“Date went poorly, then?”
Sherlock, stretched out on her back on the sofa, didn’t even glance up from her magazine as she spoke. John wondered what had given it away. Her gait on the stairs, the way she had opened the door? Perhaps just the fact that it wasn’t yet nine o’clock and she was already home, although she’d be surprised if Sherlock paid attention to something as dull as how long John’s date had taken.
Whatever it was, Sherlock was spot-on as always.
“Not the best I’ve ever had,” John admitted, taking off her coat and hanging it up.
A little edge of bitterness crept into her tone. It was probably that more than the words themselves that led Sherlock to set the open magazine face-down on her chest and fix John with an unblinking gaze so intense she wanted to squirm under the weight of it.
“Something happened,” Sherlock said. “He said something to upset you. Something unexpected. You were optimistic about him. You packed a toothbrush, a small bottle of water-based lubrication, a vibrator, and extra condoms in your handbag; you had every intention of spending the night, yet—”
“No deductions about sex, Sherlock. Not on, remember?”
She was right, though. Of course. John was even wearing her purple lacy bra (itchy and a bit tight, but it made her tits look fantastic) and matching knickers and her grey fuck-me pumps. It all should have ended with John bent over some piece of furniture in his flat, moaning into her arm. Not hailing a cab at half eight, incensed and the slightest bit disappointed.
“What did he do?” Sherlock persisted. She was beginning to look irritated on John’s behalf, which was strangely flattering.
“Called it off.” John shrugged, kicking off her shoes. “Said he wasn’t interested in seeing me anymore. It’s weird, apparently, to have a girlfriend called John. He wanted to know why I couldn’t just go by Johanna.”
It wasn’t the first time that it had happened, or even the second or third. Men sometimes suspected John was transgender, as if that were an unthinkably awful thing to be—or they worried that, god forbid, they might be seen as queer if they dated someone called John. It weeded out the insecure and prejudiced arseholes before John got too attached, at least, but there was always at least a twinge of dismay.
Scoffing, Sherlock closed the magazine and tossed it onto the floor. “He’s an idiot. With a name like Jamie, he’s hardly one to judge.”
“Bradley!” John corrected, and although she sounded appropriately bothered, she wasn’t really surprised. Sherlock seemed fundamentally incapable of remembering who John was dating, and as a result, John had stopped expecting otherwise. “Jamie was… god, two boyfriends back, Sherlock.”
“Oh, what does it matter? He’s still an idiot.” She sat up with a deep scowl. “Names are entirely social constructs, arbitrarily seen as either feminine or masculine—”
“Yeah, I know,” John sighed. “Cheers. Just let me be disappointed in the world for a bit, and then I’ll move on.”
“You mean you’re going to masturbate for a bit, and then move on.”
Sherlock spat it as though it were some sort of dirty accusation, and John shot her a sharp scolding look as she bent to pick up her shoes so she could take them to her bedroom with her.
“Not on,” John snapped, and strode towards the stairs without another word.
Again, though, Sherlock was right. Even if John’s date wouldn’t be getting her off tonight because he was too busy being a cock, she had every intention of getting herself off and being quite content with it.
Once John was upstairs, she took off her pyjamas and knelt on the bed, bending her elbows and laying her head down against the mattress. The position—her bottom in the air, the downward slope of her body, gravity making her breasts feel heavy—always got her in the mood, especially when she was alone. She could part her thighs and tip her arse up and think about the view from behind—the glimpse someone would get of her tight little arsehole and her pink cunt—without any self-consciousness or worry that her submissiveness, her whorishness, was giving anyone the wrong idea.
John stayed like that, relishing the sensation: the slow-growing warmth of arousal in her body, the beginnings of an insistent ache between her legs.
Poor Bradley, she thought, with a little grin and a sinuous wiggle of her hips. If he weren’t such an arsehole, he might’ve had this.
He could have stood behind her and slipped into her before she was even fully wet. Rocked his cock into her until she was squirming and gasping, reaching between her thighs to touch herself as she was fucked nice and slow and deep.
With a soft groan at the thought, John crawled to the head of her bed and flopped down on her stomach. She squeezed her thighs together and sighed at the flicker of pleasure it granted her. She could feel herself getting damp now, and the urge to slide her hand beneath herself and hump it until she came was nearly irresistible.
Shall I use a toy, she thought, or just my hands?
Then her mobile rang.
The shrill trilling sound in the otherwise silent room startled her so much she jolted with a shout. She sat up, heart beating wildly, and lunged for her phone, which was charging on the bedside table. It trilled again as she grabbed it.
Sherlock Holmes, said the screen.
Really? John thought, and was momentarily tempted to ignore it. Except that, while Sherlock often relied on her phone to communicate even when they were both in the same flat—in the same room, sometimes—she always texted. She never phoned.
So John answered with a wary “Sherlock?” and reached for her pyjamas in case she needed to dress and rush downstairs.
Sherlock, however, sounded suspiciously composed, even cheerful. “Ah, good, you haven’t begun masturbating yet.”
“Sherlock,” John sighed, although it was pointless to force normal human decency on Sherlock when she was clearly determined not to bother with it. “What do you want?”
“To assist. Isn’t that obvious? Why else would I phone when I know very well that you’ll be masturbating?”
It had been ages since John had had the wind figuratively knocked out of her by a single comment. The sensation was even more disconcerting than she remembered. Like the little hourglass icon on her computer, her brain just spun and spun while John waited with waning patience for it to get on with it already.
“Assist,” she said finally. “While I masturbate? You realise I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”
“Of course you are. But, given the circumstances, I thought you might find this… preferable.”
“‘Given the circumstances’?” John frowned, puzzled. Then clarity dawned. “What, the bad date?”
“Yes.” Sherlock drew out the single syllable, and added a questioning lilt at the end. Suddenly John could hear the thread of self-consciousness in her tone, growing heavier the more she spoke. “I assure you I meant no offence in offering.”
“I know you didn’t. It’s just a bit—” Invasive? Rude? Baffling? “—not good,” John decided on.
She didn’t even know how to respond. What did one say when their best friend and flatmate offered to have phone sex with them? Probably something like ‘Are you serious?’ or ‘No!’ which John might’ve done if it had been anyone besides Sherlock.
But Sherlock was different. She had always been different. And John had a very keen sense that responding badly to this might have very negative ramifications on their friendship.
“What are you wearing?” Sherlock asked abruptly.
And John couldn’t help it. A giggle bubbled out of her mouth. “Really? You open with the most cliché line in phone sex history?”
“It’s useful.” Sherlock’s indignant scowl was audible in her voice. “How am I meant to assist if I don’t know the relevant details? I suspect you’re the type to undress completely, although I have no frame of—”
“You’re right.” John glanced down at herself: her largish breasts and wide hips and freshly trimmed pubic hair and shaved legs. “I took everything off.”
Sherlock had seen her in various states of undress, but never completely bare. John wondered if she had ever thought of it before. Was she downstairs now, in her armchair or sprawled about the sofa or perhaps in her own bed, picturing John’s nude body?
The idea was oddly… titillating.
“Excellent,” Sherlock said. The deep satisfaction in her tone made John shiver. “Lie down on your back, with your head on your pillow.”
John hesitated, licking her bottom lip as she considered. Am I actually doing this? Am I really going to have phone sex with Sherlock bloody Holmes? It was mad.
“John,” said Sherlock. “Trust me.”
And John did trust her. God help her, but she did.
She lay down exactly as Sherlock had instructed, keeping the phone pressed to her ear as Sherlock continued to speak.
“You derive a particular sort of pleasure from the human connection during sex that masturbation, obviously, lacks. Hopefully this will prove a satisfactory substitute. Although I’ll need data, of course. I can’t build bricks without clay.”
“What sort of data?” John imagined being told to measure her internal temperature, monitor her pulse, count how many times it took to thrust her fingers into herself before she broke and begged for more.
Again, the idea was oddly appealing. Perhaps this whole thing wouldn’t be as awkward as she had feared.
“Confirmation of your preferences,” Sherlock answered. “I could deduce them, of course. How often and how quickly your nipples harden during the day, your gait and body language when your sexual interest is aroused, common themes in your choice of pornography…. But I admit I’m not confident in my accuracy. Human sexuality is notoriously difficult to pin down.”
Which was a good thing, as far as John was concerned. Christ, had Sherlock really been keeping track of when John’s nipples hardened? John was no stranger to people staring at her tits, but to think of Sherlock doing it… it was hot. It was stupidly hot, actually.
With her free hand, John cupped her right breast, just feeling the size and shape of it. Her nipples were already partly hard, owing to how bloody cold her room always was, and she flicked her thumb over the tight little bud, encouraging it to tighten further.
“Sure,” she said, a bit breathily, which Sherlock no doubt could hear. But… Sherlock would hear a lot more before they were finished, wouldn’t she? “I can confirm my preferences.”
“You’re touching your breasts, aren’t you?” It was Sherlock’s interesting-piece-of-evidence tone. If John were a crime scene, Sherlock would probably be kneeling down to get a better look. “They’re sensitive. Exceedingly so, I suspect.”
“Oh yeah.” John flicked again, then trailed her thumb very, very slowly and softly around the areola. God, what she wouldn’t give for a warm, wet mouth to arch into. “Very sensitive. All the foreplay I need, really.”
“You don’t usually engage in ‘foreplay’ when you masturbate.”
Sherlock sounded disconcertingly confident about that. John couldn’t even imagine what had given it away.
“No, I don’t,” John agreed. “Don’t need to, when it’s just me. I usually just get right to the main event.”
“Mm,” said Sherlock. A noise of thoughtfulness? Interest? Agreement?
John wondered if Sherlock masturbated. Ever? Often? What did she like? What did she think of? Where did she do it—in her bed like John, in the shower, somewhere else? The entire concept—Sherlock as a sexual being, Sherlock with masturbatory habits—was so foreign; John couldn’t picture it.
“Where are you?” she found herself blurting, suddenly insatiably curious. Where in the flat did Sherlock Holmes go when she decided to initiate phone sex with her flatmate upstairs?
“Armchair in the sitting room. Yours, in fact.”
My chair. John couldn’t remember any time she had seen Sherlock in the red, lumpy armchair that John had claimed as her own. But she wasn’t given any time to ponder that.
“Do you get wet?” Sherlock asked.
Wet. It was so colloquial, so dirty. Sherlock talking dirty…. John’s knees bent, her toes curled. She imagined Sherlock saying other words: pussy, cock, fuck. God, she thought, teasing her nipple again, which was so tight and puckered now that it ached.
“Depends on the day,” she admitted. “Usually at least a little, though. Right now—”
John abandoned her breast in favour of dipping her hand between her parted thighs, and oh she was slick. Her pubic hair was damp and matted, and her fingers slipped easily along the outer folds of her labia.
“—oh yeah.” She laughed a little. “Yeah, I’m wet.”
There was a brief silence before Sherlock responded. “How wet?” Her voice was low, throaty, almost a rumble.
She was getting turned-on, John realised. John was turning her on.
She fought the urge to grin, to puff up with pride and preen. It was a heady feeling, like an adrenaline rush. Maybe Sherlock was getting wet too. Sitting downstairs in John’s chair, cupping herself through her trousers and making a mess of her knickers.
“Very wet,” John said. She couldn’t help but slide one finger into herself. Just the tip, barely past the first knuckle, but enough that she could feel how hot and slick she was inside, how easily she would open around, well, anything really. A cock, a toy, a set of long, long fingers. “Give me a bit, and it’ll be all the way to my thighs. You’ve caught me on a good day, apparently.”
“You—” Another pause, as though Sherlock had to gather herself. Christ, when had Sherlock ever stuttered when she wasn’t shamming? “You’re penetrating yourself. You enjoy penetration, then, I take it?”
John laughed, surprised. “How the hell did you know I’m—actually no, on second thought, don’t tell me. Yes, I’m quite fond of penetration.”
She slipped her finger in deeper, considered crooking it and rubbing at her G-spot… but no, no playing with her G-spot today. Assuming her body cooperated, she’d soon need a toy and the use of both hands, and it wouldn’t be quick at all—somewhere close to an hour of John shaking and sweating and making all sorts of embarrassing noises that Sherlock would have to strain to hear, if she had any interest in hearing them at all.
“And… the rest?” Sherlock asked.
“‘The rest’?” As she repeated it, though, John understood. “Oh. The rest of the things I like, you mean? It’s a long list. Not sure I have the patience right now to go through it all. What I’m most keen on at the moment is the tip of a middle finger against my clit.”
A burst of static, like Sherlock had blown into the receiver. “Directly against it?”
“Depends. Sometimes yes. I pull the hood back and sort of flick my fingertip over it. Other times, it’s… well, too sensitive for that.” Like it was now, John suspected and slid her finger from her pussy to check.
Oh, yes. Her clit was swollen, a warm little knob nestled between her labia, peeking from its hood. Putting her finger directly over it made her thigh muscles twitch unpleasantly.
“So I’ll give it a rub from the side,” John continued, and did just that, slotting her fingertip to the right of her clit and making a slow, gentle circle. That was better. Loads better. John sucked in a sharp breath and had to remind herself to keep talking. “Or the top.” She tried that too, although it wasn’t as good. She didn’t even finish a full circle before she was moving on. “Sometimes the bottom.”
That was it: her fingertip resting just beneath her clit, making little upwards flicking motions, barely grazing the sensitive bud. It felt as though sparks were raining down her thighs, leaving trails of warmth in their path. She dropped her knees to either side, opening herself wider, and nearly lost her grip on the phone.
“Christ,” she said around a gasp. It always surprised her. How many years had she been masturbating now, and still every time she did, she was still caught off guard by how glorious it felt. Why did she ever leave her bed? Why didn’t she do this all the bloody time? “Oh my god.”
“John.” Sherlock sounded awed.
And didn’t that just do her head in. Sherlock Holmes awed by Johanna Watson. If she were here, she would be staring down at John, rapt: her lips parted with interest, her eyes wide. John’s body a crime scene, and Sherlock fascinated, devoted to taking it apart bit by bit and sniffing out its secrets.
“Fuck,” John said, more breath than voice. Her hand moved faster, and she moaned softly as her finger slipped, breaking her rhythm and losing her sweet spot. She felt her lower back begin to arch and her legs begin to tense in frustration. Oh god, she wanted it. She wanted—
“Roll over,” Sherlock said. “That’s how you usually orgasm, isn’t it?”
John stopped, breathless and confused. “How do you know how I usually orgasm?” she asked, although she was already obeying: heaving herself onto one elbow and then flipping onto her front.
“Your bed. It makes a low groaning noise when you masturbate. I was curious, so I… I tested it—movements and positions—until I found the best match. On your stomach, thrusting your hips in short vigorous motions.”
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John groaned.
It was not good, she knew. An utter invasion of privacy and just generally creepy besides, but right then it seemed a great deal more erotic than offensive. She could picture Sherlock face-down in the centre of her bed, dragging her palm down her body until it was cupping her vulva—just as John was doing now. Sherlock, who couldn’t be arsed to remember the solar system or the prime minister, humping her own hand because she wanted to know how John preferred to get herself off. Because she’d been listening to John getting herself off.
“Oh god,” John sighed, and rocked against her palm.
Her cunt was so wet now that she was practically slippery. Her fingers dipped past her outer labia and glided over her clit like silk, just enough friction to be sweet. John rocked again, more slowly this time, and lost herself for several long moments like that, aware of nothing but the soft noises of her own wetness and the hot, insistent pulse between her thighs.
Eventually, she realised she had let the phone drift from her mouth and buried her face in her pillow. If Sherlock could hear anything any longer, it was only the scratching of the fabric against the receiver. John hastily lifted her head again and mumbled, “Sorry, sorry.”
But Sherlock only shushed her. “It’s fine, John. Whatever you need. Make yourself come.”
‘Come,’ John thought, shuddering. Sherlock just said ‘come.’
Then she didn’t give a toss about going slow or relishing. She gripped the phone tightly in one hand and held the other perfectly still and stiff against the mattress while she rutted against it. Drove her palm roughly into her pubic bone and nearly sobbed at the firm, blissful pressure against her clit.
Vaguely, John felt beads of sweat forming on her back and temples, and, even more vaguely, she heard the mattress begin to groan as her hips snapped faster, making the whole bed shake. Sherlock could hear that. Over the phone and also just sitting downstairs, listening and knowing that John was up here fucking her own hand like the insatiable tart that she was.
“Oh, John,” said Sherlock, like she knew that John was thinking of her, and it was the same awed tone as before. As though John having it off by herself upstairs was something mind-blowing, something worthy of her fascination.
And just like that, John’s cunt began to throb as her orgasm hit. “Fuck,” she moaned, and stopped humping immediately, moving her hips instead in tiny stuttering pulses so she could bask in it. The intoxicating wave of warmth and the tremors passing through her. “Oh god, that’s good. Oh, fuck.”
Before she knew it, she was dropping the phone on the pillow—because fuck it, this was John’s party, and Sherlock could wait a bit—so that one hand could join the other between her thighs, rubbing her labia against her swollen oversensitive clit, chasing a second orgasm. It came surprisingly easily, and then she was panting and groaning into the pillow as her cunt began to throb anew and a crest of pleasure rocked her until she was shaking and half-senseless.
“Please,” she said, loving how breathless, helpless, and irresistible she sounded when she begged. “Please, fuck me.”
Oh, she’d love that too. Something nice and thick sinking into her pussy—which was sopping wet now, soaking the sheets beneath her—while the aftershocks still rolled through her. She was lifting onto her elbows, considering reaching for the bedside table where she kept her dildo, when she recalled exactly what she had been doing and why.
Did you honestly just forget that you were in the middle of phone sex with your flatmate? John thought, baffled and mortified. She hurriedly scooped up her mobile from the pillow. You complete clot. No one’s mind should be that addled by one fucking orgasm.
“Sorry,” she said into the receiver. “That, um… sorry.”
A short silence, and then Sherlock said, “That’s… quite all right.” She sounded off, almost spooked. In any other situation, John might’ve thought she’d been shaken by something. “That was enjoyable?”
“Er.” John blinked, taken aback. This wasn’t exactly how she imagined the encounter would turn out. Although, now that she really thought about it, she wasn’t sure what she had been expecting. In fact, now she wondered why she’d consented to this at all.
You were thinking with your cunt, she thought scornfully, as well as listening to Sherlock. Of all the things that have got you into trouble in your life, those are the most common. So, well done, Watson.
“Yeah,” she admitted eventually. No point in denying it, was there? “Yeah, it was… nice.”
“Good.” Sherlock’s tone was clipped now, perfunctory. Awkwardness all around, then. Perhaps Sherlock had been thinking with her cunt as well. That was a comforting thought—a bit sexy, too. “You’ll want to sleep now, I assume?”
“Erm.” What about you? John wanted to ask. Have you already got yourself off while I wasn’t paying attention? Did you even want to get yourself off in the first place? In the end, though, she decided not to. No need to make this any more awkward than it already was. “Yeah. Sleep is… sleep would be good.”
“Mm. Good night,” said Sherlock, and rung off without another word.
John lowered her phone, frowning. A shit date, a bizarre and invasive flatmate, two spectacular orgasms, and she had no idea what to make of any of it.
“Well,” she said wryly. “Good night to you too. You confusing git.”