?”
“No,” the detective said as he willingly loosened his tie and rested his head against the wall made of some substance he could not identify, for it did not exist in his purview. Rapidly, though, the temple of his memory expanded to take in the fact that, as he could see through the small round window, the ground was alarmingly far away. Since this did nothing to alarm the woman who was currently pressing a gun of unfamiliar make to his head, he had to learn to accept it too.
“I understand it now,” he said with a relieved smile. Understanding helped a great deal. “You’re certainly not the Mary Morstan my Watson married. But you’re a Mary Morstan that a Watson married.”
“That’s right,” she said. “You don’t mind? You won’t fight me?”
“Of course not,” Holmes said, his mind racing to stay ahead of the blood rushing to his trousers as this very unfamiliar and very arousing bluestocking in black trousers sank down and straddled his lap. “I’m not the Sherlock Holmes that you shot once, and you’re looking for him as much as you are for your husband. After all, my Watson would hardly be to your liking. It’s in everyone’s interest to replace everyone in their - OH! - proper timeline.”
“Spoken like someone who hails from a gentler and more trusting age, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. “So I hope you won’t take offense if i take steps to insure your loyalty.”
He’d expected cuffs on his hands, that would prevent him from gripping her hips and grinding her against him, the ferocious slide of his aching cockstand between her muscular thighs the truest treachery of all. But she cooed, and she caressed him with the gun before she tossed it aside, and chained him up to the bulkhead of the aeroplane with a leather collar. Groaning, he thrust up against her as she opened his trousers, and the slight restriction of his breath drove him on harder. In her bruising grasp, he fair threatened to spend before granting her any satisfaction at all.
“Do you mean to tell me you don’t play this way with your Watson and his Mary?” she teased. “Why do you think I want my John and Sherlock back so badly? Both of them?”
“If we did, Madam,” Holmes panted as he worked a long hand into her black trousers and teased the seam of her quim with his calluses. “It would be done with a little more care. I would keep my own counsel and respect my own time’s ideals of discretion. And we certainly would never indulge ourselves on a conveyance belonging to any version of my brother.”
He tried to wink, but another sudden wave of pleasure briefly shut both his eyes.
“Oooh, you knew it was his, you are clever,” she purred, grinding herself to climax on his hand and cock, gripping his wrist hard enough to bruise as he moaned in her ear. “And your cock is bigger than the other one too.”
“What a thing to say, and on my birthday, besides!”