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He Likes to Watch

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They stumbled through the door, a tangle of limbs and lips. John couldn’t believe his luck. What had been a simple night out with the guys had turned into one of the most promising pickups of his med school career.

Clementine was a PhD candidate in bio chemistry at his university. A friend of a friend who happened to show up at the pub that night. When she sat at the table John’s breath was stolen from his chest. She had long dark hair and deep brown eyes. Her skin was like porcelain and her body was quite fit. They hit it off immediately, bonding over a mutual affection for science fiction and detective novels.

He wanted so bad to ask her back to his place for the night, but it was just a hole-in-the-wall bedsit with a shared loo. He was also pretty sure the bug he had killed the other week was a roach. As he was calculating the probability that she would see his pathetic living conditions, turn tail and run Clementine leaned across the table and whispered in his ear.

“Shall we catch a cab back to my place?”

“Oh god yes,” was his breathy reply.

As soon as they were out of the pub their hands were all over one another. John pulled her in for a bruising kiss, tasting sweet soft lips. She desperately clung to his arms and he secretly thanked his rugby captain for taking the game so seriously. It was just a community league team, but the tough practices had kept John from getting soft, sitting around studying all day.

They spilled into the first cab that pulled over, barely disconnecting from each other. It was only in between frantic kisses that Clementine managed to give the cabby her address.

“221B Baker Street and hurry.”

When they entered the apartment John spotted a leather sofa off to the right and quickly pushed Clementine toward it, her calves hitting its edge. They toppled onto soft cushions, tongues dancing together. John groaned into Clementine’s mouth as they slowly ground their bodies together.

“You are so fucking gorgeous,” he said, slipping his hands up her shirt. He shifted the garment up to expose her breasts, still encased in a black lace bra. He instantly dove his face into her chest, kissing the supple mounds and trailing little sucking kisses along her cleavage. He could hear her whimpering below him.

“From the moment I saw you in the pub I wanted you.” He pulled her shirt over her head. “Wanted to feel your body. Wanted to taste your skin.” He pulled his shirt off as well, before leaning back down to suckle at her neck.

“Yes, John. Yes,” she cried out breathlessly. “You can have me. Take me. Make me yours.”

  John began to reach for the buttons of her jeans when a deep voice cut through the room.

“If you two are going to carry on in such an inane fashion please take it to your room Clem.”

As if burned by fire John leapt from the couch to standing, ready to fight whatever intruder had made his way into Clementine’s apartment. Clementine on the other hand seemed unmoved by the outburst. Quite literally, too. She remained reclined and shirtless on the couch, looking rather annoyed if John was reading her right.

“John, meet my roommate Sherlock.” Clementine gestured to a tall man standing in an archway that appeared to lead to a kitchen. His features were sharp, his skin pale as Clementine’s and hair just as dark. His eyes however, shown an otherworldly shade of blue green. He was wearing a smart suit, with his shirt undone around the collar. Bit odd for around midnight on a Friday night. Bit odd for sitting in your kitchen alone actually. John didn’t really know what to think.

“Uh, hi.” He said, waving awkwardly, before remembering himself and his state of half dress. He scrambled to find his shirt on the floor, but Clementine had already risen from the couch and gathered their garments. She hooked her arm into his and led him toward Sherlock.

What the fuck? He thought. What are we doing?

“Sorry to have disturbed a late night experiment, Sherl.” Clementine said to her roommate as they walked right by him and into the kitchen. Well kitchen was a loose term. John though it looked like something between a laboratory and a bio-waste facility. They didn’t stay long, passing right through it and down a back hallway to her bedroom.

Clementine closed the door behind them as John took in his new surroundings. The room was sparsely furnished with just a neatly made bed, nightstand, chest of drawers, and an armchair. A framed periodic table of the elements was the only decoration on the walls.

Clementine leaned against the closed door, looking a bit sheepish.

“Sorry about him. He keeps odd hours. He often isn’t even home around this time.”

Standing at the edge of the bed, John could drink in the sight of the gorgeous woman before him. The moon light, broken and filtered through the curtains, bathed her skin. Her breasts were pert and luscious covered in that soft lace. John’s mouth began to water as he forgot all about the strange encounter with the eerie man in the living room.

He crossed the room in two steps and pinned her arms above her head, kissing at her lips gently.

“Well I guess you’re just going to have to make it up to me now won’t you?” His voice was a gentle tease, but filled with lust. Clementine smiled into the kiss, returning it with passion. John encircled her wrists with one large hand, while sliding the other down her body.

He felt the delicate lines of her throat, flicked a thumb over a hardening nipple, and splayed his palm on her stomach before reaching the waistline of her jeans. They were snogging fiercely at this point. Their kisses desperate, tongues darting out for needy tastes. Slowly he popped the button of her jeans from its eyelet and eased her flies down.

Dipping his hands into her lace knickers, he slipped two fingers between her wet slit.

“Is that for me?” He asks, stroking her soft wet cunt. She moaned at the sound of his husky voice.

“Are you this dripping wet just for me?” He probed his fingers back farther running the tips right along her entrance.

“Yes,” she gasped. “All for you, just for you.” She was desperate, reaching out with her lips trying to capture his in another kiss.

 Suddenly he pulled his hands from her pants and wrists and wrapped his arms around her. Bodily he grabbed her by the bum hoisting her up. She let out a slight squeak wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. He carried her to the bed practically throwing her down.

She lay sprawled out on the duvet, shirtless trousers undone. He grabbed her jeans and yanked them down her legs, tossing them to the other side of the room. He looked down at her now, flushed and panting, naked but for her matching bra and knickers. John could feel his prick get harder. He moaned as he palmed his erection.

“Look at you, gorgeous bird.” He said undoing his trousers, letting them fall to the floor. His red y-fronts were tented by his throbbing hard-on. He gripped himself firmly, giving his shaft a few rough strokes.

“I can’t wait to get you perched on my cock. Would you like that?” His voice as low and heavy, eyes glazed over with lust. Clementine stared up from the bed, equally affected. “Would you like me to fuck you until you cum?”

Without saying a word Clementine sprang to her knees, crossed to the end of the bed where he stood, grabbed John by the hips and pulled him closer. Deftly she pulled his pants down pushing them to his ankles. Before John realized what was going on his prick was enveloped in the wet heat of her mouth.

“Oh buggering fuck,” he moaned out as she began bobbing her head up and down. Her lips were soft and the suction unrelenting. His knees nearly buckling under him. After a moment John collected his wits and reached down to gather her long flowing locks away from her face, both to give her better access and him a better view. Her pretty pink lips looked sinful stretched around his thick cock.

He could feel her tongue flatten against the bottom of his shaft, flicking at the slit on every up-pull of her bobbing head. This was pure heaven. He moaned out his pleasure on a particularly enthusiastic swallow of his cock and let his eyes fall closed. In the darkness behind his lids he could hear the obscene sounds of the woman below him, sucking his cock like it was the only canteen of water in a burning desert.

Lost in the slick sounds of her mouth and his own moaning he almost didn’t hear the click of the door. When the soft foot fall hit his ears his eyes shot open. What he saw made his jaw drop open. The man from the living room, the roommate Sherlock? Was that his name? had entered the room. Clementine, who was completely preoccupied and had her back to the door, seemed not to have noticed as she continued sucking his cock enthusiastically.

John watched the man slowly shut the door and causally make his way to the arm chair. He tried to muster as much indignation in his voice as possible, with the sweet suction on his prick.

“Oi! What the fuck are you doing?” It was more of a breathy moan than a shout.

Clementine pulled off with an obscene pop and looked up at John.

“I’m sucking your cock. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

He turned to look back down at her, confused.

“No. Uh, no. Not you.” His voice was a little more composed this time. “Him.”

John pointed to where Sherlock was sat in the arm chair off to their side, as if he were a spectator to their private moment. The position of the chair actually did give an excellent side view of the action on the bed, Clementine, still on her hands and knees, John’s erection bouncing in her face.

As she looked over at her roommate, who was now coolly observing the two, John expected her to screech at him to get out, to be confused, outraged, embarrassed. On the whole, however, she seemed unaffected.

“Don’t mind him.” She said turning her gaze back to John and firmly gripping his cock. “He’s just here to watch. Make sure you fuck me properly.” Her voice was seductive and playful, with an edge of a challenge.

John was frozen on the spot. Her words were pure sex and her grip was firm. Slowly she slid up his body, letting her breasts brush up his prick, his stomach, his chest. She peppered kisses on his skin slowly, sensuously, until she reached his ear.

“He won’t touch. He won’t talk. He won’t participate. I promise. But if you want him gone just say the word.” Her voice was hushed, but filled with honesty. John looked back over at the man in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, ankle resting on knee, fingers steepled under his chin regarding them thoughtfully.

“Plus, he’s kinda pretty don’t you think?” John huffed out a small chuckle at these last words, eyes still on Sherlock. Now that she mentioned it, the other man was rather attractive. He wasn’t particularly John’s type. He’s always gone for more muscular men, rugby mates and military type usually. But there was something about the specimen before him that was breathtaking. His long neck and high cheekbones gave him a refined look, while his wild mop of dark curls were begging to be gripped between fingers. And that mouth. How had he not noticed that mouth before?

Suddenly the heavenly rhythmic suction returned and John’s eyes glazed over with lust once again. I guess that means he stays. John thought, returning his attention to Clementine, who was back on her knees.

The other man’s presence emboldened him. He gathered Clementine’s hair in his hands once again and angled his body to begin thrusting shallowly into her mouth. If Sherlock was going to watch John was sure as hell going to give him a show. He twisted his torso to accentuate the muscles in his chest and abdomen.

Clementine moaned around his hardness with each shallow thrust. He didn’t hear a sound from the man in the chair. He snuck a furtive glance in his direction. Sherlock was stock still in the chair, sat in the same position John had last seen him in. Finally the pressure began to build and John could feel his orgasm approaching.

He pulled out of Clementine’s mouth and gripped the base of his cock. She wiped her hand along her mouth, hair falling messily around her face. A growl escaped John’s lips as he lunged forward, pushing Clementine on her back. He deftly relieved her of the dainty black knickers she had been wearing, bringing them to his nose for a brief inhale, before tossing them to the floor.

John settled himself between her legs as she slowly crawled back to give him room on the bed. He could see her wetness glimmering off the soft lips between her thighs. She was neatly groomed, but with a generous covering of hair. John appreciated that. There was something about a woman with hair down there that was undeniably sexy.

He took a moment to breathe in the smell of her, delectate, heady, and deep. He gently shrugged one of her legs over his shoulder, careful to choose the one farthest from their watching companion, so as not to disrupt his view. As if he realized the consideration that was given him, a small hum of approval resonated from the man in the chair.

John smirked to himself before kissing his way up Clementine’s thigh. A shiver ran up the woman’s body and she arched her back off the bed. Swiftly John buried his face into the apex of her thighs, placing a languid sucking kiss to the lips of her pussy.

Instantly fingers threaded through his hair. He groaned his approval as he began to lap and lick with enthusiasm. He had always prided himself on being able to pleasure his partners with his oral skills, but this times the stakes seemed higher. He was concerned with her pleasure for certain, but he was ever conscious of the eyes on him, of giving a good show.

Clementine writhed above him as he flicked at her clit with his tongue. John heard the shuffle of clothes off to his side. Sherlock had adjusted himself in his seat. John peaked over Clementine’s leg to see that he was now lounged back in the chair legs spread wide, eyelids heavy, and trousers tented with a substantial erection. The sight was incredibly erotic and John decided he needed more of it.

John crawled up the writhing body underneath him and whispered in her ear.

“If it’s a show he wants it’s a show he will get.”

Then as if she weight no more than a feather John lifted Clementine up and positioned her on all fours facing Sherlock. He reached down and unclasped her bra, letting her breast hang free.

“Condoms?” He asked.

“Beside drawer.” Came her response.

He reached over grabbing a small foil packet, tearing it open and sliding the rubber sheath down his aching cock. Positioning himself behind her he lined himself up with her slick opening, pushing just the tip of the head in. He then leaned in to her and with a gruff voice said,

“Is this what you like? Do you liked getting fucked while your pretty-boy roommate watches?”

He gave a pointed look at Sherlock, who looked flushed and was breathing heavily. Clementine simply moaned in response.

“Hmm? What was that?” His voice was playful, but dark. “I asked if you liked being fucked whilst being watched.”

“Yeeessss.” She drew out her answer with a whimpering moan.

With his eyes locked on Sherlock John gripped her hips and thrust home, deep inside her aching cunt. She cried out in pleasure as John pounded into her.

“Does he like to see you take my cock like this?” His eyes still on Sherlock, as the other man tried and failed to stifle a small moan. Clementine had sunk her face into the bed, relenting her body to John’s thrusts, riding the waves of pleasure. John continued to watch Sherlock, his erection looking almost painful.

Why wasn’t he touching himself? Wasn’t that the point of this?

John stared at the image of Sherlock. He was still put together, clothes on, hair straight, but his face, his posture showed that he was coming undone at the seams. It was a glorious sight. His cheeks were flushed, his lips were parted. His hands gripped the arms of the chair tightly. John’s gaze was worshipful. He knew it reflected a lust he was feeling.

“Rub her clit.” Came a dark deep voice, the sound shocking John out of his reverie. His thrusts faltered and his expression widened in surprise.

She said he never talks.

The voice penetrated the air once again. It was heavy, breathy, and slightly annoyed coming through softly gritted teeth.

“If you don’t rub her clit she isn’t going to cum.”

Suddenly John fully absorbed the man’s words. He snapped back into reality, back into the present state of things. He had his prick inside a beautiful woman, who he had every intention of pleasing. He reached down, placing two fingers over her clit stroking firmly.

Instantly Clementine howled in pleasure, bucking her body up off the bed. John caught her around the rib cage and pressed her back to his chest. Both of them upright, John continued to thrust up into her as she met each stroke with a corresponding dip of her hips. His fingers continued their ministrations and the noises that spilled from Clementine’s lips were positively sinful.

John could feel the heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. He took another look at Sherlock who, watching with rapt attention, had brought his fingertips to brush the plump expanse of his lips. That was it for John. He slammed his eyes closed as he thrust one, two, three more times before succumbing to wave after wave of his orgasm. Clementine was practically screaming her release as her body convulsed around him.

They rocked slowly together as they came down from their bliss. John opened his eyes when he heard the sound of the door briskly shutting. They were once again alone in the room.

Chapter Text

It had been a week since his erotic encounter with Clementine and her roommate. They had exchanged numbers, but John hadn’t heard a peep from her and he didn’t quite know what he’d say if he had. Would you like to go out for dinner? Then after could I shag your brains out while your roommate watches? No. He couldn’t. So a week later he found himself back at the pub with his friends on a Friday night.

“So did you shag Clem last Friday or what?” The question was posed by Anderson a lewd prick who routinely hung out with John and his friends. John had never really cared for him, but he was a friend of Greg’s so John tolerated him.

“I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of you business.” John said acidly as he took a draft of his beer.

“Did you meet that roommate of hers at least?” This question came from Sally, Anderson’s girlfriend. “That guy is a real freak.”

Shit. People know about him? Do they know what Sherlock and Clementine liked to do together? John wasn’t particularly keen on word getting out that he let some strange bloke watch him fuck a woman he picked up at the pub.

“You just say that because he’s smarter than you Sally.” It was Greg’s turn to chime in. “Sherlock is a genius and you know it.”

“Just because he tutors you in chemistry doesn’t mean he’s a genius.” Anderson spat back. “The guy is a freak. He stalks people.”


“Stalks people?” John asked.

“Oh come off it,” said Mike, the one who had actually introduced John to Clementine the previous week. “You’re just pissed he outted you and Sally to Marg. If you didn’t want to get caught cheating on your girlfriend then you shouldn’t have cheated in the first place.” Mike was a med student along with John and Anderson. Sally and Greg both studied criminology, but Greg was stuck taking chemistry as a general requirement.

“I don’t know how Clem stands to live with him.” Sally continued. “He is a bloody psychopath. Do you see the books he carries around? Serial killers. Blood spatter identification. What the hell does a chemist need with books like that?”

“So the bloke is interested in crime! So are you. Who cares?” Greg countered.

“Yeah, but I am studying to be a detective. He’s studying to be a scientists. He’s not supposed to be interested in crime, especially not the bloody gruesome ones.”

“We all have our peccadilloes,” said Mike finishing the dregs of his pint glass. “He’s harmless.”

Just then John heard a ping from inside his pocket. Text alert. It was from Clementine.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH

What the fuck? What does SH stand for? Sweet heart? It’s a bit cute for the nature of our relationship, if you could even call it that.

“You should stay away from those two John.” Anderson’s warning shocked John’s attention away from his phone.

“I’m sorry what?”

“You should stay away from them. I tried warning Mike off, but he’s just an over trusting prat.”

“Hey!” Came Mike’s protest. Anderson simply ignored him and sipped his drink.

“I’m telling you. Those two are weird and I think they are trouble.”

Just then John heard another text alter. Again it was from Clementine.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

“Well it’s been fun talking to you bunch of chuckleheads, but I think I’m gonna call it a night,” John said tucking his phone back into his pocket. He threw a few dollars onto the table and was out the door before anyone else could say a word. He’d frankly had enough and was more interested in what might possibly awaited him at Baker Street than in listening to Anderson and Sally anymore.

He hopped into the first cab he could find and a short while later was standing outside the door marked 221b. He grabbed the knocker and clanged it a few times. To his surprise an elderly woman answered the door.

“Hello?” She had a high sweet voice.

“Oh, um hello. I’m here to see Clementine.” John tried for his most gentlemanly demeanor, but knew there was only so gentlemanly one could appear knocking on a woman’s door late Friday evening. The woman seemed unfazed, though.

“Are you one of Clem’s friends from school?”

“Uh, yes. Yes. We are friends from school.”

“How lovely dear.” With that she turned and hollered up the stairs

“Clem! One of your little school friends is at the door!” She turned back to John who was still standing on the stoop.

“Oh, where are my manners! Come in. Come in.” She waved him into the foyer. “I’m Mrs. Hudson.”

“John. It’s nice to meet you.” John extended his hand as Clementine came rushing down the stairs.

“John!” She said with a mixture of excitement and what John thought was surprise.

“Hey Clementine. I, uh, I got your text.” He shot a sideways glance at Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh!” She seemed to pick up on his uneasiness. “Yeah, Auntie Martha. John is just coming over to help me with my anatomy homework.”


“Yeah,” John said quickly to back up her claim, “She helps me with chemistry and I try to return the favor with anatomy.” Clementine gave a little smirk upon hearing this.

“Oh, well how nice.” Mrs. Hudson cooed. “Do you need any nibbles while you work? I’m about to pop off to bed, but I could put something together quickly.”

“No thank you Auntie!” Clementine called down from the stairs where she had already dragged John halfway up by the arm.

“Good night then dears!” Came the sweet call as they shut the door to 221b.

“You live with your Aunt too?” John asked Clementine as she leaned against the door.

“Not exactly. She owns the building and lives in the flat downstairs. Sherlock and I live in this one. There is another one in the basement, but it’s been vacant for a while. Probably because of the damp.”

Before John could respond, Clementine had closed the distance between them and pressed their lips together. John wrapped his arms around her slim waist and returned the kiss with enthusiasm. She was in a pair of cotton shorts and a threadbare t-shirt. From the quick glance he had stolen earlier he was also pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“I’m glad you stopped by.” She hummed against his lips.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” He asked in a husky voice as she peeled his coat from his shoulders, throwing it in a heap by the door. As soon as his arms were free from the garment he wrapped them back around the woman in front of him.

“You left rather early in the morning last time. I wasn’t sure how you were feeling.”

“Sorry, I had to be at the hospital early that morning.”

He kissed her lips sweetly. “But I assure you that I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”

Clementine smiled. “As did I.”

They stood in the living room a few moments longer just kissing. John ran his hands through her silky hair, down her back, and lightly squeezed her plump bum through her thin shorts. No panties either, apparently.

“Ah, he’s back.” Came the familiar deep voice from behind John. “They don’t normally come back do they Clem?”

Clementine sighed heavily, “And whose fault is that hmm?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about. I’m the reason John’s here now.” Sherlock said mater-of-factly.

“What?” The two lovers said in unison breaking apart.

“I’m the one who texted him,” Sherlock said as if the conversation had gone tedious.

“You texted him?”
“That was you?”

John and Clementine once again spoke in unison.

“Do keep up you two. Clementine, not thirty minutes ago I sat on the couch and informed you I was going to text John and I needed your phone as that is where his number is stored.”

“I was in the shower thirty minutes ago. I just finished drying my hair ten minutes ago!”

“Well it’s hardly my fault you weren’t listening. And as for you,” he turned his attention to John, “I signed the text as being from me.”

John thought for a moment. He pulled out his phone and inspected the texts.

“SH?” he asked.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Clementine spat out both in response to John’s question and as a challenge to her roommate, “what are you playing at?”

“Well,” Sherlock began coolly, “You were worried that I had offended John so much that he would never come back. I endeavored to prove you wrong. Now here he is and my point is proven.”

“Offended me?” John was more than a little confused. “Offended me how?”

“By speaking.” Sherlock said plainly.

Clementine pinched the bridge of her nose. “By speaking during sex. You know the rule Sherlock. No talking.”

“Why?” John inquired.

“Because guys don’t typically like it.” Clem said bluntly. “They don’t mind showing off, being watched, but when they feel like he’s participating it tends to put them off. Some because of a sense of homophobia and others out of jealousy that they are no longer the center of attention.”

“Idiots if you ask me,” said Sherlock, “It’s a good thing that they don’t come back.”

Clem just sighed.

“Well I don’t mind.” John said.

They both turned to him, Clementine looking shocked, but Sherlock looking impassive.

“You don’t mind?” Clem asked.

“No. I’m not homophobic and I don’t have any need to be the center of attention. I’m just happy to be invited to the party.”

Clem stood mouth agape, Sherlock with a smug sense of satisfaction. Ten minutes later they were once again gathered in Clementine’s room. Sherlock was in his spot in the arm chair, watching intently as Clem was vigorously riding John’s prick.

John couldn’t believe he was back here. He thought he was the luckiest man alive. He clung to Clem’s hips and met her every downward thrust. Her breast bounced as their bodies collided. John was hypnotized by their movement. He reached up to cup them in his hands, messaging them softly. He broke his gaze from her tantalizing body to examine Sherlock. Gone was the calm cocky exterior he had exuded in the living room moments ago. He looked just how John remembered him from last time, face flushed, lips parted, and massive erection tenting his pants. But this time John looked deeper into his eyes and saw passionate desperation.

Without breaking eye contact John gripped Clem’s hips tighter and gave her a few particularly hard thrusts. She gasped in pleasure as she writhed on top of him.

“I think someone here is a bit jealous of me right now.” John said circling his hips against her wet cunt. Clem threw her head back, hair cascading around her shoulders, and looked over to Sherlock. She gave John a wicked grin before undulating on top of him. He could feel the slick slide of her up and down his cock. John closed his eyes and lost himself in the sensation.

“No.” Clem whispered, “I think he’s jealous of me.”

With those words John’s eyes shot back open. He looked over at Sherlock, whose expression had gone a bit sheepish. Well that was new information that John fully intended to exploit. Suddenly he flipped Clem onto her back. Lifting her legs to his shoulders he continued fucking her with barely a pause.

This was the way to do it, he thought. He could look down for the perfect view of the gorgeous woman wrapped around his cock or look between her killer legs at the tall drink of water laid back in the arm chair.

“Oh god,” Clem moaned, “You should be jealous Sherlock. His cock feels simply divine.”

John growled in approval and picked up the pace of his thrusts. Clem was lost in the pleasure as he hit deeper and deeper inside her.

“Yeah, you like that don’t you?” His voice was husky and dark. “Would you like that too?” He looked up to regard Sherlock, who stared back at him stunned. “Who’s right? Hmm? Am I right, thinking you’d love to know how delicious it feels to be buried to the hilt inside your gorgeous roommate? Or is Clem right, thinking you’d like to feel my thick hard cock inside you?”

Sherlock moaned as his head rolled back and his hands gripped the arms of the chair tighter. John looked at the erection pressed against his pants and his cock ached in sympathy.

“Answer me,” John growled menacingly.

“B-b-both.” Sherlock stuttered.

John stopped his thrusting immediately. That wasn’t the answer he expected. He pulled out of Clem and flipped her over onto her hands and knees. Sliding back into her quickly he gently pulled her hair to arch her head back slightly.

“Did you hear that?” He whispered into her ear, making sure that Sherlock could hear. She nodded, a lascivious smile on her face. “We were both right.”

Slowly he started to pump into her again without relenting his grip on her hair. Her back was arched seductively and ensured he hit her at just the right angle with each thrust.

“Have you ever had him?” He asked, still whispering in her ear, eyes locked on Sherlock. She shook her head.

“But he knows how to please you doesn’t he?” She nodded her head. “I know how to please you too. Don’t I?”

“Yeeeeeessssss,” she moaned out as he deepened his thrusts and tightened his grip in her hair.

“Well you definitely know how to please me, love.” John moaned as he felt a trickle of Clem’s wetness drip down his shaft.

“Looks like the only one left is you.” This comment John directed at Sherlock. “Touch yourself.” He commanded. “Show us how to please you.”

Sherlock froze. This was far outside the realm of usual for these situations. His grip on the arms of the chair did not waiver.

“Do it Sherlock,” Clem moaned out. “Let me see. I want to finally see you come. Come for me Sherlock.”

With those words, as if her permission, her desire made it all okay, Sherlock’s hand flew to his zip and pulled out his throbbing cock. It was long and thick and uncut. John could feel his mouth watering at the sight. The dusty pink tip just peeked through the foreskin. John groaned with pleasure and let go of Clem’s hair to grip her hips and begin fucking her in earnest. Sherlock gave his cock a few lazy strokes.

“Come on Sherlock,” John husked, “Let me see you fuck yourself.”

Sherlock tightened his grip and quickened his pace. So did John. Clem buried her face in the bed to stifle her screams of pleasure. John and Sherlock were locked in a heated stare.

“I want you to imagine that your fist is her dripping wet cunt. Do you want me to describe it you? Let you know how good it feels?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s reply was gasp of desperation.

“She’s so fucking tight. I can only imagine how tight she would be wrapped around that huge cock of yours.” Sherlock groaned in response, tightening his grip. “She gets so wet when you fuck her nice and deep. I can feel her dripping down my bollocks.”

His fist was moving fast over his cock now. His face had gone slack as he melted into Johns words.

“Have you ever let a man fuck you Sherlock?” He shook his head. “But you want to?” He nodded his head. “Do you finger that tight little ass hole of yours when you wank?” Another nod. “Do you want to know what my cock feels like?”

“Yes. Yes.” His plea was desperate. John griped Clem’s hair again and pulled her face up from the bed to whisper in her ear again.

“Sherlock wants to know what it feels like to be fucked by me. Be a dear and oblige him.” He released her hair and continued fucking her.

“Fuuuuck,” she moaned, “He fucks nice and deep and hard. God he can go forever.” Her head sagged as John shifted his hips and began pounding on her g-spot. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Yeeeeessss!”

“I fuck you good. Don’t I love?” Clem was beyond the point of speech. John cupped her chin and held up her face.

“I want you to look at him.” He said. “I want you to look him in the eyes as you come. I want you to come together.” He shot a look at Sherlock, who appeared to be on the edge. John reached down and flicked her clit with his middle finger. Clem howled as she came. Her body shivered, convulsed, and John gripped her hip with his free hand to keep her seated on his cock. He felt her orgasm as it racked her body. She never broke eye contact with Sherlock, though. Just when her orgasm seemed to peak Sherlock spilled over his hand and her pleasure was renewed. John continued his relentless ministrations and thrusting.

The clenching around his cock and the sight of Sherlock coming undone in front of him was too much, though. He shouted his release as the most intense orgasm of his life washed over him. It felt like it would never end. Wave after wave of pleasure washing over him. When he finally came down Clem had gone boneless beneath him and Sherlock lay sated and disheveled in the arm chair.

Chapter Text

John gently eased Clementine down on to the bed. Her body had gone limp and pliant. John’s body was in a similar state. He lay next to her for a moment, gathering his strength. He peeked over her body at the man splayed out in the chair. Sherlock was limp and panting, trousers still undone and cock laying flaccid in his lap. He held a hand aloft cupping his release. John scanned the floor quickly for a towel of some sorts. Finding none he resolved to fix the issue in another manner entirely.

Slowly he lifted himself from the bed. Clementine moaned languidly at the movement. He placed a small kiss on her forehead as he passed over her. As he walked to Sherlock the other man lifted his head, which had been leaning against the back of the chair. His eyes opened lazily to watch John, in all his naked splendor, cross the room. As John approached him, Sherlock’s breath hitched. He ceased breathing altogether when John reached out and gently grabbed the wrist of his soiled hand.

The red heat of embarrassment and arousal pricked Sherlock’s face as his hand was lifted to John's mouth. Slowly and delicately, John began to lick the sticky mess from Sherlock’s flesh. He lapped at his palm, letting his lips brush the soft pads of his hands. He snaked his tongue out to wrap around each digit before sucking it into his mouth with a low moan. When John pulled the last of the man’s fingers from his mouth Sherlock was finally able to breathe again and sucked in a shaky breath.

“There. That’s better.” John said with a sweet smile.

“I’m glad you two get along so swimmingly,” came a soft seductive voice behind them.

Clementine had rolled onto her side, head propped up on her hand, and was watching the men with rapt attention. John looked between the roommates affectionately.

“You two really care for each other don’t you?”

Sherlock remained stoic, but Clementine gave a soft smile of affirmation. John turned to Sherlock and held his hand out as a gesture to rise from the chair. With a skeptical and somewhat confused look, Sherlock hesitantly took the offered hand and rose from the chair. Sherlock was taller for sure, but in his barefoot and boneless state this difference was lessened.

At first John just stood there taking in his disheveled sate. His shirt was ruffled, but still buttoned. His trousers were around his hips, but his cock hung free from where his flies had been undone. Far too many clothes for John’s taste.

John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s chest and didn’t miss it when his cock gave an interested twitch. Slowly John stalked behind Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around the man’s body, bringing his fingers to the button of his shirt. John’s lips couldn’t quite reach the tall man’s ear, but it was clear that he was speaking to him as he slowly, torturously unbuttoned his shirt.

“How did you two meet?” John’s voice was almost casual. Sherlock was shivering where he stood. He felt more and more exposed with every button released from its place. When he didn’t answer the question John stopped his forward progress, hands just resting on the man’s chest. Sherlock began to panic slightly. Had he done something wrong? Why had John stopped? Then he remembered.

“We met when we were kids.” John continued unbuttoning his shirt.

“Kids eh?” John’s voice was low, but seemingly unaffected. “I can only imagine the type of trouble you two got into.” He gave a soft chuckle as his fingertips gently caressed Sherlock’s lower abdomen.

“We didn’t get into trouble. We weren’t friends.” Sherlock husked out, answering an unasked question.

With this statement John had reached the final button and deftly relieved Sherlock of his button down, leaving him only in his undershirt.

“Not friends? Enemies then?” John began tucking his fingers under Sherlock’s white t-shirt, softly skimming the skin just under his bellybutton. He felt the coarse hair nestled just above the taller man’s cock and ran his fingers through it in a lazy reverent stroke.

“No. Forced mutual acquaintances.” Sherlock was barely able to speak at this point. John’s hands were undoing his constitution bit by bit. He could feel the heat pooling in his belly and knew if this continued much longer he would be hard again. Sherlock closed his eyes as John rucked up his shirt.

“Our families are friends. We were forced to associate as children.” Clementine took over the story as John pulled Sherlock’s shirt over his head. “Sherlock can be a bit of a prat at the best of times.” Clem ignored the stinging glare sent her way. “So you can only imagine what he was like as a child.”

“God no.” John chuckled. He couldn’t imagine it. He didn’t really know Sherlock that well. The one thing he knew was that he was an enigma of great proportions, who intrigued John to no end, but seemed to rub others up the wrong way.

 “In addition to being a prat Sherlock is also quite a genius.” Clementine continued. John had now braced Sherlock against him, bare back to bare chest. He was planting sweet sucking kisses to his shoulder blade as he took in the story.

“So he had a tendency to upset the other kids by both demonstrating to and telling them how stupid they were. One day we were having a get together at my house and Sherlock had upset a group of kids. They were chasing him through the yard, but he managed to sneak into the house. I was alone in my room reading, I didn’t really like playing with the other kids.”

“That’s because they were insipid ankle biting snot nosed mongrels.” Sherlock interrupted. At this John ceased his light kisses and huffed a small laugh against Sherlock’s skin.

“Anyway,” Clementine continued, “he burst into my room in a panic and dove under my bed without so much as a glance in my direction. A few minutes later a group of kids came by looking for him. I said I hadn’t seen him and would they kindly piss off as I was reading. Thus went our childhood. When we were forced to attend a family event I would find a place to read, away from everyone else, and Sherlock would hide somewhere nearby, under my bed, behind the armchair I was sitting in, wherever. We never really spoke. Eventually he was sent away to school. I didn’t see him again until Aunt Martha told me he needed a place to stay while at Uni.”

John wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock’s middle and rested his forehead between his shoulder blades.   

“That’s what this is all about isn’t it?” John said softly. Neither one of them responded. John lifted his head to run his lips across the soft skin of Sherlock’s back once more. “She makes you feel safe doesn’t she?”

There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke. His voice was raw and low as he husked out his response.


John groaned at this and grabbed the waist of Sherlock’s trousers and pants. Slowly he lowered them until they pooled around the man’s feet. Carefully Sherlock stepped out of his clothes and kicked them to the side. There he stood naked and bared before his roommate who still lay on her side appraising the two men before her.

Sherlock looked her up and down. Her skin was flushed and her hair was a sexy mess. Her breasts hung loose and he could see the glimmer of wetness that covered the tops of her thighs and framed the soft patch of hair at their meeting. His cock hung heavy between his legs. He felt exposed and not just because of his state of undress.

John had figured him out, had learned his secret. Sherlock had taken to watching Clementine have sex because he was too afraid to do it himself. He wanted to, he had all manner of sexual thoughts. He knew the mechanics, touched himself on a regular basis, but he couldn’t bring himself to be aroused in another person’s presence without her. He hated to admit it, but she was his protector. He knew that she would never let anything happen to him. Would never let anyone do anything to him he didn’t want.

Now that John knew this he felt vulnerable and exposed, but excited. With John it had been different. For some inexplicable reason Sherlock felt comfortable with John. When John locked eyes with him that first night Sherlock knew it, knew that he was different than the other pretentious Uni boys Clem would bring home. He couldn’t stop thinking about him. That’s why he texted John. He wanted to see him again, but he still wanted Clem there to.

At the thought of his desire for John, Sherlock’s cock began to thicken. John reached around and gave it a few steady strokes to help it along.

“It’s my turn to watch.” John whispered in his ear. “I want you to show me how to pleasure her. I want to learn from the expert.”

Clementine heard these words as well. She sat straight up, chest heaving as her breath quickened with arousal. She had wanted this too. After past encounters Sherlock would critique the men she had been with. He was terribly good at deducing what exactly she had wanted and exactly where they had fallen short or excelled. These were intensely erotic conversations for Clementine, while Sherlock acted as if he were giving a chemistry lecture. She had always wondered what it would be like to give him free reign over her body. He was a theoretical expert in her pleasure, but had never applied his knowledge.

“Go to her.” John whispered and slowly Sherlock’s feet began to move. John sank back into the chair and settled in for his lesson.

As Sherlock approached the bed he loomed over Clem. She looked up into his eyes, they were glazed over with lust and anticipation. He gently reached out to cup her jaw and trace her bottom lip with his thumb. She reveled in the touch. Slowly she moved back onto the bed as Sherlock climbed over her. He hesitated briefly before placing a chased kiss to her lips.

John wanted to speak, wanted to tell Sherlock to caress her breasts, suck on a nipple, but he kept quiet. He was too intrigued by what Sherlock would do of his own volition. He was pleased when Sherlock began to kiss down her body, stopping at her pert nipples to flick his tongue over the hardened nubs. Clementine let out a small gasp at this.

Sherlock kissed his way to juncture of Clementine’s thighs and paused. He took a moment to just breathe her in, her scent mixing with John’s. It was a heady combination. He reached back to grab a condom from the night stand and quickly rolled it over his stiff prick before settling back between her legs. He gently nudged her legs over his shoulders and buried his face between her thighs.

He kissed and lapped at her while she writhed and moan on the bed. By this point John had grabbed his prick and was stroking it back to attention. His hand stopped mid stroke when Sherlock came up for air and fixed him with a heated stare. While it was true Sherlock had never done this before he was quite confident in his capabilities. He knew more about what Clementine liked than even she did. He had seen it done so many times and so many ways that surely it wouldn’t be difficult to execute.

“You think she gets wet when you fuck her deep?” This was the lowest John had heard Sherlock’s voice go and he felt his prick thickening in his hand at the sound. “You haven’t even begun to see her wet.” Sherlock gave a lascivious grin before siting up straight on his knees, leaving Clem’s ankles resting on his shoulders. Emboldened by the thought of showing John just how good he could be, Sherlock continued.

“Let me show you just how wet I can make her.” With that Sherlock lined up his cock and slid into her. A long moan escaping Clementine’s lips as she was stretched open deliciously. She had only seen Sherlock’s cock a few times and had marveled at its size, always wondering what it would feel like inside her. Now she knew. It was glorious.

Sherlock began to fuck her fast and hard. There was no finesse no acrobatic techniques as John had expected. He was a man driven. A man with a goal. Clementine was laid back, breasts bouncing wildly at the force of his thrusts. John was hypnotized by their movements. Almost forgetting his aching prick still gripped in his hand.

“When she’s right there, almost ready to cum just from being fucked.” The filthy words spilled from Sherlock’s lips and made John dizzy. “Right there, you can see it on her face.” Indeed Clem’s face had gone slack, her mouth hanging open, her eyes just barely closed. “That’s when you make your move.”

Quickly Sherlock shoved a hand between her legs and began rubbing her clit with the tips of three fingers. With a shout Clementine was cumming. Sherlock was still concentrating, though, as if his task was not complete. With his other hand he reached down quickly, gripping the base of his cock and pulled out of Clementine. Her ankles still rested on his shoulders. His fingers were still working her clit. Then suddenly John saw it.

A splash of fluid sprang from between her legs and hit Sherlock in the stomach and chest. Sherlock groaned, but continued as if nothing had happened. His fingers rubbed circles over her sensitive clit as wave after wave of orgasm washed over her. Another splash of liquid hit Sherlock. This time it splashed slightly in his face.

John knew exactly what he was witnessing. Sherlock had just made Clem cum all over him. Had made her gush her release all down his chest. John had only heard of women who did this and seen it in a few pornographies. His mind shut off for a moment as he just took in the sight of Sherlock wringing every last drop of pleasure from Clementine’s body. 

Her body convulsed and she shouted in ecstasy. It seemed like a good minute or two before she came down from her high, her body collapsing into a still puddle beneath Sherlock. John was on his feet in an instant.

Chapter Text

John climbed onto the bed and behind Sherlock. Gently easing Clementine’s legs from where they perched on his shoulders, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s chest, slick with Clem’s release. Below them the woman lay in a puddle of her own limbs.

“That was brilliant.” John told Sherlock. “Absolutely fantastic.”

He reached down and began stroking Sherlock’s still hard cock.

“I’m sure Clem would agree with you if she had all her wits about her,” Sherlock said. John gave a slight chuckle.

“Were you expecting this when you texted me, hmm?” Sherlock simply gasped in a breath as John tightened his grip. “Were you hoping to touch? To be touched.” Sherlock nodded his head vigorously, still unable to speak. “Did you wash up before I came over?”

The implication of the question sent an embarrassed flush down Sherlock’s body. He nodded slowly.

“Good.” John said as he licked the space just under Sherlock’s ear.

“Can I touch you,” John gently ran his fingers down Sherlock’s back, bringing them to rest at the split of his gorgeous arse, “here?”

“Yes!” Sherlock gasped out his answer, desperate.

John slowly brought his hand up to the middle of the other man’s back and pushed him forward gently. John pushed until Sherlock was on all fours, Clementine’s limp body still splayed out beneath him. John reached behind him to grab the bottle of lube he had seen next to the condoms, throwing it onto the bed next to him.

Reverently John began massaging the lush cheeks of Sherlock’s ass. Gripping the soft flesh between his fingers he spread him apart. Leaning down he huffed a hot breath over Sherlock’s sensitive hole. The taller man shivered at the sensation. Clementine was coming back to herself and reached up to run her fingers through Sherlock’s riotous curls.

Tentatively John ran his tongue over Sherlock’s tight pucker. The man moaned obscenely. Emboldened by this response John began lapping at him, dipping his tongue past his tight entrance periodically. Sherlock was a debauched mess. His brain was short circuiting with every press of John’s tongue. Clementine purred encouragements in his ear.

“It’s okay. You’re doing great. You’re so sexy.”

John heard these words and lifted his head. Pausing to drip lube on his fingers, John draped his body over Sherlock’s so that he could once again whisper in his ear.

“She’s right you know. You are so incredibly sexy.” John circled his lubed finger around Sherlock’s hole, coating it generously. “The way you fucked her until she came all over that gorgeous chest of yours. Mmmmm.”

John slowly pushed one finger into Sherlock. His breath hitched at the intrusion, but his body slowly relaxed around it. John pumped his finger in and out of Sherlock for a brief moment before inserting another finger. Sherlock gasped as John began to gently scissor his fingers, stretching him out. He had become a writhing, babbling mess underneath the capable hands of John Watson. The feeling of Clementine’s hands in his hair rooted him to the spot, though, kept him from flying off into oblivion.

“You have the most gorgeous arse.” John had inserted a third finger at this point. Clem’s legs were spread wide, bracketing both men. She slowly rubbed her calf up the side of John’s thigh.

“Oh you naughty little bird you. Do you want me to make him cum on your tits? I would love to see the two of you covered in each other’s cum.”

They both moaned at his words. John punctuating his sentence with a particularly deep thrust of his fingers. Without taking those fingers out of Sherlock, John reached over for a condom and deftly rolled it onto his stiff prick, dribbling a few drops of lube onto the tip.

“I’m going to fuck you now. Are you ready?”

Sherlock shook his head, which was now buried in the crook of Clementine’s neck, in the affirmative. Slowly John pulled his fingers out of the man’s body and lined up his cock. With the greatest of care John pushed into Sherlock only moving forward as Sherlock’s body relented to the intrusion.

A deep moan escaped Sherlock’s lips. Clem kissed the top of his head.

“It’s glorious isn’t?”

“Yeeeeeessss,” he hissed out as John seated the final few inches of his cock into Sherlock.

“Touch him,” John said looking Clem right in the eyes. She reach between them and pealed the condom from Sherlock, flinging it to the floor. John had after all said he wanted Sherlock to cum on her tits. Slowly she stroked him as John remained still and seated inside him. Sherlock shivered between them.

“Oh god!” He gasped out. “Please. Please. Please” He wasn’t sure what he was begging for or from whom, but when John began to move he knew that was exactly what he needed.

Smoothly John thrust in and out of Sherlock, always mindful of his comfort.

“How is that, love? Does that feel good?”

“Yes. John. Oh god yessssss.”

John and Clem had somehow worked out a rhythm between the two of them. With every thrust John fucked Sherlock into Clementine’s hand. She gave a slight twist with every thrust, as much as the minimal space between her and Sherlock would allow.

“Fuck him good, John.” She said relishing in the pleasure of the men above her. “He is so hard in my hand. You should feel him.”

John reached down, budging Clem’s hand out of the way. He wrapped his strong hand around Sherlock’s aching prick and continued languorously fucking him. With his other hand he gripped Sherlock’s shoulder and lifted his head from where it was tucked into Clem’s shoulder.

“I want her to see your face as I fuck you, just like you watched her. I want her to see the look on your face when you cum with my cock inside you. She wants it. Wants to see it.”

John began to pick up his pace. Sherlock could feel a prickling in his lower back as heat pooled in his stomach. John gave a jerk to his shoulder and suddenly Sherlock saw stars. With every thrust John was hitting a spot inside Sherlock that made him feel like he was coming apart at the seams.

“Yes! Oh god yes! Don’t stop John. Don’t stop!”

“Oh I don’t plan on it,” John practically growled into his ear. And he didn’t. He was unrelenting.

“He’s about to cum. I can see it in his face.” Clementine’s voice was desperate and panting.

“Push your tits together.” John demanded. She scrambled her hands up to comply.

With a few more deep thrusts and tight strokes Sherlock was cumming. John thrust one more time deep inside and then stroked him through it, aiming his prick so Sherlock’s cum landed in thick ropes across luscious cleavage of Clementine’s breasts. He could just see it over Sherlock’s shoulder. Her skin glistened with his release. He wanted to lean over and lick it from her hard pink nipples.

“Oh yeah, that’s it right there. That’s what I wanted to see.” John groaned as the last remnants of Sherlock’s orgasm left his body. John’s cock was still throbbing hard inside Sherlock.

“Fuck me until you cum.” Came a ragged demand from the man below him.

“Are you sure?” John rasped.

“Do it! I want you cum all over my back. Please! I need to feel that.” His plea was desperate.

John let out a groan at the filthy proposition and resumed fucking Sherlock with interest. It didn’t take long, John was so close. When he felt just about to topple over the edge John pulled out, tore off the condom and stroked himself to completion. Hot ribbons of cum fell onto Sherlock’s back. John could hear the man moaning beneath him as every new spurt landed on his back.

After he finished, cock still in hand, he looked down at the two people below him. It was a tableau of debauchery. Their bodied flushed and glistening with sweat and cum. Their chests heaving. John’s heart began to swell. He was overwhelmed with the trust and vulnerability they had both shared with him. How had he, of all people, been allowed to share this experience with them? John knew at that moment that he would do anything to protect them.

Chapter Text

It took a few moments before their heads cleared and they regained full control of their limbs. Untangling themselves from each other gently, John leaned back against the headboard of the bed, while Clementine remained prone, her head at the foot of the bed. As Sherlock slowly climbed off of her, Clem reached up a hand to run gently down his cheek. The two shared a gentle smile.

John regarded Sherlock as he began gathering his clothes haphazardly. He looked a bit lost, a bit frantic, but like he was trying his damndest not to let it show. John didn’t know if he should be concerned or find it endearing. He looked over to Clem, who didn’t seem too worried so he settled on endearing.

“Well, um,” Sherlock began, his voice rough and a bit shaky. “That was, um…”

He stared at his feet for a moment. Then, as if making a final decision, straightened his posture and looked up. It was clear he was attempting an unaffected air as he stiffened his lower lip. The plump pink flesh turned up in more of a quivering pout than a resolute stiffness; a move that made him look more vulnerable than anything. John wanted to kiss those lips. It was only now that he realized, through some cruel miracle, he had managed to fuck the man senseless, but failed to taste those beautiful lips. This just couldn’t be.

John rose from the bed as Sherlock still stood there stammering. In two swift strides he was in front of the taller man, cupping his face. John pulled him down and pressed their lips softly together. Sweetly sucking that gorgeous bottom lip between his, John tasted the other man. Tea and salt and something otherworldly filled his senses. As John pulled away Sherlock found his words.

“Good.” He finish. “That was good. Thank you.” And he turned on his heels and left the room.

John stood there a bit perplexed.

“Is he coming back for the rest his clothes at least?” He asked Clementine.

Indeed Sherlock had managed to bolt out of the room only carrying his pants and t-shirt.

Clem just sighed. “No, but I do the laundry anyway so this actually saves me from going to his room to get it.”


John woke early again the next morning. How he got stuck with a weekend clerkship was beyond him. He kissed a sleeping Clem on the cheek before heading to the kitchen to grab a quick cup of tea and some toast.

To his surprise the kitchen was not as empty as it had been on his previous visit. Sitting at the table, eyes glued to a microscope, was Sherlock.

“Morning.” John’s voice was tentative. After Sherlock’s quick escape from the bedroom last night he wasn’t sure how the man was feeling and certainly didn’t expect to see him this early in the morning. Somewhat to John’s relief Sherlock did not reply to his greeting.

It wasn’t until John had already taken the first few bites of toast and sips of tea that the other man made a noise.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John choked. Sherlock did not take his eyes from the microscope.

“Excuse me?”

At this point Sherlock leaned over to scribble something on a notepad.

“Which do you think they will send you to? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

How on earth did he…

“Afghanistan. They stopped sending active troops into Iraq last year.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock mumbled dismissively.

“I’m sorry. Wait. How did you—”

“How did I know that you have promised your service to Queen and country in order to pay for medical school?”

John shifted uncomfortably against the counter.

“Yeah. I haven’t told anyone that.”

Sherlock spun around in his chair and regarded John thoughtfully, almost scrutinizing him.

“The way you carry yourself, your authoritative air, and strength says well suited for military career. Possibly even some UOTC training.” John postured a bit at this complement.

“Since you are clearly not from a well-to-do family,” Sherlock continued, “as the average medical student is, you would need some sort of support through your medical training. It’s really not a difficult leap.”

“Hang on a second.” John set his tea down on the counter. “What do you mean ‘clearly not from a well-to-do family’?”

Sherlock smirked at John’s indignation.

“While you have, for certain, kept yourself clean, orderly, and handsome enough to pull a woman like Clementine those jeans you are wearing are at least three years old and that jumper is clearly from Tesco. Students are known to live with some measure of poverty, but a little support from home would keep you in better style.”

John stood there, mouth agape.

“And then there’s your phone.”

“My phone?”

“Yes.” Sherlock picked up the small black device from the kitchen table. “It fell out of your pocket yesterday evening when you carelessly threw your jacket to the ground.”

John blushed at the smirk on Sherlock’s lips, remembering the frantic shedding of clothes the night before.

“A hand-me-down of a gift.” Sherlock continued. “Mostly likely from your brother.”

“My brother?”

“Yes. The fact that the phone is a hand-me-down is easy. The phone is banged up, scratched. You even allowed it to be tossed to the floor. Not the way the man before me would treat a luxury item. So it has had a previous owner.”

“In my defense,” John interrupted, “I did have other things on my mind last night.”

Sherlock’s cheeks reddened at the tone of his voice, but he continued with his stream of logic.

“The next part is simple. The inscription on the back: Harry Watson. Clearly a relative of yours. This phone has all the latest bells and whistles, a young man’s gadget, which rules out father or uncle. Sure it could be a cousin, but you are a young responsible medical student living in a rundown bedsit. Why else would you bring Clem back here instead of your place? So it is unlikely that you have an extended family, at least one you are close to, else you would be living with them. So brother it is. The fact that it was originally a gift to your brother is quite easy. If you can barely afford clothing and decent accommodations it is unlikely that your brother could afford such a gadget on his own. The remainder of the inscription, ‘From Clara xxx’, merely confirms the story.”

John stood there for a moment, tea forgotten. He didn’t know what to say. He felt as though he should be angry, felt exposed and confused. How could Sherlock possibly know all that about him? Clementine could have given him some of the basics, the fact that he was a med student and his last name, but he had not told her anything else that Sherlock just said. Nothing. Not the army. Not his bedsit. Not his financial situation. Not his family situation. As angry as he felt he should be, John couldn’t help the words that spilled from his mouth.

“That…was amazing.”

Sherlock gave him a perplexed look. This wasn’t his intention. Sherlock had merely been trying to even the playing field. John had so thoroughly exposed him the night before, discovering his need for Clementine’s presence and support. He wanted John to feel as exposed as he did if only to balance the power.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

John quirked the side of his mouth in a smirk.

“What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.” Sherlock said the words with such a straight face that John couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head.

“You are an enigma.” John crossed over to Sherlock and planted a soft kiss to his lips. Sherlock drew in a quick breath at the contact.

“I have to be off to complete that medical training the army is paying for.” He chuckled against Sherlock’s cheek, running his hand through the dark curls at the back of his neck.

“For Queen and country.” Sherlock whispered.

“For Queen and country.” John whispered back.

John took his phone from where Sherlock still clutched it, crossed into the living room and grabbed his jacket from the floor where it still lay.

Of course he would pick up my phone, but not hang up my jacket.

As he opened the door to leave, John turned once more to face Sherlock.

“Oh, and by the way. Harry is short for Harriet.” Then he turned swiftly and walked out of 221B just barely catching Sherlock cursing himself.

“There’s always something.”




Do you want to grab dinner?

It had been nagging at the back of John’s head all weekend that he had engaged in all manner of debauchery with Clementine, but had failed to actually take her out on a proper date. This was contrary to John's concept of how these things worked. Sure a one-off without a date was one thing, but he had every intention of seeing Clementine again and it didn't sit well with him for it to just be sex.John Watson was not the type to use a person for sex. So this Wednesday evening he decided to invite her on a real date. This was one of his two evenings during the week, Saturday being the other, where he did not have clerkship the next day. Shortly after he sent his text he felt his phone buzz.

Brilliant! I'm starving. In the chem lab right now. 3rd floor Wilkes Hall. Meet me here in a few minutes? I’m finishing up with a student.

John peered at his watch. Wilkes Hall was a few minutes’ walk across campus from where he was currently, so he set off at a brisk pace.

As he approached the lab John could hear voices from within. Clementine had said she was with a student. So John waited outside the door to the lab for her to finish.

“For the last time, Jim, no.” John recognized Clem’s voice and peered through the glass on the lab door.

She was standing at a lab table, a tall skinny man with dark hair and even darker eyes was standing next to her. When he spoke his voice was high and child-like, almost sing-songy.

“Oh come on Clem. Just a drink, see where things lead, and if they happen to lead back to your place all the better.”

“Seriously. What part of ‘no’ isn’t sinking into that thick skull of yours?”

John couldn’t agree more. He wanted to step in and say something, but she seemed to be handling the situation.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me in lab. I know you feel the same for me as I do for you.”

Clementine struggled not to laugh in the man’s face.

“I don’t know what sort of twisted narrative you have concocted in that head of yours, but there is nothing between us. There never will be and you need to stop asking.”

At those words the man’s face turned to pure rage and he lunged forward, grabbing Clementine by the arms.  

“Don’t laugh at me!” He screamed as he pushed her against the lab table behind her.

“Get your goddamn hands off of me.” She spat at him.

Within seconds John was behind the man ripping him off of Clementine and throwing him to the floor. John stepped between the two, his body posture clearly ready for a fight. The other man rose slowly to his feet and brushed the front of his shirt with an indignant scoff.

“And who is this big burly man Clem?” The thin man asked.

“I believe the lady told you no.” Came John’s seething response.

“That’s what women DO!” John flinched as the man shouted his response. John reared back as if he were going to strike.

“Don’t,” came Clementine’s voice from behind him. “He’s not worth it. He’s just a self-important sleazy twat. He’s not worth the trouble.”

Clementine stepped forward between the two men.

“It’s time for you to go Jim. If you ever come near me again I will have you banned from the building. Do you understand me?”

Jim just stood there a blank expression on his face. Then he turned sharply and walked out of the lab.

“Ciao!” He said over his shoulder as he pushed through the heavy doors.

“Was that your student?” John asked.

Clementine just stood there for a few moments, staring in the direction of the lab doors.

“No.” She said without turning around. “That was another PhD candidate, Jim Moriarty.”

“Can you really have him banned from the building?”

“No.” She let out a solemn sigh. “But let’s hope he doesn’t know that.”




“You know you don’t have to do this,” she said to John as he passed his menu to the waiter.

“Do what?” He said, feigning innocence.

“This.” She waved her hand to the restaurant, the table, the candle. “When you said you wanted to get dinner I was thinking takeaway not candle light.”

John blushed a little. Had he been presumptuous? Perhaps it had all been about sex and John had just stepped over some line he hadn’t realize existed. Clementine could see the unease on his face.

“I just thought,” said John, “that it would only be proper for us to have a real date. I really like you, Clem, and I didn't want you to think that I was only interested in you know."

He was blushing now, staring at his hands as they twisted together on the table top. How could he say all manner of filthy things in the bedroom, but couldn't manage to say the word 'sex' in polite conversation? Clementine just smiled at him affectionately.

“I really like you too, John. I enjoy spending time with you. That’s why I went home with you that first night. I would never think you were the kind of guy who would just use me for sex. Using someone and having a non-romantic sexual relationship are two different things. You are a good man. Only a good man would step in the way you did earlier today and only a good man would offer up his services in time of war.”

John shot his head up to meet her gaze, a bit shocked.

"Sherlock told me." She said with a slight smile. "He deduced you this morning didn't he?"

John chuckled.

"Is that what you call it?"

"Listen, John, dating really isn't my area." She said, shifting the conversation back on track. 

“Why not?” He asked almost too quickly. “I mean…that is…if you don’t mind telling me.”

Clementine shot him a sweet smile and reached across the table to hold his hand.

“Well at the moment it is mostly because I am finished with my studies in a few months and I am not sure where I will end up after. I’m not even sure I’ll get to stay in London. It wouldn’t be good to get attached to anyone…romantically.”

She pulled her hand back and crossed her arms, her face almost looking irritated, as she leaned back in her chair.

“Also, outside influences tend to stop me from enjoying consistent companionship.”

John gave her a quizzical look.

“Outside influences?”

As if on cue a tall specter in a long wool Belstaff glided to their table and pulled up a chair. It took John a few moments to realize that it was Sherlock who had just sat next to them. Clementine sighed as if to say, “See what I mean?”

“What are you doing here Sherlock?” She said instead.

“Clem, I need your assistance.”

“Can’t you see that I am busy?” She motioned to John, who gave a pathetic wave. Sherlock gave him a cursory glance and then returned his attentions to Clementine.

“This is important. If I don’t keep both substances at a consistent temperature the entire experiment will be all for naught. I cannot adequately monitor them both on my own.”

“I am having dinner with John.” She seemed resolute.

“Dinner can be eaten at home.” Sherlock said, trying to one-up her resolution.

“We have discussed this.”

John wasn’t sure what to make of the scene playing out before him. The banter seemed to be a weird cross between mother vs child and husband vs wife.

“I’ll pay.”

“No you won’t.” Clem retorted Sherlock’s offer.

They sat there for a few moments not saying a word. Just staring at each other. Sherlock with a pleading look and Clementine with an air of irritation.

“It’s fine with me.” John supplied to ease the tension. They both turned to look at him.

“If you two have some important chemistry thing that you need to be doing we can take the order to-go. You were just saying how you had expected us to get takeaway. Well? Let’s get takeaway.”

Sherlock seemed pleased with this solution and looked at Clementine expectantly. Her irritation had not yet abated.

“Sherlock Holmes, it is the principal of the thing. You cannot just drop by unannounced and demand that I change my plans. I have my own life. I love you, but you have to stop this.”

“I didn’t demand. I believe I asked rather politely. I even offered to pay for your dinner.”

Clementine gritted her teeth.

“Fine! Go pay and tell the waiter to box up our order. I’ll hail a cab.”

And with that she stomped out of the restaurant.

Chapter Text

John and Sherlock stood at the counter waiting for their dinner. Apparently, assured of his success, Sherlock had added his own order before ever coming to the table. Rather presumptuous John thought.

Clementine was outside the restaurant pacing. John turned to watch her through the large glass door and windows that adorned the front of the building. It seemed less like she was hailing a cab and more like she was arguing with someone inside her head.

He turned back to the counter and the source of Clem’s frustrations. Sherlock was arguing with the hostess behind the counter about the length of time it takes to make chicken piccata. Poor thing looked terrified and irritated all at the same time. John was starting to get the feeling that this is how Sherlock made most people feel.

As she disappears into the back to check on their order John silently hoped his food would come out saliva free.

“You don’t have to be so rude,” he says to Sherlock instead.

Sherlock shoots him a level stare.

“It is hardly my fault that the wait staff here are incompetent and incapable of answering the most basic of questions.”

“Have you ever heard the saying ‘never be rude to someone that handles your food’?”

Sherlock just stares at him blankly.

“Or for that matter,” John continues, “’do onto others as you would have them do unto you’?”

“I don’t have time for fairytales.” Sherlock said stiffly before crossing his arms and leaning against the front counter where they waited for the hostesses return.

John looked back to Clementine, who seemed to have stopped pacing, before regarding Sherlock once more.

“You don’t trust me do you?” John asked.

Sherlock flinched at the question.

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what this is all about,” John said waving his hand about as if the situation were something he could gesture towards.

‘That’s why you interrupt her dates. You don’t trust the guys she’s with. You are trying to protect her.”

John crossed his arms, mirroring Sherlock’s posture, and waited for a response. When none was forthcoming John continued.

“I’m not going to hurt her. Look I know our situation is a bit … unorthodox … but I would never—”

“It’s not you I don’t trust John.” Sherlock interrupted.


“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s Clem.”

John looked back at Clementine, who appeared to be talking to someone now.

“What do you mean you don’t trust Clem?” John asked looking back at Sherlock. “You think she is going to hurt me?”

At this question Sherlock scoffed and giggled. John just stood there confused.

“You really are a simple idiot sometimes John.”


“Clementine has led a rather lonely life. We are very much alike in that manner. Though, admittedly, Clem is not lonely because she’s a rude prick.”

Sherlock shot him a sideways grin. People had said Sherlock was an asshole, but John didn’t buy it. He knew it was more complicated than that. It was clear he could be rude and brusque, but John had also seen him brilliant, soft, and vulnerable. The more he learned about this man the more he wanted to know.

“Clementine loves very big, very deeply. Anyone who is privy to her love is exceptionally lucky. She does not give it out lightly. But with deep love comes deep hurt.”

John was mesmerized by the words spilling from Sherlock. He turned once again to watch the woman Sherlock spoke of. He could tell now that the person she was talking to was Sally Donovan, the acerbic woman he’d met at the pub.

“When I said I don’t trust Clementine, what I meant was: I don’t trust Clementine to not fall in love with you.”

With this last sentence John’s head whipped around to look Sherlock right in the eye. His gorgeous blue eyes shown with honesty and a tint of apprehension.

“The other men Clementine has dated were simply not good enough. Shallow, egotistical, jocks or public school prats who were only good for a nice shag. You are a good man John. You’re kind, compassionate, intelligent,” Sherlock paused, “but you are also leaving. It doesn’t matter how deeply you two may fall for each other. In less than a year’s time you will be gone, potentially forever. Clementine has seen enough of that in her life. She doesn’t need any more.”

“I don’t want to leave.” John said breathlessly. “Either of you.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed at the confession. He stepped closer to John, causing the shorter man to tilt his head up to maintain eye contact.

“But you don’t really have a choice do you?” Sherlock whispered.

“Order for Holmes!” The shrill irritated voice broke through their conversation.

The two men stepped apart. John could feel the loss of Sherlock’s closeness as he turned to pay the hostess behind the counter.

John turned away from him and shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to seem unaffected by their conversation. He looked back out at Sally and Clementine just in time to see the flat of Clem’s hand make solid contact with the side of Sally’s face.

For a moment John was rendered immobile by shock. Then he saw Anderson appear out of the bustle of people on the sidewalk. He inserted himself between the two women and grabbed Clem by the shoulders and began shaking her.

John didn’t even think. He just moved. In two seconds flat he was out of the restaurant and stalking toward the soon to be very dead son-of-a-bitch who had his hands on Clem.

“Get your goddamn hands off of me!” Clem screamed.

“You stupid cunt!” Anderson shouted into her face.

“Oi!!” John shouted as he reached the pair. He grabbed Anderson by one hand, weaving his fingers around the other man’s thumb, and twisted. Anderson shouted in pain as his arm contorted in an unnatural way and John inserted himself between him and Clem.

“You keep your goddamn hands off of her or I will break every last bone in your hand. Do you understand me?” John twisted the man’s hand a bit farther to emphasize his point.

Clementine stood back behind John watching the two men.

“She hit my girlfriend.”

“I don’t give a fuck what she did.” John growled. He released Anderson from his grip, but was still poised to fight if anyone tried anything stupid.

“You just keep that crazy bitch away from my girlfriend.” Anderson sneered.

Clementine could no longer stand back and watch. She marched forward, but John held out his arm to keep her behind him.

“I was just standing here,” she shouted. “YOU came up to ME! Like I would ever willingly talk to assholes like you!”

“Assholes like us? The only way you get ANYONE to like you is by fucking them!” Sally spat back at her.

John stiffened his arm ready to hold her back, but Clementine didn’t move.

“The only person who can stand to be around you is goddamn freak. I’m sure the only reason John is here is because you have been fucking his brains out.”

“That’s enough!” John shouted back at her.

“I find it funny you are so worried about who Clem is sleeping with instead of who your boyfriend is sleeping with,” came a low growling voice behind John. Sherlock was there now, standing next to Clementine, takeout bags in hand.

“We’re not playing any of your games Sherlock,” came Anderson’s nervous reply.

Sherlock stepped between John and the couple.

“Games? Oh I’m not playing any games. I’m simply wondering why Sally is still hung up on Brice, when you’ve been shagging Sarah for the past three weeks.”

Anderson went pale and began sputtering, “That…that’s not true. You’re just making things up!”

The anger on Sally’s face was palpable. She may call Sherlock a freak, but it is clear she trusts his abilities.

“I fucking knew it!” Her fury was now focused on her boyfriend. “You lying piece of—”

“Now if you two will kindly take your little domestic somewhere else. We have a cab to catch.” Sherlock stalked passed the two and hailed a cab. John wrapped his arm around Clem and escorted her past the arguing couple and into the waiting cab.




“I’m not hungry!” Clementine yelled as Sherlock placed the food on the table at Baker Street.

“And you can forget about me helping you with whatever bullshit experiment you brought me here for.” She stalked back to her bedroom and slammed the door.

“Do you mind telling me what this is all about?” John asked thoroughly confused.

Sherlock sighed as he stared off in the direction of Clem’s room.

“One of those public school prats I told you about earlier was a man named Brice, who also happened to be Sally’s boyfriend at the time. Clem didn’t know, obviously, or she never would have brought him home. But that didn’t mean much to Sally. Ever since then she has delighted in torturing Clem.”

“That explains the slap I guess.”

“What slap?” Sherlock turned sharply to John.

“Clementine slapped Sally across the face. That’s what made Anderson grab her.”

Sherlock’s face went dark. He took a few steps toward John, fixing him with an intense glare.

“He did what?”

His presence was intimidating. John stuttered a moment before replying.

“He—he grabbed her. That’s why I rushed out. He had her by the shoulders and was shaking her.” John could see Sherlock’s jaw clench at his words.

“I nearly broke his thumb.” John reassured him, a ting of pride in his voice.

Sherlock had completely invaded John’s space at this point. He was staring down at him, the heat in his eyes shifting from anger to desire.

“I told him if he ever laid a hand on her again I would break every bone in that hand.”

John’s voice was husky and thick with desire of his own. Sherlock slipped a hand across John’s hip and to the small of his back, pulling the shorter man closer to him. John could feel the press of Sherlock’s erection on his own stiffening prick.

“You’re a good man John Watson.” Sherlock whispered as he bent down to brush their lips together.

As Sherlock’s sweet plush lips connected with John’s, the blond man gave a small whimper and grabbed Sherlock’s hip to thrust their cocks together. The two stood in the entry way between the living room and kitchen wrapped in each other. Hands started pushing jackets off shoulders. Lips were sucked into hot hungry mouths. The grind of their pelvises desperate with desire.

John pulled Sherlock’s shirt from his trousers and splayed his hands on the man’s bare back, needing to feel the heat of his skin. Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth at the contact.

“Get a room you two.”

They jumped apart as if the other were a live wire and looked in the direction of the voice.

Clementine was standing in the doorway to the hall off the kitchen in nothing but a pair of cotton briefs and a tank top. She had visibly relaxed from her pervious state and John took a moment to drink her in.

“Preferably my room.” She finished with a cheeky tone and turned to walk back to her room. This time there was no sound of the door closing.

The two men looked at each other, shared a wicked grin and scrambled to follow her down the hall.

Clementine was standing by the window in her room the moonlight illuminating her now completely nude frame.

“I’m sorry.” She said without turning to look at them.

“I lost my temper today. Neither of you should have had to deal with that. I’m sorry.”

John didn’t know what to say, but Sherlock walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he whispered to her. “I’m just sorry I wasn’t there with you.”

Clementine wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s and pulled him closer.

“John was there. He was great.” She whispered back.

“He was just regaling me with his tale of chivalry.” Sherlock chuckled.

“Is that why you were getting ready to suck him off?” She asked.

“Yes,” he husked.

John felt a rush of blood go straight to his cock at the mention of those lips around him.

Clementine released herself from Sherlock’s arms and walked over to John.

“Thank you for being there for me today in more ways than one.” She leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to John’s lips.

“Now,” she said as she walked behind John. “Shall you two continue where you left off?”

Slowly she pulled John’s jumper and undershirt over his head. She pressed her naked body to his bare back and ran her hands up and down his chest, staring at Sherlock over John’s shoulder. She could see the blatant want in his face, the way his mouth hung open as he panted ever so slightly, the way his eyes were hooded, but still fixated on the pair of them.

“Do you want him?” She whispered in John’s ear.

“Yes.” John could feel his knees going weak.

Clementine circled his nipples with the tips of her fingers, playing with the stiff peaks before slipping her hands down to his trousers. Slowly she undid the button and pulled the fly down.

“He wants you too. You can see it in his face.”

Clementine reached into the front of John’s pants and pulled out his aching prick. John sucked in a breath as it hit the cool air of the room. Clem began stroking it languorously with one hand as the other deftly pushed his trousers and pants down his thighs.

“I believe you said something about sucking him off.”

The statement, clearly directed at Sherlock, spurred the man into action. With a few steps he was in front of the pair on his knees. He helped John the rest of the way out of his trousers and then slowly removed Clem’s hands.

He snaked his tongue out from between his lips and around the head of John’s cock. Instantly John’s hand fell to the bed of curls on top of Sherlock’s head.

“Oh Christ!” John’s voice quavered.

Then suddenly he was completely engulfed in the heat of Sherlock’s mouth. He looked down and saw those gorgeous lips stretched around his girth and groaned with satisfaction. Sherlock began bobbing on John’s cock and John met the movements of his head with small thrusts of his hips.

Clementine remained pressed against John’s back, peppering his shoulders with light kisses and running her fingers through the smattering of hair on his chest.

“God you two are so gorgeous.” She cooed. “How did I get so lucky?”

John felt a cool gust of air as Clementine removed herself from him to retrieve something from the nightstand.

“I want you to feel so good John.” She whispered in his ear, tucking herself against him once more. “I want you to come completely undone.”

With one hand Clem began caressing one luscious cheek of John’s bum while the other, slick with lube, began caressing his slit.

“Oh, god.” John’s voice was shaky and desperate. He looked down at Sherlock, still voraciously sucking his cock. When he felt Clem’s fingers brush up against his entrance he took in a sharp breath and tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair.

The resulting moan from the man below him made John’s entire body vibrate. The feeling left him relaxed and pliant. Clementine seized the opportunity and slowly inserted her first finger.

“Fuuuuuck,” John moaned in response, his footing becoming unsteady.

Clementine wrapped her free hand back across his chest, holding firmly on his opposite shoulder. Sherlock brought one hand up to splay on John’s stomach, the other continuing to assist with the amazing blowjob he was currently giving John.

When John had regained his equilibrium Clementine slowly inserted a second finger. Steadily pumping in and out she could feel John go pliant underneath her hands.

“You are so gorgeous. Look at you. You want to cum so badly don’t you?” Her words were like warm honey.

John nodded his head vigorously. The push and pull of her fingers and Sherlock’s lips had him right on the edge. It was too much, but not enough. Then all of a sudden her fingers stilled, deep inside him.

“Sherlock, love?” Clementine purred.

Sherlock popped off of John’s cock with a salacious smacking sound, keeping a firm grip on the base of his cock, John’s fingers still tangled in his curls.

“Yes love?” Came Sherlock’s deep husky response. The constant strain of taking John’s thick cock into his throat had left his voice ragged.

“John wants to cum.” Clem crooked her fingers ever so slightly inside John, brushing teasingly against his prostate before stilling.

John went stiff, sucking in a ragged breath.

“Do you think we can make that happen?” She asked sweetly.

Sherlock gave John’s cock a few firm strokes. They both had to tighten their grip on the poor man’s body as his balance started to falter again under the pleasure of it.

“I think we can manage.” Sherlock said nonchalantly to Clem before looking up at John.

“The question is: Do you want to cum on my face?” Sherlock gripped Johns cock and rubbed it across his swollen lips, his stiff jaw, and sharp edge of his cheeks.

“Or do you want to cum in my mouth?” Just then Sherlock swallowed John down to the base and, applying liberal amounts of suction, slowly sucked his way back up to the tip of his cock.

John had lost all sense of reality. He was completely drunk on the pleasure of the moment. He stood there silently shivering with anticipation and longing.

“I believe the man asked you a question.” Clem said, punctuating her words with another sudden caress of John’s prostate.

John howled in response.

“I want to cum in your mouth. I want to cum hard down your throat and I want to watch you swallow ever drop I give you.”

John’s filthy words spurred his companions into action. Sherlock descended on his prick with a ferocious desire. His hands and lips worked in concert to wring every last bit of pleasure from his body.

Simultaneously, Clem began fucking him in earnest from behind. She added a third finger, angling them so they brush his prostate with every stroke, periodically pausing to rub the sensitive spot for a few seconds, before continuing to pump in and out of him.

John was a sobbing mess. He knew he was going to cum hard and soon. It took all his strength not to collapse under the onslaught of pleasure and remain standing.

“Oh god. Oh fuuuuuuuck!!!” John moaned.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Clementine purred with encouragement. “We’ve got you. Cum for us John.”

With that final command John was cumming. He felt thick hot ropes of cum fill Sherlock’s mouth. He had to fight his eyelids that wanted to slam shut against the pleasure, but he forced them open. He forced himself to watch as Sherlock did exactly as instructed. He watched as Sherlock swallowed ever last drop of cum John shot into his mouth.

Chapter Text

John leaned against the headboard of Clementine’s bed, staring at her back. She was rocking back and forth on Sherlock’s lap, slowly fucking him. Sherlock’s head was at the foot of the bed and John couldn’t see his face.

This was somewhat of a travesty in John’s mind. He loved to see that man weak in the throes of passion, but John was weak himself from the thorough attention his two lovers paid him earlier.

Two lovers, John thought. I have two lovers.

He let the reality sink in as he looked on affectionately at the two of them. He didn’t feel like a third wheel. He didn’t feel like Sherlock was butting in on his relationship with Clementine. Hell, he didn’t really have a relationship with Clementine. Not one that existed outside the context of Sherlock anyway.

John wanted them both. He wanted to hold them and touch them and just be with them. More than anything, though, at that moment, he wanted to fuck them.

He could feel himself getting hard again. He started to stroke himself as he watched Clementine began to slow down the rolling of her hips. Then John heard her speak.

“Don’t leave me,” she whispered, her voice tinged with a kind of desperation that spoke of something other than desire.

She was talking to Sherlock. She had reached a hand down to his face.

“Don’t ever leave me.”

Her voice was soft, but John could hear the slight break in it.

Sherlock sat up from his prone position and wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face into the crook of her neck. He was still inside of her.

“Never. I could never leave you,” he whispered to her. Slowly, Sherlock began stroking her hair.

John’s heart ached at the sight. He leaned forward onto his knees and crawled closer to them. Sherlock saw him and reached out his hand pulling John toward them.

John set a hand on Clementine’s shoulder and gently kissed the top of her hair. She reached up and brought John’s arm around her chest, between her and Sherlock.

For just a minute the three of them sat there on the bed wrapped around each other.

For just a minute they were the only people who existed to each other.

Then Sherlock rocked his hips and Clementine moaned.

For a moment John had almost forgotten his own arousal throbbing between his legs. At the sound of Clementine’s moan he slowly began thrusting against her, his cock sliding slightly between her cheeks.

As their breath quickened and bodies fell into a rhythm, John felt large strong hands slide onto his hips.

Sherlock’s face was still buried into Clementine’s neck, alternately panting against and lightly sucking on her skin. His hips rocked up into her body. He was using the force of John’s hips and thrusts as leverage for his own.

It was as if they were fucking her in tandem, thought John.

He went still at the thought, his cock becoming impossibly harder. Quickly he leaned back, out of the reach of Sherlock’s hands, and grabbed at something on the night stand. When he returned he planted his knees firmly between Sherlock’s legs and tucked himself right up against Clementine’s back.

When a cool slick finger slid down the split in her cheeks she realized what he had done, what he was going to do.

“Yes,” she moaned deep throwing her head back onto John’s shoulder.

Sherlock took advantage of this move, her chest now splayed and exposed, and sucked a pert nipple into his mouth. John’s finger had been circling her tight pucker and as Sherlock began ravaging her breasts Clementine relaxed into John’s touch.

Slowly he pushed one finger in and then another. He pumped in and out as Sherlock continued to rock up into her, leaning down periodically to suck at her breasts.

John began to gently spread his fingers, stretching her out, preparing her. She cried out in pleasure as he inserted a third finger, continuing to pump in and out.

“Are you ready,” John asked breathlessly.

“Yes. Yes. I want you. I want you both. Please.” She was desperate, trapped between both of their bodies, at the mercy of both their attentions.

John raised his free hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, pushing him gently.

“Lay back love,” he told him sweetly.

Sherlock did as instructed. Then John put his hand on Clementine’s shoulder.

“Lean forward just a bit.” His voice was soft and gentle, but carried a thick desire that made Clementine shiver all over. Slowly she bent forward, putting a hand on either side of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock reached up and stroked her face gently as John withdrew his fingers and lined up his cock.

When John slowly slide inside of her Sherlock suddenly gripped the back of her neck and threw his head back with a gasp.

“John! John, I can feel you.” Sherlock moaned.

“Oh god!” John practically shouted. “I can feel you too.”

Clumsily the two men reached for each other, bumping fingers before gripping the other’s hand tightly.

For a moment they remained still, catching their breath. Then Clem moved.

She leaned forward toward Sherlock, slipping farther off their cocks as she went.

Then, slowly, very slowly, sank back down, feeling them fill her once again. This drew a collective moan from the three of them.

Sherlock’s hands loosed their other occupations and gripped Clementine’s hips. John placed his hands over Sherlock’s. Together they rocked Clementine back and forth in the same motion, bucking their hips into her as they pulled her back.

John reveled in the tight heat of her body, the press of Sherlock’s cock against his. Clementine mewled with every thrust.

“You like that don’t you,” John growled.

“You like being fucked by both of us.”

John leaned back to look at where his body entered hers, still bouncing her ass on his cock.

“God you look so fucking gorgeous with two cocks inside of you. You take it so fucking good.”

Then he thrust up into her and stilled.

“Fuck her good and hard Sherlock.” He barked. 

“I want to feel your prick rubbing against my shaft.”

Sherlock began thrusting deep and fast. John reveled in the rolling pressure of the other man’s cock. So overcome with pleasure, John leaned forward onto Clem, resting his forehead on her shoulder. He could feel her arms go shaky.

Suddenly one arm gave out and then the other. She propped herself up on her elbows, her head resting on Sherlock’s chest. John raised his head off of her, but remained curled around her.

He was close, they were all close. He could feel it. Then, like an exhausted runner near the finish line, John gathered his strength to finish. He began thrusting in time with Sherlock. Clementine braced herself, allowing the two men to just fuck her. She could feel the pressure building in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m cumming! I’m cumming!” She cried as her orgasm washed over her with each fresh thrust.

“Oh god! Oh god!” Sherlock gasped.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! I’m still cumming!” Clementine cried between them, but neither man even considered slowing down. Their eyes were locked on each other and they were racing to their own orgasms.

“Sherlock!” John cried out as he came hard.

“John!” Sherlock shouted in return as he too succumbed to his orgasm.


John looked down at the two bodies lying next to him. Clem was tucked into his side, face slack, chest gently rising and falling. Sherlock, on the other side of Clem, was sprawled out on his stomach lightly snoring. One arm draped haphazardly over Clem’s back. John wasn’t sure which sight was more endearing.

This was the first time that they had all shared a bed for something other than sex. It was sweet and comforting and seemed so right.

Last night had been amazing. He should be exhausted, snuggled into his lovers like Clem or completely passed out like Sherlock, but John just lay there unable to sleep. His mind could not stop going over the events of the previous day.

Finally fed up with his brain’s inability to shut off he slid out of bed and pulled on a t-shirt. He then walked quietly into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

He had been in this kitchen plenty of times now, but he was surprised at the ease with which he moved about it. Grabbing the milk from the fridge, and pointedly ignoring whatever it was in the pickle jar Sherlock had been storing for the past week, he made his way to the kettle by the sink and filled it.

He knew where the clean mugs were, the ones Clem had forbidden Sherlock to use for experiments. John chose a white one with a chemistry joke on it, something about the element of surprise, and tossed in a bag of PG Tips that sat next to the kettle on the counter.   

“Can’t sleep?” Came a familiar voice as the kettle clicked.

John smiled to himself as he pour the water into the mug.

“Milk?” He asked without turning around.

“Please,” came Clementine’s response. John added a liberal amount of milk to the tea then handed it to her. She took it with a gracious smile then walked over to the couch.

He then grabbed another mug and repeated the process for himself before returning the milk to the fridge and joining Clem on the couch.

“Couldn’t shut my brain off I guess,” said John.

The two settled into a companionable silence on the couch sipping their drinks.

“Thank you for yesterday,” Clem finally said.

John looked at her quizzically.

“Don’t give me that look. You know what I’m talking about.” She took another drink of tea before continuing.

“My life isn’t usually as damsel-in-destress-y as it was yesterday. In fact it’s usually rather boring.”

“Oh I doubt that,” John said with a small chuckle.

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Clem reached her foot out shoving John playfully. He giggled a bit trying to keep his tea in the cup.

“No. Nothing bad! I just happen to think you are really interesting that’s all.”

They smiled at each other across the length of the couch. For a moment they returned to drinking in silence before Clem spoke once again.

“So who is she?”

John looked up at her from where he had been staring into his tea.

“Who?” He asked, completely baffled by the question.

“The abused woman in your life.” It was a blunt statement that hit John right in the chest.

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” he stuttered.

Clem gave him a gentle look as if to say, Come on.

“John, you almost killed two different people yesterday for simply grabbing me. That’s a very powerful reaction for someone who hadn’t actually hurt me.”

John looked down at his lap a bit dejected.

“No. No. No. I’m glad you stepped in. They were assholes and it felt really good to have someone stand up for me. Sherlock is the only one who has ever done that for me before.”

John smiled a bit at being compared to Sherlock, but he still couldn’t look back up at Clementine.

“I just figured—,” she continued, “I mean it just seemed to me that you must have experience with abuse to react so quickly and intensely.” She took a long drag of her tea. “Plus we can smell our own kind, I guess.”

John finally looked up at her, still a bit sheepish.

“My mum,” he said quietly.

“I’m afraid it is quite your typical boring story. Working class family. Dad liked to drink and knock mum around.” He wasn’t going to boohoo the situation. He wasn’t looking for sympathy.

Clem shifted a bit closer to him.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, John, but I guarantee you that your situation is neither typical nor boring. That is not how families are supposed to be and you know that, clearly.”

John smirked a bit, spinning the mug in his hands.

“Yeah I guess so.” He drank down the last of his tea and set the mug on table.

John leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, contemplating something. There was another long stretch of silence. This time it was John who broke the silence.

“Do you remember when you stopped believing in Santa?” He asked.

Clem just leaned back into the couch and huffed, “My parents never did the whole Santa thing.”

“I remember it very clearly,” John continued as if she hadn’t said a word.

“I was four-years-old. It was Christmas Eve and I couldn’t sleep I was so excited. Harry, my sister, she was nine, had got me all worked up. Telling me how Santa was going to come down the chimney and eat the cookies and leave presents. It was the first year I was really old enough to understand the story.”

John’s eyes seemed to sparkle in the dim street light coming from the windows. A small smile played across his face.

“So I lay in bed listening for the sound of reindeer hooves and sleigh bells. I don’t know what time it was. It was late. I should have been asleep, clearly, but I heard a noise downstairs. At first it was just a shuffling. Then I heard a man’s voice.

“I knew it was Santa. It had to be. Everyone else was asleep. So I hopped out of bed, thinking I would sneak in and see him. Every kids dream right?”

Clem sat there listening intently.

“I was going to go into my sister’s room to wake her up, but when I got into the hallway the noise in the living room sounded strange. It sounded like someone crying. I peeked around the corner and saw presents scattered across the living room floor. Some of the wrapping had been ripped, the toys in some of the gift bags had spilled out. And there, in the middle of all of it, was my dad towering over my mom.

“She was on the floor. He had her by the hair and she was crying. Her face was red and her nose was bleeding.”

John swallowed thickly. The next words were heavy and he strained to get them out.

“He lifted his hand, getting ready to hit her. I was so scared and I didn’t know what to do so I just yelled, ‘Daddy! Don’t hit mommy! You’ll scare Santa away!”

John shook his head and laughed bitterly.

“Can you believe it?” He turned to Clem. “There my poor mother was, bleeding and frightened, and all I could think about was Santa.”

He rubbed his hands across his face. Clem could see his eyes had gone red from fighting back tears.

“He turned to me and said,” John cleared his throat and deepened his voice to imitate his father. “‘Santa isn’t real you little shite. I buy you this stupid crap with my hard-earned money then you’re cunt mother puts the presents under the tree and lies to you. It’s not Santa! It’s me!’

“That’s when Harry ran into the room and pushed my dad off of my mom. ‘Stop it!’ she shouted at him. ‘Just stop it!’”

John had finally lost control over his voice. He was sobbing slightly and his hands were shaking.

“He finally let go of mum. She grabbed both of us and put us back to bed.” He wiped at his eyes and cleared his throat. “And that’s how I learned there was no Santa,” he chuckled darkly.

Clem reached out and put her arm around John. She pulled him down until his head was resting in her lap.

“Harry was always so much stronger than me,” John said.

“Shush.” Chided Clem. “You were four. What were you supposed to do?”

John didn’t answer. He didn’t have one.

“As I got older I promised myself that I would never be that weak and selfish again,” John said as a way of closing.

“Where is your mum now?”

“She lives in Surry with a nice man named Tim. She left my dad when I was ten with the help of a local women’s group.”

Clem smiled gently and stroked John’s hair.

“Is he nice?” She asked.

“Yeah, he’s a good guy. He was a nurse. They met at one of my mom’s many trips to the hospital.”

John smiled to himself.

“I was so impressed with the way he helped people. He’s the reason I got into medicine. I wanted to help people like he did.”

“So, happy ending?”

“Yeah,” he said, “Happy ending.”

They sat in silence for a few beats before John spoke again.

“What about you?” He asked.

“You said, ‘We can smell our own.’ I assume that means your dad was a major arse hole too.”

Her hand paused in his hair for a moment before continuing her gentle strokes.

“That’s one way to put it,” she said.

Chapter Text

Clementine sat in a large overstuffed chair in her bedroom. Out her window she could hear the shrieks and laughter of other children. Hateful.

Her father was throwing one of his many client parties. He was the best financial advisor in the UK. Among his clients were the richest of business world, the most influential of the political world, and more recently some of the oldest landowners in Britain. Old money, they were called.

The party her father was throwing that day, a garden cocktail party, was also one of his “family friendly” parties. This meant that all of his clients brought their snot-nosed children to terrorize the staff while their parents ignored them and got elegantly wasted.

Clem was nine, but had already developed a distaste for her own kind. Children, that is. It wasn’t because they were mean or rude, but rather because they were so vapid and selfish. Their concerns rarely spanned beyond basic creature comforts: when the next toy will be purchased, what they are going to wear to school, whether they will have ice cream or cake for dessert.

When these parties came around she would make an appearance, greet everyone, making sure her father saw her. She would then wait until he had a few drinks, was thoroughly absorbed in shop talk and rubbing elbows before sneaking up to her bedroom, closing the door, and reading until it was time to see everyone off.

That was the one perk to being nothing more than a prop to her father. His concern for her presence did not reach beyond the simple need to show that he indeed had a daughter and she was the embodiment of sophistication and perfection.

Perhaps this made him feel like he belonged in the ranks of his filthy rich clientele. Clementine’s family was also rather rich, but it was all built from the ground up by her father. She had heard the term “nouveau riche” thrown around in relation to her family and knew this didn’t sit well with him.

On the other hand, perhaps it was simply a ploy so people wouldn’t suspect him of being a sociopath. People rarely suspect the man with a smiling wife and child. Clementine wasn’t completely sure what his ultimate motives were and it really didn’t matter.

At that moment she was engrossed in the world of the book in her hands and couldn’t be bothered with such thoughts. When she was reading the whole world shut off.

This would explain why she hadn’t heard the deathly shrieks of the other children running around outside her window.

“Freak!” They jeered.

“Get back here! We’re gonna pound you!” Came the taunts.

Still Clem read on, unknowing. She didn’t hear the footsteps on the stairs either. It wasn’t until her bedroom door flew open that she looked up from the pages.

Standing in the doorway was a young boy, looking to be about her age, with a mess of shaggy curls hanging around his face. He was breathing hard and looked around the room frantically, his eyes not even registering Clementine sitting up stock straight in her chair.

Suddenly his eyes lit up and he dove under her bed, disappearing from sight in mere seconds.

“What do you think you are doing?” Clementine shrieked.

“Get out from under there! This is my room! Get out!” Clementine dropped to her knees and reached under the bed.

“Shhhhhh!!!” The little boy shushed her emphatically.

“Get out! Get out!” She was grabbing at him now, trying to drag him from under her bed.

“Please! Please! They’re after me!” His voice was desperate and full of fear. He was swatting her hands away as she fruitlessly grabbed at him.

“You can’t be in here.” Clementine’s voice matched that of the little boy. It wasn’t angry. It was terrified and pleading.

“He went this way!” She heard a voice call from the stairs.

The little boy under her bed froze then looked at here with wide imploring eyes.

“Please.” He said earnestly.

Clementine could hear a cacophony of footsteps on the stairs. For a moment she didn’t move, just held the piteous gaze of the boy under her bed.

“Don’t move,” she said. “Don’t make a sound.”

The boy responded with a tight nod of his head. Swiftly Clementine rose to her feet just in time to greet the gaggle of kids at the door to her room.

“Have you seen the little freak?” Asked the tallest boy amongst them.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” came Clem’s leveled response.

A young girl pushed her way to the font of the group. There were about five of them in total, most of them a little older than Clementine.

“The Holmes boy!” Shrieked the girl. “The younger one with the dark hair.”

Clementine was unmoved.

“I have no idea who that is.”

It wasn’t a complete lie. She hadn’t recognized the boy as belonging to the Holmes family, but she knew the name well. They were one of the most well respected wealthiest land owners in Britain. They even had social connections to the royal family. They were by far her father’s most coveted and newest clients.

“Don’t lie. He ran into the house. He is in here somewhere!” It was the boy’s turn to shout at her now.

“Well, this is a big house.” Clem said without flinching. “He must be somewhere else because he is not here. You should look around.”

The boy was balling his fists in anger now. Slowly he stepped forward in an intimidating move. Clementine was not moved.

“However, I will warn you that my father is an intensely private man and would not appreciate strangers snooping through his house. And he does have quite a temper on him. Let us also not forget that my father is in charge of the money that buys you those fancy clothes and expensive electronics.”

Now Clem was stepping forward. The boy was taller than her, but she just tilted her head up to meet his eyes as if his presence was nothing more than that of an annoying mosquito to her.

“It doesn’t seem wise to threaten the security of your parent’s fortune does it?” She continued. “Mummy and daddy would be none too happy about you damaging their financial security would they?”

The boy shrank back a bit. Clementine was aware that children of this society knew one thing above all else: never interfere with business. The anger on the group’s face gave way to disappointment.

“Fine.” He spat. “But if you see him you tell him we’re looking for him. He can’t hide forever.”

Clementine saluted the boy mockingly.

“Will do sir!”

With a snarl on his lips he turned and led the group out of the room and back outside. Clementine closed the door behind them, climbed onto her bed to look out the window and watched as, one by one, they appeared back on the main lawn.

Once they all were otherwise occupied Clem fell flat on her stomach and ducked her head down, pulling up the dust ruffle on her bed. There was the boy curled up in the corner against the wall.

“They’re gone.” She assured him with more annoyance than sympathy.

“Can I just stay here until the party is over?”

“No,” she said flatly.

Clementine sat back up on her bed as the boy slowly crawled out from beneath it. As he stood shakily Clem got a better look at him.

He was lanky, a bit tall for their age, and his hair was a ratty mop of dark curls. He wore black slacks, a white button up shirt, and sweater vest. They were all wrinkled, a sharp contrast to the shiny dress shoes that adorned his feet.

He stood there shuffling from one foot to the other, too nervous to leave the room.

“Why were they after you?” Clementine asked.

“Because they’re idiots.” Came his quick and honest response.

Clementine laughed.

“Well yeah, I was hoping you would go deeper.”

The boy smirked a bit before continuing.

“The tall one, Sebastian Wilkes, was bragging about how he got into Eaton. How he was the smartest one of the lot.”

Clementine tried to stifle another laugh as the boy continued.

“I then may have let slip that he had in fact originally been denied admittance and it was only through the social and pecuniary influence of his father that he was admitted. I did conceded to him that he was probably in fact the most intelligent amongst the band of perfumed miscreants he was currently in the company of, but that hardly warranted bragging rights.”

The boy looked at his shoes as he twisted his foot on the ground, fidgeting.

“That was when he decided to resort to physical violence.”

“The last refuge of the ignorant,” said Clementine.

He looked at her and smiled.

“What’s your name?” She asked.

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

“I’m Clementine,” she reached out her hand. Sherlock tentatively took it. They shook hands for a few moments, just staring at each other. Then suddenly Clem got up off the bed and opened her door.

“Now you have to leave. You can hide in the library or something. There’s big curtains in there.”

Sherlock stood staring at her, making no move to the door. Clementine motioned to it, waving him out of the room.

“Is it because of what’s under your bed?” He asked earnestly.

Clementine froze to the spot like a small animal caught in a cage. Then, slowly, she closed the door and stepped toward Sherlock.

She spoke in a very even, very intense tone.

“There is nothing under my bed.”

Sherlock looked at her a bit confused.

“Yes there is. I should know. I was just under there.”

Clementine took another step toward him gritting her teeth.

“There is NOTHING under my bed. Do you understand?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. Opened his mouth to speak. Closed it. Thought some more. Then opened his mouth again. When he spoke this time it was rapid fire.

“Under the bed is where you hide. Isn’t it? That is why you didn’t want me under there originally. It is why you don’t want me there now. But what are you hiding from? Perhaps you just enjoy the solitude, but that wouldn’t explain your fear of me being under there while you were not currently occupying the space. This leads me to think that there must be something you hide from under there. Besides some dust, a blanket, pillow and flashlight, all appropriate items for a fort of solitude, there was only—”

Clementine’s body stiffened.

“—a box of cookies and candy along with a pile of empty wrappers.”

Her eyes began stinging with threatening tears.

“Next to all of that was a plastic container. It was heavy and when I cracked the lid it smelled sweet and rotten. So I’m guessing it is the chewed up remains of the cookies and candies that were once in the empty wrappers. Now why would someone chew food with no intention of swallowing? The most likely of answers is to avoid gaining weight. However, you are only nine. While not unheard of, it seems unlikely that you have developed this eating disorder in response to the pressures of societal beauty standards. Your intense fear response suggests self-preservation, but from what or whom? You mentioned that your father has a temper. Fathers tend to be the perpetrators in abusive households, so your father is the most likely scenario. Given the pretentious and competitive nature of our polite society you are likely held to strict standards of appearance, including weight. Your father has probably outlawed sweets in your home so as not to enable you, and probably your mother as well, to gain weight. So when you get the chance, I’m guessing late at night, you sneak under your bed to eat all the sweeties you want, but you spit them back out so that you will not gain weight and incur your father’s wrath. Simple.”

Clementine was trembling at this point.

“So seeing as I already know the secret of what is under your bed and I am sure not to tell a single person I don’t see why I cannot remain here, hidden.”

Sherlock shifted uncertain. This was the first time he had ever told a person what he had deduced about them. His mother had warned him that in polite society we do not point out the observations we make of others even when they were obvious.

This time, however, he was trying to reassure the girl. He thought that showing her she didn’t need to keep the secret from him, for he already knew it, would have stopped her from so vehemently denying him access to the spot. The look on her face seemed to say otherwise. So, as convention told him was wise, he added a final appeal.


The features on Clem’s face melted from total fright to raging anger. Tears no longer pooled in her eyes as her fists clenched and her spine straightened.

How dare he? How dare this little shite who knowns nothing about her presume anything? How dare he make such accusations and then expect Clementine to give him something?

“Piss off.” She growled through gritted teeth.

Just then the door of her room opened and the two kids jumped.

Standing in the doorway was not Sebastian Wilkes and the other kids. It was a tall boy, probably about 14, with short well kempt auburn hair. He was dressed in a sleek three piece suit and tie. Too formal for his age, but somehow it oddly fit him.

He proffered a sideways glance at Clementine before heaving a level stare at Sherlock.

“It’s time to go, brother mine.”

Without a word Sherlock walked past Clementine and out the door. The tall boy spared Clementine one more assessing glance before following his brother out of her room.

As the door closed behind her Clementine could still feel her body shaking.




The next time Clem had a run in with the young Sherlock Holmes was at another one of her father’s parties. This time it was brunch.

She had been expressly forbade from going to her room during today’s event. Her mother caught wind of her ploy and warned her not to continue for fear of her father finding out. Clementine knew that if her mother found out it wouldn’t be long before her father found out.

Still, she was unwilling to mingle long with the progeny of the rich and powerful. So today she found herself in the library of her house. She sat cross legged in her favorite chair by the window, enthralled in her latest science fiction novel.

Her summer dress pooled in her lap as the sun poured in from the break in the large curtains. The back of her chair faced the entrance to the room. No one could tell she was in here if they just walked by as long as she kept her feet off the floor and in the chair.

The silence and solitude of the moment was broken with an irritatingly familiar voice.

“I know you’re in here.”

It was Sebastian Wilkes, the older boy from that last party that barged into her room. Clementine sighed to herself, but didn’t move.

She heard footsteps entering the room.

“Come out come out wherever you are!” He called in a sing-songy voice.

Clementine had had it. She stood up from her chair.

“What do you want?” She demanded, more than a little irritated.

Sebastian looked surprised, but smirked after realizing who he was talking to.

“I was just looking for our dear friend Mr. Holmes.”

He stalked toward Clementine a few paces.

“Now, tell me. Why is it that whenever I am looking for that freak I run into you?”

Clementine clenched her fists at his use of the word freak. She was definitely not a member of the Sherlock Holmes Fan Club, but she could never stand hearing people called hurtful names. Especially when it was a prick like Wilkes doing the name calling.

“Why are you so obsessed with Sherlock?” Clementine challenged crossing her arms.

“I owe him a good beating.” Sebastian said coolly.

“Why? Because he proved that even though he’s younger than you he is significantly smarter?”

“He isn’t smart. He’s just a nosy little prat who needs to learn some manners.”

“Yes because you are the pinnacle of polite society and etiquette.” Clem’s voice oozed with sarcasm.

A flash of confusion crossed the boy’s face. She chuckled to herself.

“You don’t know what pinnacle means. Do you?”

Sebastian’s face went red with fury and embarrassment. He marched toward Clementine, who didn’t shrink back in the slightest. Out of all the concerns Clem had in her life, Sebastian Wilkes was not one of them.

“Listen here you little shite.” He pointed his finger directly in her face. “I have no problem hitting a girl.”

“You don’t scare me Sebastian Wilkes.” Clementine said evenly.

“Now bugger off. I’m reading.” Clementine turned her back on the boy, still standing there with his finger raised menacingly, and sat back down in her chair.

A few moments later she heard a huff of anger and footsteps retreating from the room. Clementine sighed in relief and relaxed into her chair. She was finally alone again.

“Thank you.”

Clementine startled out of her chair.

“Who said that?” She called out spinning on her feet, looking around the room, seeing no one.

Then one of the curtain panels of the large window pulled back and a nest of dark curls peeked out from behind.

“Oh, it’s you.” Clementine huffed and sat back in her chair.

“What are you doing here? Are you following me?”

“No,” Sherlock said gripping the edge of the curtain. “You told me last time that this was a good hiding place. I saw Wilkes shortly after I arrived and ran in here to hide. You came in a few minutes later. So technically you followed me.”

“Whatever,” huffed Clem. “Just don’t talk to me.”

With that she buried her face back into her book. Sherlock still peeked around the curtain at her as she pointedly ignored him. Then suddenly there was the sound of footsteps coming toward the room. Sherlock dodged back behind the curtain and Clementine balled herself even tighter in the chair so as not to be seen.

It didn’t matter though. The owner of the footsteps knew she was in there and walked right around the chair to face her.

It was her father.

Clementine stared up at his impassive face. Her body felt like ice, terror freezing her to the spot.

“The Wilkes boy told me I could find you in here. Said you had called him a freak and told him to bugger off.”

Clementine didn’t say a word.

Suddenly, with the speed of a striking snake, her father reached out and grabbed her by the hair at the back of her head, yanking her out of the chair. Clementine gave a short startled cry.

She was on her feet now, head wrenched back to stare up into his eyes. He latched another strong hand around her arm. If you hadn’t seen the violent move or notice the white on his knuckle you might actually think he was holding his daughter in a loving fatherly manner.

“I— I—,” Clementine stuttered.

Her brain was operating at lightning speed. How could she get out of this? How could she minimize the pain? Where could she run? How was she going to kill Sebastian Wilkes?

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

Her father’s voice was level, calculating, and it shook her very core. That was the evil of the man. He at once practiced perfect control of his faculties, while being wholly unable to restrain his cruelty and anger. This allowed him to exact vicious mental and physical attacks on his family while no one was the wiser.

“I didn’t,” was finally the only response Clementine could muster.

His grip tightened and Clementine gave a small cry from the pain.

“Please.” She begged, her voice becoming frantic.

“I didn’t say anything to him.”

Tears were falling from her eyes now. Her father loosed his grip on the back of her head and raised his hand to strike her across the face. Clementine flinched, preparing for the blow.

“She’s telling the truth.”

Suddenly Sherlock’s voice was filling her ears. Her father quickly lowered his hand to his side and swung around, still gripping Clementine’s arm.

There Sherlock stood by the window seemingly unaffected by the proceedings.

“Sherlock, my boy. How long have you been here?”

“I’ve been hiding behind the curtain until just this moment,” answered the boy.

“Sebastian, Clementine, and I were playing a game of hid and seek. I was hiding behind the curtain. Clementine was hiding in the chair. An appalling hiding spot if you ask me, but mummy always told me to speak kindly to our hosts, so I said nothing. Needless to say Seb found Clementine immediately, but he became upset when she refused to tell him where I was hiding. He yelled at her and stormed out of the room. That is when I presume he came to you with his fabrication of the events. He was trying to get her in trouble.”

Sherlock did not falter a single time in his monologue. The words fell from his mouth as if it were the purest form of truth. Clementine stared at him in fear and anticipation, knowing that she would not be beaten in front of him, but unsure if his story would dissuade future punishments.

The grip on her arm relaxed slightly, but still held firm.

“Is this true Clementine?”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice was small. Sherlock almost recoiled at the sound. He had only ever known her as a fierce and powerful presence.

“Brother mine.” A third voice joined the ill begotten party in the library. It was Sherlock’s older brother.

He stood in the doorway to the library keenly assessing the situation, but leaving his face impassive.

“Mummy says that it is time to go.” Clementine could feel the look of horror cross her face. He couldn’t leave. Not now. She wasn’t safe.

Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.

She turned to Sherlock, her pleading thoughts evident in her eyes. He stared back at her, his expressionless face now contorted with desperation and confusion. He always seemed to have an answer for anything, everything: a quick word, a hiding place, a plausible story.

Right now he had nothing.

“She wants to take a trip to the botanical gardens,” continued his brother. Sherlock almost didn’t hear his voice above the litany of thoughts, strategies, running through his head.

“She also wanted me to ask if you would like to bring your young friend Clementine along. She said it was only proper that a young woman familiarize herself with the beauties of nature.”

Clementine and Sherlock froze. Slowly they turned their locked gaze to the boy in the doorway as if to verify his existence. Verify that he was not a mere specter.

The boy turned to the man still gripping the young girl and addressed him.

“That is, of course, if it is alright by you Mr. Powers.”

The man dropped his daughters arm and brushed his hands down the front of his suit. As if by magic the air around him shifted from menacing to jovial.

“Of course Mycroft! I am sure Clem here would love to spend a nice afternoon with the Holmes family.”

He walked behind the two younger children, draping his arms over their shoulders and escorting them to Mycroft.

“Your father has my phone number if you should need to get ahold of myself or my wife. Please have an excellent time.”

His voice contained all the joy of an affectionate father but was as genuine as a mannequin from Harrods.

“Yes. Thank you sir.”

Mycroft gave a pinched smile and slight nod to the man before extending his hands to take those of the two children in front of him.

“Come along then you two. You’ve caused enough trouble here for one day.”

And with that the three of them left the room.

Chapter Text

“And that’s the way it went,” said Sherlock standing in the doorway to kitchen, watching the pair on the couch. He seemed irritated.

“Whenever we were forced into a social situation, which was often, we would become each other’s excuse. Clem provided me with an adequate hiding place and kept away the more unsavory of our childhood companions, while I provided a ‘playmate’ of sorts to keep that— man away.”

His tone was clipped and seemed to indicate he didn’t feel the word “man” properly typified Clementine’s father. The two barely noticed, however. They were too busy gazing fondly at the statuesque picture the young man cut.

He stood in the doorway, naked except for a white sheet loosely draped over his body. One end was wrapped around his waist, while the other draped over his shoulder. They met at his hip, where he lazily held them together.

“Did we wake you?” John asked, his head still resting in Clementine’s lap.

“Don’t be so pedestrian, John.” Sherlock sniffed hotly and straightened his posture.

“I merely woke of my own accord and noticed your absence.” He tightened his grip on the sheet at his hip.

“Now, if you two are finished swapping traumatic childhood stories—” With that Sherlock turned with a flourish of his sheet and walked back to the bedroom.

Clementine and John smiled lazily at each other, pulled themselves from the couch, and followed the mad chemist back to the bedroom. When they entered the room Sherlock had already laid himself in the middle of the bed.

Without discussion as to who will sleep where Clementine climbed into the bed and right into Sherlock’s arms. He pulled her close to his chest and ran his hands through her hair. John climbed in behind Sherlock and tucked himself to the man’s back, draping a hand over his waist. In this position his fingertips could brush along the small of Clementine’s back.

Not another word was spoken. The trio relaxed into the warmth of their mingled bodies and fell fast asleep.


The next day was John’s day off. So in the morning the three companions were still together. Clementine had shifted onto her back in her sleep. Sherlock was wrapped around her, leg draped over her lower half, arm over her chest, and face buried in her shoulder. John was still behind Sherlock, but his arm was now clinging around his waist as if he were trying to pull the man into him. His head was resting in the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

It was Clementine who woke first. She peered over at the men next to her. They looked peaceful and content. Slowly she peeled herself from Sherlock’s long limbs in hopes of not waking either of them, grabbed her blue silk dressing gown and shuffled into the kitchen to make tea.

Her previous efforts were all for not, though. Shortly after the kettle had boiled two groggy men padded their way into the kitchen. John was still in the boxers and t-shirt from the night before. Sherlock had traded his sheet in for a pair of pajama bottoms and a loose t-shirt.

Clementine poured hot water into waiting mugs and handed one to each man, giving them a quick kisses. John took his tea and sat at the table watching a well-practiced morning routine.

Clementine put a few slices of bread in the broiler. Sherlock pulled out a jar of jam from the fridge and reached for a stack of plates. Clementine traded Sherlock the plates for a butter knife. After turning the bread Clementine spread the three plates out on the counter and traded Sherlock the jam for a container of butter.

A few moments later Clementine took the toast out of the broiler and placed one on each plate. Sherlock buttered the toast, while Clem grabbed another knife and spread on the jam. When the intricate dance had been completed Sherlock handed John his plate.

John rose quickly to his feet and planted a swift chaste kiss to his lips.

“Thank you,” John said.

Sherlock blushed at the show of affection and turned to Clementine who was leaning against the counter, chewing her toast and sipping her tea. She gave Sherlock a knowing look.

“Are you two ever intimate when I’m not here?” John couldn’t believe he had just said that out loud. He had been wondering for a while now. Since he watched Sherlock fuck Clementine, really.

“No.” Sherlock answered quickly.

“Why not?”

Shut up John!

Clementine just shrugged.

“We’ve just never really been like that, I guess.”

John was sure they could see the confusion on his face. He took the final bite of his toast, trying to process what she meant.

“While Clementine and I have no issue being intimate around and now apparently with each other we don’t become aroused by each other’s presence.” Sherlock supplied the explanation John had been looking for.

“Our affection is born from a deep sense of trust and understanding, cultivated over several years. The erotic element is born from your presence.”

John could feel a heated blush in his cheeks. Clementine approached Sherlock, who had sat himself across from John at the table, and ran her fingers through his hair. He leaned into the sensation like a cat, nearly purring at the contact.

“What an astute observation Sherl. I’d have to agree.”

Clementine took another sip of her tea before continuing, her fingers still in Sherlock’s hair.

“Have you two ever ‘been intimate’ without me?”

John shot a startled look at her. He would be lying if he said he had never thought about it, but he didn’t want to make Clementine feel unwanted.

“Don’t be stupid Clem. Of course we haven’t. My presence is a mere coincidence for John in this situation. My being here makes no difference to him. You are the primary focus of his sexual attraction.”

With that Sherlock grabbed a newspaper and began reading.

John looked to Clementine who shot a look down to Sherlock and back to John. A lascivious smile crossed her face as she slowly took Sherlock’s tea cup off the table. John looked back at her, seeming to catch her implication. He rose from his chair as Clementine stepped back from Sherlock and returned to her space at the counter.

Sherlock, ignoring the movement of his companions, continued to read. When John reached Sherlock he plucked the paper from his hands. Sherlock gaped up at John, startled by his actions.

John boxed him in, putting one hand on the back of his chair and the other on the table next to him.

“You’re right. I did not bargain for you when I came over here that first night.” Sherlock was staring up into John’s heated gaze, frozen.

“I thought I was going to bring this beautiful bird home, have a nice shag, and then off you pop. Then I got here and standing in that doorway,” John motioned to the kitchen entrance, “was one of the most gorgeous creatures I have ever seen. Tall,” John ran one of his hands up Sherlock’s thigh, “Lean,” his hand ran across the expanse of his abs and chest, “Breathtaking,” he cupped Sherlock’s cheek and ran the pad of his thumb across his plump bottom lip.

“Those lips,” John huffed out. “They are so luscious.” He leaned in to capture Sherlock’s lips in a slow needy kiss. “They taste amazing.” A small nip at his bottom lip. “They look so amazing wrapped around my cock.” Sherlock let out a quivering moan at this statement.

“Just thinking about it makes me hard.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and brought it to his prick, which was becoming heavy with desire.

“Do you feel that?” Sherlock gasped and nodded his head frantically.

“That is what you do to me. I think about you and my cock begins to ache.” He was rubbing Sherlock’s hand against his prick now.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was breathless.

“Do you doubt me Sherlock?”

“No.” Sherlock choked.

John leaned into the man to whisper in his ear.

“There is never a time where I don’t want you. I wanted you last night wrapped in that sheet. I wanted you this morning when I woke up with my arms around you. I want you right now, here on this table.”

“Yes!” Sherlock gasped.

With one sweeping move, John pushed the pile of newspapers and petri dishes off the table, just narrowly avoiding the expensive-looking microscope. He then grabbed the other man around the waist and hoisted him onto the cleared surface.

Frantically they began kissing, tangling their arms around each other. John pulled their groins together and he could feel Sherlock’s answering hardness. Quickly they divested themselves of their shirts. John pulled back to tug down the cotton trousers Sherlock had been wearing. He had neglected to put on pants, to John’s delight.

His stiff prick bobbed from a thick nest of dark hair. John’s mouth began to water. Slowly he leaned down and ran his tongue around the head of Sherlock’s throbbing erection. Sherlock moaned deep in his throat.

“And that voice. Fuuuuuck me, nothing sounds better than you crying out my name when you’re cumming.”

John stood up and began kissing at Sherlock’s neck.

“Can I make you cum? Please? Let me show you how much you turn me on.”


“What do you want? How do you want me to touch you?” John reached down and began languidly stroking the man on the table.

“John,” Sherlock was clinging to John, gasping for air.

“Tell me Sherlock. What do you want? Hmm?”

“I—I, uh” Sherlock stammered, “I want to ride you.”

John groaned deeply at those words. He pulled himself from the crook of Sherlock’s neck and looked him in the eyes.

“Oh you dirty little thing you. You want to sit on my fat cock and go for a ride? Hmmm?”

Just then John felt a nudging at his hand. Clementine had handed him the bottle of lube and a condom from the bedroom. He paid her no mind as she returned to her place at the counter.

Gently he pressed Sherlock back onto the table, lifting his legs onto John’s shoulders.

“Lay back, love. I’m going to get you ready.”

John slicked up his fingers with the proffered lube and slowly slid one finger in. Sherlock’s body was eager and accepted it gladly. A salacious moan escaped from Sherlock’s lips.

“I need to stretch out that tight little body of yours so you can take all of me don’t I?” John slid in second finger and began pumping in and out. Then he wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s aching prick.

“Yes. Yes.” Sherlock was desperate. “Stretch me out. Fill me up. I want it. I want your cock so bad.”

John added a third finger and began stoking Sherlock’s shaft.

“That’s it.” He said. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to open me up so I can fuck myself on your cock. I’ve wanted you to fuck me again ever since that first time. I’ve thought about it in the shower while I tossed myself off. I think about it when I’m at the lab. It’s infuriating.”

Suddenly Sherlock was sitting up. John pulled his hands away so as not to hurt him. Then John was being pushed back into a chair. Sherlock pulled off his boxers, rolled the condom on, and climbed into his lap.

Without further preamble Sherlock gripped John’s prick at the base and sank down onto it with a howl.

John shouted with pleasure as he bottomed out in that gorgeous ass. Sherlock didn’t move at first. Just sat there trembling.

John wasn’t having it. He gave a sharp smack to that plump back side before gripping Sherlock’s hips and growling.

“This cock isn’t going to ride itself. Fuck me you dirty little slut.”

Sherlock moaned at the filthy moniker and John stored that piece of information for later use. It had been a risky move, but it paid off.

Sherlock began bouncing up and down on his lap. John pulled Sherlock’s hips into his with every down beat, going as deep as he could.

Sherlock threw his head back in pleasure and was unabashedly moaning with every movement, up and down.

“That’s it. Take it all.” John growled thrusting up into him.

Sherlock had gripped the back of the chair and planted his feet on the floor for leverage as he thoroughly fucked John into that chair.

“Slap my ass.” Sherlock begged.

Without hesitation John brought his hand down on the round globes of Sherlock’s ass with a resounding smack. Sherlock howled in pleasure. John gripped each cheek roughly, still fucking up into him.

“This is mine. Do you understand? This tight gorgeous ass is mine. Don’t you ever tell me what I do and do not like ever again do you hear me?”

Silence. Then another slap to the ass.

“Answer me Sherlock.”

“Never. I’ll never tell you what you like again.”

“And whose ass is this?”

“Yours. It’s yours.”

“And what do I get to do with this tight little ass?”

“Whatever you want. You can do whatever you want!”

Sherlock’s face had gone slack with pleasure. He was no longer thrusting down as hard as before. John had taken over and was bouncing Sherlock’s body effortlessly on his cock.

Suddenly, though, John raised him up from the chair and bent him over the table, his hand planted firmly between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. John kicked Sherlock’s legs apart and softly ran his hand over the plump ass so deviously presented to him.

Three quick stinging slaps landed on Sherlock’s tender flesh. Then John was back inside him fucking him hard. Sherlock gripped the edge of the table and moaned.

“Yes. Fucking give it to me.”

John obliged and picked up the pace. The kitchen was filled with the scandalous slapping of skin and the tortured moans of the two men. When John could feel his orgasm building he reached around to stroke Sherlock’s leaking erection, hanging heavy between his legs.

“Yes. John. Yes.”

“You’re going to cum for me aren’t you my dirty little slut? Now that I’ve fucked you good and hard you’re going to cum all over my hand and I’m going to cum inside you. Do you hear me?”

Sherlock nodded frantically. His feet twisted on the floor as he felt his orgasm coming on like a freight train.

Then, just like that, he was seeing white. Waves of pleasure rolled over Sherlock’s body and he couldn’t help the litany of words that fell from his mouth. Well, just one word really.

“John. John. Johnjohnjohnjohn. Joooooohhhhhnnnn!”

Sherlock’s body clenched around John as he came. That’s when John lost himself. He slammed into Sherlock, one, two more times and was cumming. 

Chapter Text

After the morning romp in the kitchen the three lovers needed a moment to collect themselves. Clementine was completely wrecked, leaning against the counter watching the erotic display unfold before her eyes. She had to return to the bedroom to change her now dripping wet panties. Sherlock, after gathering himself from the table retreated to the bathroom for a shower.

John, ever the man’s man, simply put his boxers and t-shirt back on and sat at the table. He had just finished brewing a second cup of tea and opening a newspaper when the front door of the flat opened.

John jumped to his feet as a rather stern looking man in a three piece suit strolled into the kitchen.

“You must be one of Clementine’s friends.” The man said with a dismissive tone.

“Who the hell are you?” John was weary of a man who just walks into other people’s flats.

He didn't seem threatening, though, and at least seemed to know Clementine so John didn't feel the need to get violent.

“Myc!” John heard Clementine’s pleased voice behind him the same moment he saw the stern look melt away from the stuffy man’s face.

A smile spread across his sharp features as Clementine rushed passed John, now wearing shorts and a t-shirt under her dressing gown, and wrapped her arms around the intruder.

“How are you doing? What brings you buy?” She asked squeezing the man one last time before taking a step back.

John hadn’t realized the man carried an umbrella until he tilted it up and regarded it before speaking.

“It’s been a while since I paid a visit. I just thought I would stop by and check in.”

She gave him another quick hug before remembering that John was in the room.

“Oh! Mycroft, this is my friend John. John, this is my… brother…Mycroft.”

Brother? Oh shit.

“Uh hey. How do you do?” John held out his hand awkwardly. Mycroft just started at it, unmoving.

“Clementine, I really wish you would stop bringing riff raff home.”

She slapped the man on the shoulder of his well-pressed suit as John retracted his hand sheepishly.

“John is not riff raff.” Came Sherlock’s deep voice entering the fray.

He was standing in the entry to the hall, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Riff raff or no, I’m sure he would be more comfortable without you wandering around the flat in such a state of undress.”

John tried to contain a smirk at the thought of Sherlock splayed across the table, John’s cock buried deep within him.

The sharp faced man noticed.

Clementine also noticed.

“Mycroft was just stopping by to see how we were doing.” She intervened quickly.

“Since when has he ever cared how we are doing?” Sherlock bit back.

“Sherlock!” The anger was evident in her voice.

“We have both been doing fine without your concern for years Mycroft and we will continue to do fine without it. Now leave.”

At this, the once hard expression on the man’s face broke and a stricken look engulfed his features. He quickly recovered, a mask of pure indifference replacing his true feelings.

“Sherlock Holmes!” Clementine admonished. “Do not speak about your brother like that!”

“Brother? Wait, I thought he was your brother.” John stood in the middle of the kitchen looking between the three of them more confused than ever.

“Yes,” Sherlock said walking over to John’s side. “Biologically he is my brother, though he did always seem to favor Clementine. Probably why she started calling him brother.”

“Envy does not become you, brother mine.” Mycroft’s voice was smooth and condescending. John was beginning to dislike him immensely.

“Well it’s a good thing you were about to leave then.” Sherlock spat back.

“No.” Retorted Clem. “He was just sitting down for tea and you were just going to put some clothes on.”

She pushed on Sherlock’s shoulder, but he refused to move, fixing an icy stare on his brother.

“Thank you Clem, but will pass on the tea. I really just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“We are doing great.” She said honestly. “How goes the ruling of England?”

Mycroft grimaced at her.

“I occupy a minor position in the British government.”

“He is the British government," Sherlock interjected, "When he’s not too busy being the British secret service.”

Mycroft’s gaze flicked between the three companions. John noticed he had the same look on his face that Sherlock often did when he was deducing someone. Then suddenly the man stiffened and drew in a deep, displeased breath.

“Well, this visit has certainly been … enlightening.”

John noticed Sherlock smirk at his brother. Mycroft knew and Sherlock knew he knew. He felt the pads of Sherlock’s shower soft fingers at the back of his neck.

Oh God.

Mycroft scowled at the two men, then turned back to Clem.

“As always, if you ever need anything I am only a text away.”

Clementine reached out a hand to rub the posh man’s arm.

“As am I.”

With a brief exchange of soft smiles, Mycroft turned with a twirl of his umbrella and left the flat.

As soon as Clementine was sure he was out of the flat she turned on the younger Holmes brother.

“You know that isn’t fair of you.” Her voice was not angry, but sad and conflicted.

“He abandoned us Clem.” Sherlock said frankly.

“No he didn’t. Our parents did.”

John could feel Sherlock’s grip tighten ever so slightly at these words.

Clementine walked over to Sherlock and wrapped her arms around his chest, embracing him in a gentle hug. Sherlock let his free hand settle on her head.

“You need to stop punishing him.” She whispered.

Chapter Text

“It’s a lovely car Sherlock! Very sophisticated.”

“Thanks Mrs. Powers,” Sherlock said around a bite of scone.

Clementine and her mother looked very much alike, all pale skin, long dark hair and fading bruises. They shared a sweet, but hardened look. As Sherlock and Clem sat at the kitchen counter eating the freshly baked goods her mother provided, Sherlock savored the moment. A moment when both women were relaxed, the sweetness taking over the hardness.

“It’s about damn time too. Now Mycroft can stop driving us around.” Clementine giggled through a mouthful of crumbs.

Sherlock had notoriously failed his driving test twice before barely eking by the third time. To celebrate, his father bought him a new car.

Clementine didn’t make fun of him for choosing the Aston Martin DB9 GT. He hadn’t been interested in watching Casino Royal, originally. Clementine thought Daniel Craig was hot and forced Sherlock to go to the theater with her. Mycroft had driven them.

By the end Sherlock walked out completely pumped, ready for a life of adventure, fighting crime and terrorism as an MI6 agent. Clementine, on the other hand, left the movie rallying against the sexist subplots and bemoaning the ending.

“I still don’t get it!”

But Sherlock could not be deterred. He was going to learn how to fight. He was going to wear slick suits and use is intellect to track down the worst of the worst. He was beaming, excited.

So when he showed up at her house almost a year later in the sleek black Bond Edition Aston Martin after texting her that he had finally passed his driver’s test, she schooled her expression and exuded only excitement and jubilation at his acquisition.

What he hadn’t told her a year ago was that the first bad guy he wanted to take out was her father.

That feeling welled inside him now as he eyed the yellow marks peeking out from the neck line of Mrs. Powers’ shirt. He wanted to put both of them in his new car and drive far far away from that house. But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. He was just a useless teenager.

But for the moment he could enjoy the smiles on their faces, their moment of peace.

“So what are you crazy kids up to this evening then?” Mrs. Powers began washing the mixing bowls from her baking adventure.

“Movies!” Clementine suggested.

“Concert!” Sherlock suggested at the same time.

“Sounds like a conundrum,” her mother sighed. “Whatever you decide, though, you need to be back by ten. You know your father’s rule.”

The pair of teens cringed at the reminder.

“Okay,” Clementine said then turned to Sherlock.

“Let’s fight about it upstairs. I need to grab my sweatshirt and phone anyway.”

The two jumped up from their stools and headed upstairs, leaving behind the remnants of their scones on the counter.

“I’m not watching those stupid kids movies with you,” Sherlock snarked as they dashed up the stairs.

“Harry Potter is not a kids movie you prat! They are fifth forms now, just like us.”

Sherlock just grunted as they entered Clem’s room. It was the same room he ran into all those years ago as a child. The bed still in the corner. Reading chair in the other corner. Though it had been a few years now since Clem had cleared out the underside of the bed.

Weekly weigh-ins were still routine, but she had replaced the chew and spit method with Diet Coke and exercise. Sherlock never pushed her about it. What was he supposed to say? “You’re hurting yourself. It isn’t healthy.”

He had seen what happened when she didn’t make weight.

“Well I am not interested in going to one of your angsty punk band concerts. I cannot stand to listen to those public school brats complaining about how daddy didn’t love them enough.”

Sherlock just huffed and tugged on his jacket. He had taken to wearing slacks, button up shirts, and dress jackets as street clothes. Another Bond tribute Clementine chose not to comment on.

“I’ll have you know I’ve outgrown such silly nonsense.”

As he stood there in the middle of her room he was hard to recognize. This new Sherlock was far cry from his typical jeans, band t-shirts, and converse that Clementine was used to seeing him wear. His hair was even different. He had clipped it shorter, the curls behaving nicely for once, almost unnoticeable.

“Uh-huh,” Clem said, digging in her closet for her sweatshirt. She had no intention of matching Sherlock’s new fashion sense.

“I was thinking we could go to the symphony.”

Clementine froze for a moment. Then slowly extricated herself from the closet, sweatshirt in hand.

“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”

Sherlock just straightened his posture.

“You know I love classical music. I’ve studied the violin for years.”

Clementine walked toward him wearily, as if he were a scared animal that might run away at any moment.

“Yeah, because your parents made you.”

Slowly she reached a hand out to feel his forehead in mock concern. Sherlock slapped her hand away, affronted.

“I figured you wouldn’t understand. I wanted to do something more sophisticated, but I guess that was too much to ask.”

Clementine laughed at the hotty look on his face, as he crossed his arms.

“Oh, don’t be like that Sherl.” She wrapped her arms around him the way a small child would wrap their arms around someone much larger.

“I think you are already sophisticated.”

He didn’t uncross his arms and Clementine didn’t release him from her embrace.

“Will you take your childish unsophisticated friend to see a children’s movie tonight in your top shelf new car? Please?”

She pouted a lip up at him, batting her eyelashes. He turned his head away, intent on not looking at her pleading eyes. She snuggled her face into his chest.


With a huff he gave in, dropping his arms and wrapping them around his friend.

“Fine! I will drive my childish best friend to go see a stupid children’s movie in my brand new Aston Martin. Should we stop and get you a happy meal on the way?”

“Yes! And I want the toy this time. You always steel my toy.” Clementine glared up at him accusingly. Sherlock glared back at her for a moment, then suddenly wrapped his arm around her neck, putting her in a playful headlock. She squealed and slapped at his arm.

Then there was a sudden bang. The front door.

Clementine and Sherlock froze. He was home. What was he doing home? He wass at least two hours early.

“Who the fuck is he?” The booming voice carried all through the house and up to Clem’s room.

They could hear a small female voice responding, but couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Don’t fucking lie to me you whore!” Came the angry response.

Clementine dropped to the floor, covering her ears. Sherlock heard a scream, a crash, a cry of pain.

“I know he’s here! His goddamn car is in the driveway.”

Oh no.

Sherlock looked down at his friend, rocking gently on the floor at his feet. He knew he had to do something. In an instant he was out the door and down the stairs.

He was halted in his steps when he saw Mr. Powers’ towering over his wife in the kitchen. All Sherlock could see was the man’s large back, but it was plain that his hands were around her neck.

“Stop!” Sherlock yelled and leapt toward them. He grabbed the man’s arms, but was easily flung back. His back hit the counter and he let out a pained “oof.”

“Is that him? Is that the sonofabitch you are fucking behind my back?”

He turned on Sherlock, unable to recognize him in his fit of rage. Mrs. Powers unable to speak as she gasped for breath watched helplessly.

“No! Mr. Powers it’s me! Sherlock!”

As if he hadn’t heard him, the larger man reared his fist back and struck Sherlock in the jaw. Instantly he crumpled to the floor, completely unconscious. Then suddenly Mrs. Powers was on him, pulling him away from the teen.

This pulled his attention away from the feeble form on the ground and back to his wife. Good. That’s what she wanted.

“It’s just Sher—” then his hands were around her throat again.

“You think you can just embarrass me like that? Bring your lover into my house? Did you fuck him in our bed too? Did you?”

This was a constant battle. He had been accusing her of infidelity since shortly after they had been married. It was just a product of his insecurity and anger. Even if he hadn’t kept a tight watch on her, she would never be unfaithful, even to this evil man.

The whites of her eyes went red. She gasped for breath.

“Please daddy no!” Clementine was at the bottom of the stairs taking in the scene.

“Stop it!” Clementine shrieked and lunged toward him, clawing at his hands around her mother’s neck.

“Stop it! You’re killing her!” Clementine was crying, her nails scratched at his flesh catching her mother’s chin and cheek in the process. Suddenly there was a sharp impact to her nose. She couldn’t see.

Tears and blood flooded her eyes. Her head hit the tile floor as she fell backward, but she didn’t stop. She leapt back in the general direction of the mayhem. She began pulling his hair, pawing for any flesh she could dig her fingernails into.

Then there were arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her away. She flailed her arms and kicked her legs.

“Let go of me Sherlock! He’s going to kill her!”

But it wasn’t Sherlock.

“Calm down! It’s over. It’s over now. We’ve got him.”

She couldn’t stop, though. She couldn’t still the swinging of her arms.

She focused through the blood and tears and saw a group of police officers pulling her father away from her mother. She was being pulled away too, away from it all. In the fit of the moment, she forgot she had called the police.

“Mummy! Mummy!” She cried out.

She saw one of the officers lean over her mother then look to another and shake her head. She knew what that meant. A wave of panic seized her and she flailed even harder.

“No!” She screamed.

“No! No! No!” Sobs racking her body. “Mummy! Mummy!”

Her father was arrested and sent to prison.

The remaining three were sent to the hospital:

Clementine to the ER to fix a broken nose.

Sherlock to intensive care as he was still unconscious.

Mrs. Powers, Clementine’s mum, to the morgue.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks were a blur for John. It was hard enough keeping up with rugby practice and school, but maintaining any semblance of a relationship with Clementine and Sherlock took extra effort. Mostly because they had busy schedules too. Clementine taught two sections of organic chemistry in addition to her dissertation research. This meant she was usually cooped up in the lab, her classroom, or her office grading papers. Sherlock had been exempt from teaching after his first class. Five freshman left the class crying. The dean decided it would be best if Sherlock remained in a research-only position. And research he did. Sherlock was involved in more projects and experiments than the faculty. He always seemed to be branching out to work with the biology and the geology departments.

John, Sherlock, and Clementine very much enjoyed being together, but none were about to shirk their previous responsibilities and interests. They all still lived their own lives. So they carved out a little piece of it for each other. Every Wednesday and Saturday evening was theirs.

On these evenings John would often grab take-out and head over to Baker Street after clerkship. One or both of his partners would be home when he got there. They would sit around the living room eating the take-out and talking. Every now and again Clementine or John would cook.

They would talk about their days. Clementine would relate the latest and greatest student stories. John would one-up her with gross and embarrassing patient stories. Sherlock would lament on some new fungus or dirt classification systems while Clementine and John would lovingly pretend to care. They would shag each other senseless, pent up desire from going days without seeing each other.

When they were finished they would fall asleep in Clementine’s bed, all wrapped up in one another.

When John came over and it was just Clementine they would lay together on the couch. Sometimes they would talk, about nothing in particular. Light hearted banter about who was a better detective, Poirot or Miss Marple. Other times they would just lay there in each other’s arms, John running his fingers through her hair until Sherlock came home.

When it was just Sherlock the mood was more polar. Sometimes it was rather raucous, like when they played board games. John had found that to be quite a spectacular adventure as he was never sure how Sherlock would interpret the rules each time. Other times they spoke animatedly about medicine and biology. Sherlock was always thirsty for knowledge and John loved it. He loved how attentive he became, how vibrant his face and bright his eyes were when John explained the workings of a particular disease or deformity.

Then there were the times where John walked in on Sherlock in his mind palace. The first time John didn’t know what was going on. Sherlock lay there, hands steepled under his chin, on the couch, unresponsive. John was nearly frantic for a moment. Then Clementine had come home and told him all about the memory trick and that if he was going to stick around he better get used to Sherlock just forgetting he was even there.

On those nights John makes a cup of tea, turns on the tellie, lifts Sherlock’s legs and sits on the couch, letting the lanky man’s legs rest on his lap.

It worked pretty well. Thursday and Sunday were the only days that John didn’t have his clerkship. He still had class on Thursday, but would spend all day Sunday at Baker Street.

The three of them had fallen into a companionable routine. Without actually discussing it, the three became exclusive. For John it was almost by default. Not only was he completely content with the two lovers he had, there was no additional time for casual dating. Sherlock had a bit more time, but had never been one for casual dating to begin with.

“She’s not sleeping with anyone else,” he let it slip to John one evening.

Clementine was proctoring an exam that evening and it was just the two of them. John had just told some god awful joke that Sherlock laughed heartily at, then trying and failing to be indignant that he had laughed at such a childish joke, which caused John to laugh in return, the two descending into a fit of giggles.

“Just in case you were wondering.” The statement had cut through the laughter, but Sherlock attempted to keep his tone light, unaffected.

John regarded him with a considering expression.

“Neither have I.” Sherlock supplied.

It was at this point John’s features relaxed and he smiled at Sherlock.

“Me neither,” John whispered and pressed a tender kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

It had been three weeks since John had been to Baker Street, though. It was exam were on and he was so busy that he lived in the hospital, library, and class room. He even took naps in the basement of the library in between study sessions.

He had finally finished his last exam and was itching to see his lovers. He wanted to hear their voices, touch their skin, kiss their lips. He grabbed a cab for the short distance, knowing he couldn’t run fast enough. No time to stop for take-away. They could order delivery.

He opened the front door and dashed up the stairs when he finally arrived. Sat at the kitchen table were a sight for sore eyes. Two dark haired beauties, hunched over microscopes, slides and Petri dishes and notebooks all around them.

Sherlock sat in a chair his back to the sink. Clementine, at the end of the table, her back to the living room, was simply bent over.

Oh god. What a sight.

Neither one had even looked up as John entered. This was another thing that happened sometimes. John would come over and the two of them would be engrossed in some experiment. He found it endearing.

But if he was being honest, he couldn’t give a damn if they noticed him or not in that moment. Clementine was wearing a skirt. A short flowy skirt that, when she was standing up-right, probably hit her mid-thigh. Since she was bending over, however, it hit her right above the crease where her thighs ended and her ass began.

Peeking out in a little v was a pair of pink lace panties.

John’s mouth began to water and he could feel himself getting hard immediately. He palmed himself through his trousers as he shut the living room door and began walking to the kitchen.

When he was right behind her, without so much as a peep, he slid his hands across Clementine’s ass and up her skirt. She gave a slight start as his groin met her ass, but quickly melted into the touch.

“You’re early,” she purred.

John was looking at Sherlock now. He hadn’t even flinched, hadn’t turned his eyes from his microscope for a millisecond, to acknowledge John.

Mind Palace then.

John ran his fingers along the seam of Clem’s lace undies. She pushed back into him, but continued to look through her scope and take notes in her book.

When John’s fingers slid between her thighs they both gasped with shock. Clementine from the gentle caress against her sensitive cunt. John from the smooth softness he felt.

Clementine kept herself well groomed, but had always had a “full head of hair”. Where John’s fingers once slid through coarse yet impossibly soft hair now slid across smooth wet skin.

And this gorgeous, delectable treat was all wrapped up in pink lace. It was more than John could stand.

“Oh you naughty naughty girl,” he hissed sliding two fingers up her dripping wet pussy.

She was still leaning over the table, but was making no pretense of working.

“Do you like that? It’s been a while. I wanted to do something special,” Clementine moaned.

“Yes you did. Didn’t you?” John slid his fingers in and out a few times.

“You wrapped it all up for me in these pretty pink nickers.” He tugged the panties aside to expose her trembling body to the crisp air of the room.

“You get yourself all smooth and shiny and pink for me. Put on some lace and lay it out for me when I come home. How lucky can one man get?” With that he gave her a playful smack on the bum. Clem just giggled.

“Let me see if those lips of yours are just as pink as this lace.” John’s voice was hungry. Slowly he pulled the delicate garment down Clementine’s legs. When he reached her ankles she gingerly stepped out of them.

Slowly John kissed up her leg. He spread her legs just wide enough he could fit his head. When he reached the top he kissed those slick soft lips. He could feel her dripping on his face. He licked her slit, sucking her soft lips into his mouth.

Clementine groaned as he buried his tongue deep inside her. He pressed deep inside, sucking at her, kissing her. Finally he sealed his lips around her clit and sucked her hard into his mouth. Her legs nearly gave out.

After a few moments he let her slip from between his lips with a lascivious pop.  

Then John suddenly stood, wraping one arm around her waist and one around her chest, pulling her up against his chest, pinning her body against his, in one swift move. Leaning over her shoulder he captured her lips in a heated kiss.

When the finally pulled apart they turned to regard Sherlock as he seemed to be completely unaware of their existence.

“How long has he been that way?” John whispered in her ear.

“About an hour,” Clementine’s chest was heaving.

John gently kissed at her neck as he massaged her breast.

“Do you think we can get his attention?” He inquired as he began unbuttoning Clementine’s shirt. When he popped the last button out of place he spread it open wide, exposing her pink lace covered tits.

“Oh you really are a tart,” John growled. Next Clem felt John’s hand on her breast then cold air. He had pulled down the cups of her bra, turning them under just slightly. This put her breasts on salacious display.

The entire time he was doing this he had set up a steady rhythm of humping her ass. Grinding his hard, trouser-covered cock against her cleft.

They were a sight to see, but Sherlock didn’t so much as indicate he was anything other than alone.

“I know what he needs to see. He needs to see that pretty pink pussy of yours.”

The hand on Clementine’s waist slid down to ruck-up the skirt. His other hand remained across her chest and had resumed massaging her now exposed breast.

“Did you already show him? Has he seen this beautiful gift you’ve given us?”

Clementine shook her head.

John chuckled darkly to himself as Sherlock continued staring down his scope. Then he began unbuttoning his trousers. He groaned as his cock hit the air and brushed up against Clementine’s plump arss.

“It’s been three weeks. I can’t wait any longer. I want you,” John desperately explained as he slid his cock between her lips then up inside her.

Now that was a sight: John, knees bent between Clementine’s legs, cock thrusting up into her. Clementine, exposed, restrained, being fucked.

John thrust up into her, kissing her shoulder as her shirt draped off it.

“I can’t believe you are missing this Sherlock. She feels so good Sherlock.”

His voice began to shake as his thrusts became more rapid.

“Sherlock look at us. Sherlock!” John cried out Sherlock’s name as a wave of pleasure washed over him.

For the briefest of moments Sherlock turned his eyes from the scope. Just a flash, just to see what had pulled at his consciousness from the sidelines. And in that briefest of looks, not even a glance, Sherlock caught the erotic image before him.

Sherlock slowly turned his head toward the two people fucking right next to him, as the visions and sounds flooded over him.

Instantly his eyes locked with John’s. Clementine’s head was thrown back. Her eyes likely closed.

“There you are,” John said reverently. They shared a pregnant moment before John continued.

“Look what Clementine did for us.” John hiked her skirt up even higher.

Sherlock’s eyes fell from John’s to stare at where his cock was sinking into Clementine’s slick, pink, and bare cunt. There was a small patch of hair on her front, but she was otherwise completely hairless. Her entire slit was visible and Sherlock reveled in that as John plunged into her.

Suddenly Sherlock felt his knees impact with the ground and heard an animalistic growl slip from John’s lips. Sherlock was in front of the pair, face to face with their coupling. Then without even thinking about it he snaked his tongue out and sucked the base of John’s cock. 

John howled. Sherlock lapped at the two of them, where John enters Clem’s body over and over, sucking on John’s shaft with every pull and sucking Clementine’s clit with every push.

John felt like he was fucking Sherlock’s face.

Clementine moaned with the sheer pleasure of it all.

Then slowly, Sherlock stood, running his hands up Clementine’s body. He paused to suckle at her breast, burying his face between them for a moment, just letting the soft mounds brush against his cheeks, before leaning over her shoulder to kiss John.

It was a deep passionate kiss that communicated everything Sherlock needed to in that moment.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

When they pulled away, that wasn’t what actually came out of his mouth.

What actually came out of Sherlock’s mouth was, “Move in.”

Chapter Text

John didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at Sherlock.

Then he crashed their lips together, projecting back to Sherlock everything he felt. The want. The need. The love.

When they finally parted John simply said, “We will talk about that later. Right now I just want to fuck you.”

Sherlock knew when John said “you” he meant Sherlock and Clementine. They were his and he was theirs.

Sherlock sank back onto his knees. Contented, he returned his lips to the base of John's cock.

Caught between the soft wet lips of his lovers, John began to thrust in and out of Clementine again.

“I can’t believe you kept your hands off her, all bare like this,” John groaned out as he gripped Clementine’s hips and thrusts deeper.

He felt the woman’s body go a bit stiff in his arms and Sherlock stutter in his ministrations.

“Ooohhh,” John purrs, “You didn't. Did you?”

He looked down at the man on his knees. His posture looked contrite, but he looked dedicated to his task. As if he would be absolved of all wrong doing if he simply performed this service to John's satisfaction.

“You told me you didn’t show him.” John accused, reaching up a hand to pull at Clem's pert nipples, a playful gesture.

“I didn’t. Not on purpose,” she gasped as John plucked her sensitive flesh.

“But you let him fuck you?” There was no malice in his voice. It was as if he were coaxing her to admit an embarrassing moment. It entertained him. Pleased him.

Below them Sherlock had become furious in his devotion to sucking them off. He moved his face with their thrusting. They could feel the slick slide against his lips and tongue. John couldn’t help but think how much he wanted that gorgeous mouth on his arse.

“Yes.” Her word was more breath than voice, as Clementine road high on a cloud of pure lust. But she could still hear the smirk in John's voice.

“I didn’t think you two fucked when I wasn’t hear.” 

At that moment Sherlock popped off of his lovers and gasped.

“I couldn’t help myself John.” He sounded desperate and apologetic. “I saw her coming out of the shower yesterday. It was so beautiful.”

As if to prove a point he brought his fingers to her dripping cunt, spreading her lips and exposing her clit to the cold air of the kitchen, before leaning in and sucking it into his mouth.

Clementine howled as John stilled his thrusting.

“I followed her into the bedroom and—” Sherlock continued, but was quickly shut up by two fingers being thrust into his mouth.

“Shh shh shh.” John cooed. “I want to hear it from her.” He kissed at her neck, his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist. “Tell me what he did to you.”

Sherlock sucked on John’s fingers lovingly, as if expressing his penance.

“He followed me into the bedroom. I was still naked from the shower.” Clementine was gasping. Not two seconds ago she was awash in sensation and now everything had stopped. She would do anything to get it started again.

“He bent me over the bed.” She was shaking.

“He just came up behind you and slid it in?” John chuckled lightly next to her ear.

“No!” Sherlock panted around John’s fingers. John gripped Sherlock's jaw with his thumb to shush the man.

“No. He—He told me I looked beautiful. He told me he wanted to feel me. I was so wet, John. I couldn't help myself. He was sliding his fingers between my legs.”

“Is that when he bent you over the bed?” John’s voice had gone deep and ragged with arousal.

“Yes. I put my knees up so he could see me better. He kept touching me. Putting his long fingers deep into me.”

John was throbbing as she recounted every detail of her erotic moments with Sherlock.

“Did he stick his cock in you?” John growled.

Sherlock whimpered.

“Yes. He fucked me. He fucked me hard. He fucked me for hours. Please don’t be mad.”

Sherlock gripped John’s hand and pulled it from his mouth to hurriedly speak.

“Please, John. I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. She was just so beautiful and it had been so long. I wanted to wait for you. I really did. I—”

Sherlock stopped his ramble as the sound of laughter hit his ears. John was laughing.

“You can’t honestly think I would be angry that you two had sex without me.” John pulled out of Clementine, leveling out their stances. He gripped her waist gently in a hug as he caressed Sherlock’s face.

“I was surprised when you told me you never did it without me. I don’t know how you two kept your hands to yourself for so long. Was this your first time without me?”

They both sheepishly shook their heads.

“I’m more disappointed that you didn’t let me know. I would have loved to hear about it.”

“Move in and you can watch.” Sherlock cut in.

John just grinned at him.

“I could watch right now.”

With that he helped Sherlock to his feet and the three lovers walked back to the bedroom. They proceeded to slowly undress each other. Taking time to kiss and caress every inch of skin as it was revealed.

"I'm sorry we kept things from you." Clementine whispered as she brushed her lips across John's shoulder.

John reached back to stroke her hair. Sherlock was wrapped around his front, while Clementine slid her body seductively against his back.

"It's okay. I'm not upset. I want you to enjoy each other. I want you to be happy."

John nipped at the soft pillows of Sherlock's lips. He could feel the stiffness of the other man's erection pressing into his belly and at that moment John knew what he really wanted.

“I want her how you had her. Tell me how you fucked her.”

Sherlock hummed his approval before unwrapping himself from John and walking to the chair. The chair where he had first watched John fuck his roommate.

“Be a dear and budge up onto the bed.” John coaxed, leading Clementine to the bed. “I want to fuck you just like Sherlock did. Would you like that?”

The answering moan was all John needed to hear. Clementine crawled up onto the bed, sank her shoulders into the mattress and stuck her arse in the air.

“Oh you’re just gagging for it aren’t you?”

“Please John. Don’t be crude.” Sherlock’s voice came from behind him, smooth and deep.

“Kiss her. Taste her. It’s wonderful.”

John leaned over and gently pressed his lips against her soft warm cunt. His tongue snaked out gently gliding along her slick opening. She tasted elegant and complex.

John was lost, only Sherlock’s words guided him.

“Slip your fingers between her lips.”

“Now dip them in as deep as you can go.”

“Slowly slide you cock in and out.”

“Yeeesss juuust like that.” He would purr as John complied obediently, diligently.

John fucked her with abandon. Clementine’s howls of pleasure and Sherlock’s warm silky words surrounded him.

John jolted back to himself, grounded, as he felt Sherlock’s body press up against his.

“You’ve got me so hard right now.” The deep voice penetrated John.

John smirked over his shoulder at the man pressed to his back.

“Do you want another turn? Because I think that is up to the lady.”

Sherlock reached his hands past John’s waist and gripped Clementine’s hips, thrusting her into the other man. She moaned wantonly at the feeling.

“No. She seems happy enough.” Sherlock observed.

He brushed his lips against the shell of John’s ear, the heat from his breath radiating down John’s spine.

“I want to fuck you, John.”

The shorter man stilled at the words. They had never done that before. Sherlock had sucked him off plenty of times, but he had never been inside John. And at that moment John wondered why on earth not.

“Yes, Sherlock. Please. I want you to fuck me. I want you inside me. I want to feel you.”

Quickly, Sherlock grabbed the lube. John nudged Clementine further onto the bed. He knelt behind her and continued his vigorous thrusts. Sherlock climbed in behind John and began running slick fingers between his crack.

John bent over farther, trying to give Sherlock easier access. When he found John’s hole he circled it gently. John whimpered.

Humming with satisfaction, Sherlock slipped the first digit in. Making short work of it, he had three fingers sliding easily in and out of John in a matter of moments.

John was sobbing with pleasure as he thrust forward into Clementine and back onto Sherlock's fingers, trapped between the two most beautiful people he had ever met. Then suddenly he felt very empty.

Sherlock had removed his fingers and was slicking up his hardened length. Then John felt the blunt tip of Sherlock’s cock pressed against his stretched hole.

“Please.” John whimpered. “Please fuck me. I need you.”

Slowly, in an agonizing slide, Sherlock pushed into John until their thighs met. He stilled for a moment, letting John’s body adjust. Then John rocked his hips. He thrust into Clementine, then back onto Sherlock’s cock. Back and forth he undulated his hips.

Sherlock kept his body still, gently guiding John’s body with his hands. John held himself perfectly between his lovers on strong arms.

“Yes, John. That’s it. Fuck yourself on my cock. You take it so fucking good.”

John moaned and Clementine pushed her arse into his thrusts. She had reached between her legs and was rubbing her clit.

“Fuck him Sherlock. Fuck him hard. I need it. Please.” She whined.

“Do it, Sherlock. Give it to me.” John reassured him.

With that Sherlock began thrusting deeply into John. His hips pushed against John's arse, propelling him into Clementine. The woman wailed beneath them. Sherlock had one hand on each lovers’ hip.

He leaned back slightly to hit John at a new angle. John screamed with pleasure.

“Fuck! Sherlock, right there. Don’t stop.”

Sherlock thrust harder. Each time he heard Clementine gasp for breath. She was close. He knew John was close too. He could feel the shorter man clenching around him.

“I’m coming. I’m coming.” Clementine shouted and jerked underneath them.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” John yelled as Clementine clenched around him and Sherlock hit that sweet spot over and over.

Then Sherlock felt it. John was coming. He gripped onto Clementine hard, riding out the waves of his orgasm.

As the aftershocks subside he loosened his grip and she melted below him. John, however, kept himself propped up strong as Sherlock continued to fuck him.

“You feel so good John.” Sherlock, was frantic, chasing his own release. John wanted to feel him come apart. Wanted Sherlock to fill him up.

“I’ve always wanted you to fuck me with that magnificent cock of yours.”

“You’re so tight, so hot.”

“Fuck me until you come.”

Sherlock growled and gripped John’s hips tighter and began fucking him like a man on a mission. John’s arse slapped against Sherlock’s groin, the slick slide of lube making a salacious smacking sound.

“John. John. John!” Sherlock howled as he came, thrusting deep inside his lover.

Chapter Text

Clementine sat in the overstuffed chair in her room, peering out the window. The room was empty except for her bed, stripped to just the mattress and frame, and the chair. She curled in on herself, feet tucked underneath her body, arms wrapped around her shoulders. Her head leaned against the wing of the chair back.

She watched, detached as the movers and cleaners and appraisers checked off lists, moved boxes and furniture and art and appliances, and wiped down surfaces. Her whole life there had always been people there to do extraneous housework. They had a gardener and a housekeeper. The gardener clipped the hedges, watered the flowers and trimmed the lawn. The housekeeper scrubbed the tile, dealt with the dry cleaning, and dusted the light fixtures and the corners of the tall ceilings. Her mother did daily tasks—did. She hates that word.

Her mother was now purely in the past tense. Everything that she ever was or was ever going to be was gone. Eradicated in an instant. Crumbled beneath strong fierce hands.  

She clenched her teeth in anger, but pain splintered through her head.

Her nose was broken as well as a few of the surrounding bones. Any tensing of her face or jaw caused serious pain. It was even difficult for her to eat solid foods. The swelling in her eyes had subsided enough that she could see again, but her face was grotesque. Purple, blue and red. The white bandage splint crossing the bridge of her nose was a stark contrast to the noxious colors of her skin. She was too fixated on watching the seemingly endless stream of her family’s possessions being loaded onto trucks, to pay much attention to the pain.

Upon his arrest and the subsequent investigation had been discovered that her father had in fact not only been a financial advisor to London’s aristocrats, but also Columbia’s drug lords. When the police searched the house they found her father’s ledgers.

Laundering was what they called it.

An apt name she thought. Even they knew what they were doing was so filthy, so inexcusable, that they were so deleterious that everything they touched had to be washed.

She shuddered at the thought, remembering his scrutinizing gaze during weigh-ins. He would pinch her sides, her inner thighs, under her arms. It wasn’t sexual. She was property. A prop put there to make him seem more human. But when he was done, when he had removed his hand, his gaze, she would shower. Scrubbing the sickly feel of him from her skin.

The police had visited her at the hospital, asking her all sorts of weird questions about men and companies she had never heard of. This was how she learned the truth. They treated drug crimes of this magnitude very seriously. She even heard one investigator say to another, “This isn’t justice. This asshole deserves to rot after what he did to that woman and kids.”

“Don’t worry,” the other responded. “Once the cartels figure out where the leak came from I don’t give him a year, tops. These guys don’t take too kindly to their personal information being left around unattended. He’s a walking dead man.”

Clementine went cold at her words, “walking dead man.” She wished for it, longed for it. She had for years if she was being honest.

In the end it had taken two years. Throttled in the shower with a towel. He left the world the way he made her feel for years, naked and scared.

But for now, everything was being seized in evidence, the house, the art, the books, what would have been her inheritance. She had nothing. She was nothing. She wanted to be loaded up onto the trucks and packed away with everything else.

It was the pain of her face that finally pulled her from her lamentations. Slowly she became aware of a voice. Someone was calling her name. Were they ready for her? Was it her turn to get on the truck?

“Clementine? Are you listening to me?” She tore her gaze from the window.

Mycroft was standing in her doorway.

“It’s time to go,” he continued, “I’m taking you to Baker Street.”

Mycroft had pulled a few strings. He was able to solidify a small inheritance for Clementine, enough to see her through uni and a few years into early adulthood. After all, some of her father’s income had been legitimate. He was also able to stop the majority of her personal belongings from being seized. The chair she had been sitting in when she first met Sherlock, the chair she was sitting in now, had not been one of the pieces saved.

Her few belongings, mostly clothes, books, and a few electronics, were moved to 221A Baker Street, where she would be staying with her Aunt Martha, her mother’s sister. She didn’t really know her Aunt. Her father rarely let them go into the city without him. So visits had been infrequent. She had been eight the last time she saw her.

During the long drive into the city, in one of the black cars Mycroft had come to frequent, she had remained mostly silent.

“If you need anything Clementine, you can always, always call me.” Mycroft had tried to reassure her.

She just scoffed.

“I mean it Clem.” His voice was soft.

“I need to see him.” Clementine had turned to look the man in the eyes. Her bruised and battered face staring into his crisp sharp features. He stiffened fractionally.

“You know I can’t do that.”

She wanted to yell then. Wanted to scream in his pompous face. She wanted to tell him that he was fat and stupid, the way Sherlock always had. The insults she had always defended him from seemed the most visceral in her anger, the most logical to grasp at.

But she stayed silent.

She knew she should be grateful that Mycroft was even helping her. After all those parties. The long weekends. The brunches. The play dates. She saw just how fragile friendship was at the top. Every family friend or acquaintance they had made were quick to distance themselves from the scandal. She had known all along that their main objective was to protect their wealth while acquiring as much more of it as possible.

The Holmes’s had been no exception. If anything they had been the first and most vehement. Due to Clementine and Sherlock’s friendship, the Holmes family had been the closest of them all. Now not only had their financial advisor and confidant killed his wife and assaulted their son, but he had threatened their fortune by associating them with drug trafficking and money laundering.

Mycroft had delivered the message that, by order of their parents, Sherlock was no longer allowed to associate with Clementine. She hadn’t been allowed to visit him in the hospital and had not seen him since she was discharged a few days later. Mycroft informed her that Sherlock had regained consciousness shortly after arriving at the hospital and had been kept overnight for observation. He suffered not serious injury, just the minor concussion and some bruising to the face.

Clementine hadn’t been quite so lucky. She had suffered hairline fractures to the back of her skull from hitting the floor and multiple basal fractures inflicted by her father’s elbow to her face. This had required some minimally invasive surgery that, while normally an outpatient procedure, coupled with her additional head injury had warranted an extended stay in the hospital.

“Can he visit when my surgery is over?” She asked Mycroft.

Mycroft rubbed a hand over his tired face, puffing an exhausted breath.

“No, Clem. He can’t.”

“But why?! I don’t understand. Why can’t I see him? This isn’t fair!” Her voice was blunt and muted from the lack of oxygen flow through her nose. She felt as if she was crying, but with the swelling in her face she could barely see, let alone tell if she was producing tears.

“You have to understand Clem,” Mycroft had said softly. “They are concerned for their son. They are just trying to protect him and however ill-conceived and cruel their methods may seem please know that they are scared and are just trying to do their best by Sherlock.”

Clementine wanted to yell. She wanted to scream that he was full of shit. That his parents didn’t care about Sherlock, that all rich people were the same, concerned first and foremost with their money. Instead of yelling she just turned her head away from him.

“I hate you.” She whispered.

“I know.” Mycroft’s voice was resigned, mournful, but not angry.

When she woke from surgery it was to Mycroft sleeping in the corner chair of her hospital room. He watched after her, arranged her affairs, ensured she was fed and clothed in those days following the incident, before delivering her to her Aunt.

Now they stood on the door step of 221 Baker Street. When the door opened a kindly looking older woman, much older than her mother it seemed, opened the door with delight. Her face fell quickly upon seeing the ruin of a girl before her.

Schooling her expression, though not before Clementine had noticed it, Martha Hudson welcomed them into her home with open enthusiastic arms.




Six months.

That’s what the email said. He had six months to pack his bags and head for the front lines of Afghanistan.

John sat on the edge of the bed reading the email on his phone. Sherlock and Clementine were fast asleep behind him, wrapped around each other like rag dolls tossed in a cubby. His hands were shaking.

He had thought a year at least. He still had nine months of clerkship left. That was going to be enough time to figure things out. To plan. But he knew there was only one plan now. Only one thing that he needed to do above all others. He looked back at the sleeping forms behind him.

His chest ached at the sight.

If he was being honest with himself he should have done this a long time ago. He wasn’t sure exactly when his feelings for the pair had shifted, but somewhere along the line they had. Their relationship had gone from the most beneficial friends-with-benefits arrangement he had ever had to a peaceful, contented and exclusive relationship.

The words had not ever really been spoken beyond the confession of exclusivity. But when Sherlock had asked John to move in last night he had wanted to say yes. His first thought was, yes. But then he remembered the email. He remembered what his life truly was.

So he hadn’t answered.

Let me enjoy this one night. He thought to himself.

And he had. He had enjoyed himself thoroughly. But as he sat on the side of the bed he realized what a selfish decision that had been.

He didn’t want to hurt him. That’s why he had made this decision. That’s why he’s leaving. He could sense the shift in their feelings toward him as well. They were growing fond, attached. While he was unsure of specifics he knew that they both had experienced abandonment, loss, and loneliness in their life.

He knew his leaving would hurt. That it was abandonment. But so was going off to war. He knew it wouldn’t be easy on any of them, but it would be much easier for his partners in the long run. He wasn’t going to move in with them, fall in love with them, have them fall in love with him, only to ship off in six months to the front lines.

Not only couldn’t he ask them to wait for him, but if he never came back he didn’t want to die knowing the hurt he would leave behind. It would be bad enough leaving mum and Harry behind. He couldn’t hurt Clem and Sherlock too.

Not that way.

That would be the greater pain. He would rather make them angry with him than cause them the pain that comes with losing a loved one.

So, quietly and with the greatest of care he dressed himself. Once in the living room he grabbed a piece of paper from the desk and left a short note on the kitchen table for them to find in the morning.

I can’t do this anymore. I’m so sorry. – John

Chapter Text

Rough hands slid down silky white skin, feeling the hard planes of his lover’s abdomen. The soft plush of his thigh. John breathed against Sherlock’s neck, inhaling his scent, a masculine musk of wool, tobacco, and leather. Their bodies rocked together, becoming one.

Then John felt it. Soft palms running down his back. The heavy weight of breasts brushing against his shoulders. Wet lips trailing kisses across his neck. The weight of the lithe body against his back grounded him.

“John,” a sweet voice met his ears as soft hair fell around his face, tickling his cheek.

He wanted to cry with the sheer pleasure of it all. In that moment he felt warm, contented, protected.

“John.” The voice came again. Their three bodies rocking together.

He kissed Sherlock’s neck, tasting the salt on his skin, letting the sound of his lover’s moan penetrate him deep.

“John.” Her voice took on a stern edge. John willfully ignored it, sinking deeper into the pleasure of the bodies surrounding him.


The light came crashing around him. The smell of plastic, disinfectant, and bodily fluids assaulting his nose. The din of pained cries, beeping machines, and shoes hitting hard linoleum filled his ears.

He focused his eyes, the delicious memory fading from view. Garrett, a triage nurse, was standing in front of him holding a clipboard. John straightened his posture in a vain attempt to appear attentive.

Right now he was on hour ten of a twelve hour shift. The exhaustion was getting to him.

“What’s up Garrett,” he responded after a moment.

Garrett held out the clipboard.

“Third degree burns in curtain three. Cooking accident. Boiling water on the arm. The patient is refusing pain meds. Castor wants you to take it.”

He had been working in the A&E for about two months now. Once he received his orders and realized he would be thrown into the midst of trauma medicine in less than a year he decided some practice was in order. He spoke to some administrators at his uni and the hospital and had his A&E rotation bumped up.

The fact that Sherlock and Clementine knew where his surgery was and what his working hours were had nothing to do with the decision, he told himself.

It was almost ironic that the first time he had ever been in this particular A&E had been with Clementine a few months back.

Sherlock had been away at some conference. What chemists talked about at a conference was beyond John. What would possess Sherlock to attend a conference was even more of a mystery.

In any case it had been one of those rare nights where it was just John and Clementine. They had gone out for Thai, then spent the evening strolling the South Bank. It was a tourist trap to be sure, but there was something just so quintessentially London about it that they both loved. The smell of the Thames, the view of Big Ben and The Eye of London.  

Neither had actually grown up in the city so these moments, where they could lose themselves among other tourists, where their awe and appreciation for the grandeur of the city would go unnoticed and unjudged, were precious.

They sat on a bench eating ice cream from a small shop as they looked out over the river.

“When did you first move to London,” John had asked her.

Clementine hesitated a moment. John knew bits and pieces of her life before London. She had even revealed her eating disorder to him. That was not information she parted lightly with, but the trust that John had placed in her with his story had compelled her.

The story his lovers initially told him about their past had been a partial truth. He knew that now. After that night of sorrowful remembrance between the two, Clementine had opened up about the childhood she shared with Sherlock. But she was careful to keep it lighthearted. John heard no more about her father.

Instead she told him stories of Sherlock’s awkward phases. His braces and thick glasses at the end of primary school. That year he refused to wear anything but black. How they used to spend hours in the library not actually studying, but just being away from their families.

John understood why they had lied originally. They meant so much to each other, that much was clear. When you hold something that dear you are not eager to reveal your sentiment to a practical stranger. A love like theirs was precious and needed to be protected.

As they grew familiar this protection became less and less necessary.

But John’s question skirted close to the rough edges of that life. The pain and loss that she was not keen to rehash.

She could lie. Tell him she moved here for uni. Moved into her aunt’s spare apartment for the safety and price. Clem settled on a half-truth.

“I was sixteen when I moved in with Aunt Martha. It was after my parents left.”

John paused. He knew she never saw her parents anymore, but he assumed that was due to the abuse. Was this the abandonment Sherlock had alluded to?

John steeled himself.

“Where did they go?”

Clementine regarded her cone where a drip of melted ice cream slowly slid down the crisp sugary surface. She licked at it before it had the chance to reach her hand. The cool viscous liquid burned against her tongue.

“Away.” She said without turning back to him.

John got the hint.

After a few more moments of silence she finally spoke again. Her voice was light and unaffected.

“When did you get here?”

John slurped the top of his ice cream, careful not to take too much at once.

“Start of uni,” he said. “I was so excited to finally be in the big—” The chirping of his phone interrupted his story.

Irritated he took his phone from his pocket to see who it was.


The bright name flashed across his screen and John let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I need to take this.”

Clementine shrugged, unbothered by the interruption, as she began nibbling on the edges of her cone.

John answered the phone.

“What’s up Harry?”

“Is this John Watson?”

The voice on the other end was deep, masculine, and muffled by music and voices.

“Yes. Who are you and why do you have my sister’s phone?”

Clementine turned to regard John as he sat up straight, hackles raised.

“Listen man. You need to come get her. She’s making a scene at my pub and I don’t want to get physical with a woman.”

John sighed heavily, regarding his sweet treat with a look of disgust and contempt.

“Where is she?” His tone was clipped.

“Lucky’s. On 5th and Kensington.”

“Fine.” John hung up the phone and stood, throwing his cone in the trash, appetite completely gone.

“I have to go.” He said.

“Great. I’m coming with you.” Clementine shoved the last bit of her cone in her mouth.

The cab pulled up to Lucky’s about fifteen minutes later. John hoped she was still there. It wouldn’t be the first time she had been thrown out of a pub or wandered out on her own.

He paid the driver and climbed out with Clem. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t know what he would see, what Clementine would see.

She had not been the only one to keep secrets. His sister’s alcoholism was an infrequent, but persistent interruption in his life. He hated it. He hated seeing his strong, wise, and loving sister reduced to a slobbering idiot. She deserved better. She was better.

But he was also ashamed. It was a constant reminder of his failure. She had protected him all of those years and he was helpless to protect her from what tormented her.

He paused at the door.

“I’m really sorry for this,” he said to Clem without turning around.

“It’s okay.” Clem gripped his shoulder. “Let’s just go in and see what’s going on.”

He sucked in a ragged breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed the door open.

Music flooded his ears, but the room was oddly still. A few patrons stood around the bar quietly sipping their drinks. The bar tender regarded the pair at the doorway with a hopeful look. A group of middle-aged men sat at a table in the corner, eyes glued on the only moving figure in the room, a woman by the jukebox.

She had shoulder length crazy red hair and wore jeans and a black t-shirt, gripping a beer in one hand, the other swaying above her in some sort of attempt at dancing. She hadn’t noticed the newcomers at the door.

“Wait here.” John said the Clementine. He walked over to Harry, dancing alone.

When he was a few feet from her she noticed his presence.

“Johnny boy!! What are you doing here? Come to dance with your big sis?” Her words were heavy and loud, slurred with alcohol.

“Hey Harry.” He was cautious upon initial approach. “I’m here to pick you up. You called and asked for a ride. Remember?”

He knew she wouldn’t remember even if she had actually call him. It was worth a shot.

“Nooooooo. I want to dance!”

She turned away from him with a spin, sloshing beer over her shirt and across the floor. John clenched his fists.

“Well why don’t you come home with me and we can dance there?”

“Pppfffft.” Harry spit out a huff in his general direction. His teeth gritted as he wiped spittle and beer from his face.

Swallowing his anger he tried again.

“Come on Harry. It’s time to go.” He reached out for her arm, but she jerked away.

“Don’t touch me!” She screamed as her beer bottle fell from her hand and crashed to the floor. She stumbled back and collided with the jukebox causing it to skip and go silent.

John looked around the pub, all eyes on him. The silence was oppressive.

“Please.” He whispered, taking another step toward his sister.

“Don’t fucking treat me like a child! You’re the child in this relationship Johnny boy.”

She pointed a finger at him accusingly, staggering toward him, voice piercing the room. John took a step back and held up his hands, relenting.

“Okay. Okay. You’re right. But right now I need you Harry. Please will you come with me?”

Harry tilted her head back and cackled at John’s words. Without another word she turned around, banged on the jukebox and started up the music again.

John sighed, rubbing his hands over his face as his sister began dancing once again. That was it. He braced himself to grab the woman and drag her from the establishment. If the barkeep couldn’t handle the situation he would.

“Wooooo hoooo!”

Just as John was about to step forward and grab her he heard a shriek from behind. Suddenly Clementine was there, two beers in her hand, dancing just as crazy and wild as Harry.

She approached the inebriated woman and handed her a beer. Harry took it graciously, they clinked bottles and continued their pathetic attempts at dancing.

John stepped back, completely dumbfounded at what was transpiring before him. The two women whooped, spun, and shimmied against each other. Clementine, for all intents and purposes, looked just as drunk as Harry.

At first it was playful, as if the two were partaking in a hen party that got a bit rambunctious. Then Harry pulled their bodies closer, running her hands across Clementine’s stomach. John could feel his face go red with rage.

Clementine shot him a questioning look, peering down at the hand, back to his sister, then back to his face. John nodded slightly in affirmation. Clementine gave him a sweet smile and nodded back.

Then suddenly her body language changed completely. She melted against Harry, her back pressed to the drunken woman’s front as they swayed to the music. Clem reached back and ran her fingers through the auburn hair tickling her neck. Harry leaned in and started kissing that gorgeous neck.

John couldn’t stand it. The thought of someone other than he or Sherlock touching Clementine sent molten rage down his spine. He stalked toward the two women, but Clementine shot him an urgent look and held out her hand to stop him.

It took every ounce of effort he had to stay still, but he trusted Clem and she seemed to have a plan. As Harry continued to suckle on her neck Clementine turned her head slightly to whisper in her ear.

“What do you say we ditch this square and head back to my place?”

Harry moaned, gripped the woman’s hand, and sprinted for the door.

John stood there for a moment not believing what he was seeing. It wasn’t until the two women had walked out the door that he was spurred into action. He nodded at the bartender, who shot him a relieved and thankful look.

When John stepped out of the pub, looking both ways for the two women, he saw them stumbling, arms around each other’s shoulders, down the sidewalk. He breathed a sigh of relief.

She was out of the bar.

But now John had a different problem. His sister was currently wrapped around his girlfriend, expecting to take her home and shag her.


Is that what she was? No. Friend. Whom he also shagged and engaged in an exclusive threesome with on a consistent basis. Yeah. That is not what a girlfriend was. You don’t share girlfriends and Sherlock was certainly not his boyfriend.

Anyway, John was not about to let Harry sleep with his friend. She needed to get home and sleep off this drunken stupor. He picked up his pace to catch up to the women.

As he neared them he noticed Harry sinking deeper and deeper onto Clementine’s shoulder, as if it was getting harder and harder for her to stand. Clem gripped the other woman’s hand tightly, using the arm slung over her shoulder to keep her upright. The jovial jaunt had quickly turned into the inevitable aftermath of a bender. Harry was losing it.

John jogged up behind them and grabbed Harry’s other arm, hoisting it over his shoulder.

“Johnny boy! What are you doing here?” Harry could barely hold her head up.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he said affectionately back to her.

With those words Harry vomited violently, the sick splashing on the ground, speckling her companions shoes and trousers and soaking her own shoes, then completely collapsed.

It took some struggling, but they managed to get her limp body in a cab and over to the A&E where he and Clementine now sat in the waiting room.

Clem held John’s hand in hers, lightly brushing her thumb across his knuckles. It was late and they were both exhausted. They smelled of vomit and spilled beer. She gently rested her head on his shoulder.

He looked down at her his heart swelling. He noticed a bright purple color peeking out from the strands of hair that fell around her neck. He brushed the hair back to inspect the spot. A love bite. From Harry.

His stomach turned. What had he done? How had he put her in that position? Tears burned in his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped as he gently lay a hand on the mark.

“Whatever for love?” She didn’t lift her head from his should, just snuggled deeper into the crook of his neck.

“For putting you in that position. For Harry touching you like that. She marked you.” He gently squeezed the side of her neck indicated the offending spot.

“I should have just grabbed her and drug her from that pub. I’m so weak and I’m so sorry.”

He couldn’t stop the tears any longer. They flowed freely, streaming down his cheeks. He sniffled, wiping at them. Clementine clasped her hand over his.

“You are not weak, John Watson. You are a courageous man who only wants to protect the ones he loves.”

Her words tore a sob from his chest. She wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer to her. She lifted her head and tucked his into her neck now. She wrapped her other arm around his shoulder and held him tight as he wept with exhaustion and defeat.

“Sh sh sh. It’s all right,” she cooed. “It’s going to be all right, love.”

And now that woman, who held him so tenderly, who protected him and his own so fiercely sat in a hospital bed, IV in her right arm, gown loosely draped over her torso, tears streaking her face, while her injured arm sat propped on a small table.

Standing next to her, a look of fierce anger on his face, long dark coat and blue scarf flung over a chair behind him, Sherlock gripped Clementine’s uninjured hand in both of his.

Chapter Text

“Castor began the debridement,” Garrett stated, seemingly oblivious to the tension around him. “But he was—interrupted.” He shot a pointed look at Sherlock, who tore his gaze from a nervous and bewildered John.

“Incompetent is more like it. He was torturing her.” Sherlock sneered.

Clementine gripped his hand tighter and pulled him closer.

“Please,” her voice was so small it made John’s chest ache, “Please stop Sherly.”

The tall man turned to his companion, caressing her uninjured hand and running soft lips over her forehead.

The show of tenderness spurred John into action. Quickly he cleaned his hands and donned the customary latex gloves. The debridement supplies still sat next to Clem. He pulled up a stool and inspected the damage.

On her forearm was a splash of shocking white skin, as if a small child had spilled paint or glue on her. Angry redness and an intricate series of large blisters cascaded from this center point, an explosion of pain and damage.

“Garrett says you are refusing pain medication. Is that true?”

Clementine nodded her head in affirmation. Sherlock looked irritated.

“While third degree burns like this can cause substantial nerve damage the debridement process can be very painful. Are you sure I can’t convince you to consider even a small dose? It won’t leave you too loopy.”

Clementine vigorously shook her head.

“I can’t,” she sobbed.

John shot a questioning look back to Sherlock. He was met with an icy stare.

He blew out a frustrated breath and had to hold back the urge to run his gloved hands through his hair as further demonstration of his aggravation. He didn’t know what else to do.

“Please.” His voice was nearly a whisper, a desperate plea for her to do the right thing, to spare herself the pain.

“I. Can’t.” Each word huffed from her lips with immense effort.

John sighed, “Okay.”

He picked up his instruments and began his work, poking, cutting, wiping, picking. Some moments were so painful Clementine buried her face in Sherlock’s chest to scream. The sound reverberating in his ribcage. Her pain reflected on the man’s tortured face.

She began to jerk her arm. John instructed Garrett to hold it still.

“Don’t you touch her!” Sherlock spat at the nurse.

John fixed him with a level glare and spoke in his most commanding doctor voice.

“Do you want me to damage healthy skin and nerves? Do you want this to go on forever? Garrett hold her arm still!” He was shouting at this point. The stress of seeing his lover—no, she was no longer his lover—in such distress weighed heavy on his heart and nerves.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and glared angrily back at John. Clementine’s face was still buried in his chest, while Sherlock gripped her hand tight and held her close. In that moment John could feel the other man’s distress, his pain. John’s look softened.

“I can’t do this if she moves. I need her to be still. He won’t hurt her. That is the last thing that I want.” John tried to project back to Sherlock his own agony at the situation. Sherlock didn’t say anything in response. John nodded to Garrett and the man gently, but firmly, held Clementine’s arm in place.

John continued his work, pulling more screams from the woman he cared so deeply for.

“Please Sherly. Please. Please! Please! Make it stop!” She wailed into Sherlock’s chest. “It hurts! Sherly, it hurts!”

It took all the effort John had to keep his hands steady. He could feel himself shaking from within. Her cries destressed him in a primal gut-wrenching manner that he had never felt. His misery made all the more acute with the knowledge that he was doing this to her.

Then suddenly a soft sweet sound hit his ears.

They painted up your secrets
With the lies they told to you
And the least they ever gave you
Was the most you ever knew

Sherlock was singing.

And I wonder where these dreams go
When the world gets in your way
What's the point in all this screaming
No one's listening anyway

His body curled around her as best he could in their positions. His cheek resting on the top of her head while she drenched his shirt in her tears. Her pitiful cries the background music to his lyrics.

John knew the song was not for him, but he couldn’t help but be soothed by Sherlock’s words. The song seemed familiar, something from his youth perhaps. In this moment, sung in that deep baritone he loved so much, the song enveloped him.

Your voice is small and fading
And you hide in here unknown
And your mother loves your father
'Cause she's got nowhere to go

Before they were torn apart by circumstances, when Clementine lived in fear and danger every day of her life, Sherlock would sometimes come over to find her curled in bed unwilling to play or talk.

At first, as a young child, he didn’t understand. He thought he had done something to make her mad. That she didn’t like him anymore. So he would sit quietly in her room and read, while she lay curled on her bed unmoving and quiet.

He never told anyone about these times; always ashamed that even his friends didn’t want to talk to him. He felt little and unwanted. The pain prickled in his chest, but when his mother would send him back to her house she would be different. She would talk to him and play games and listen to his deductions and laugh. This greatly confused him, but then again Sherlock never fancied himself an expert in friendship.

One day, when they were about eleven-years-old he walked in on her in one of these moods. To this day he could not tell you why, but in that moment he was overcome with fury. Why did she do this to him? Why did she hate him one day and then love him the next? It wasn’t fair. He couldn’t stand it anymore.

He began yelling at her. Telling her how cruel she was and how if she didn’t want to be his friend she should just stop pretending. Stop making him come over here just to be rejected.

When she didn’t respond he leapt at her angrily grabbing her shoulder to pull her up.

She cried out in pain.

Sherlock jumped back, as if cut by a sharp blade. Clementine sat on the bed, arms around her knees, trying to make herself as small as possible. Slowly Sherlock approached her, reaching his hand out.

“Don’t,” she warned, pleaded.

He hesitated only a moment before lightly gripping the collar of her t-shirt and pulling it down over her shoulder. He flinched at the sight of deep purple bruises smattering her skin. He let go of her collar and pulled up the hem of her shirt, exposing more contusions on her side and back. Clementine whimpered, eyes becoming misty.

He took a step back, regarding her quivering pathetic visage, aghast. He was speechless.

“I didn’t make weight,” she whispered, “It was never about you.”

At those words Sherlock descended upon her, scooping her fragile frame into his arms and laying her back down on the bed. He tenderly wrapped his limbs around her, careful not to cause her pain. Quietly she wept and he stroked her hair.

He wanted so badly to take her away. To take away all of her pain and fear. The desire burned deep within him, a monumental feeling for such a young body. But what could a little boy do?

His mind scrambled for a solution. When he couldn’t deduce the answer, when he felt so helpless and frail, he sang.

It was a sad song he had heard once on the radio, but it had hit him so deeply that it was the one thing he grabbed at in moments of sheer helplessness, of drowning in feelings he had no idea how to process.

The words enveloped them both laying on the bed, blanketing them in a serene sort of peace.

And she wonders where these dreams go
'Cause the world got in her way
What's the point in ever trying
Nothing's changing anyway

He felt her body jerk against him with a sob.

They press their lips against you
And you love the lies they say
And I tried so hard to reach you
But you're falling anyway

Now in the A&E her face pressed against his chest they were back in that bed. Back in a moment where Sherlock could not protect her, where he felt so helpless that all he could do was comfort. He couldn’t take the pain away. He couldn’t undo it. So he held her. He held her and sang.

And you know I see right through you
'Cause the world gets in your way
What's the point in all this screaming
You're not listening anyway

When it was through, antibiotic ointment applied, burns gently wrapped in clean white gauze, Clementine was exhausted. She lay back in her bed, arm resting across her chest. Sherlock kissed her forehead as John divested himself of his gloves and Garrett set about cleaning up.

John looked down at Clementine and without thinking reached his hand out and lightly stroked her forehead, where Sherlock had just pressed his lips. The amount of relief he felt for the ending of this ordeal betrayed his better sense. He looked down at the woman lovingly and with a tender expression.

“Get some rest love,” he whispered, “I’ll be right back.”

Then he looked up at Sherlock, his expression clear.

We need to talk. Now.

Sherlock stiffened and followed John. When they reached a quiet corner just down the hall John let out a pained sigh, finally running his hand through his hair in frustration. He had so much he wanted to say, to ask, but was devoid of words. He opened his mouth to begin speaking.

He closed it.

Sherlock stood there for a moment, allowing John to flounder and gape like a fish. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t slightly enjoying it. Finally John’s words returned.

“Sherlock, what happened?”

The menacing look in Sherlock’s eyes told him these were the wrong words.

“I’m sorry doctor, but I believe all pertinent information was already collected upon check-in.” His voice was even, cool, emotionless. John winced.

“Don’t. Just don’t! Not now! Not after—” John choked on the volume of his voice, unable to finish his thought. He bowed his head, collecting himself.

Sherlock sneered, almost disgusted.

“No. You don’t get this. You don’t get to start caring all of a sudden.”

John’s head shot back up to meet Sherlock’s.

“I never stopped caring,” he whispered, his fortitude too weak to sound incredulous.

Sherlock laughed.

“Oh that’s rich. Do you normally walk out on people you care about?”

“No. That’s not—”

“Because the last I checked when you really cared about someone you avoided permanent absenteeism or at the very least at least provided some kind of an explanation—”

“Sherlock you don’t underst—”

“Did you know she started purging again? Hmm?”

That stopped John’s thoughts in their tracks.

“W-What?” He stammered.

 “Yes. That’s right. After years and years of recovery John you have managed to throw her into a relapse!”

John swallowed the icy lump that had formed in his throat.

“How long?” He asked.

Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other. He wasn’t particularly keen on talking about Clem and her sickness to others, but he had thrown it out in a fit of rage and hurt. When he spoke again his voice was small.

“A few weeks.”

John brought his fist to his mouth, to muffle his pained sob. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He was trying to protect them.

That’s what happened. That’s why we are here. She has been getting weak and clumsy. She hadn’t been interested in food for so long that when she said she wanted to make dinner I was elated. Stupid. Stupid.”

Sherlock pounded his palm to the side of his head as if the action would undo the evening’s events.

“I should have been watching more carefully. I should have been helping her. I’m sor—”

Sherlock caught himself. John was not the one he needed to apologize to. Sherlock straightened his shirt as a way to occupy his hands and thoughts for the moment.

John shifted uncomfortably.

“What about you?” John finally asked.

“What about me?” Sherlock snapped back.

“How are you doing?”

Sherlock scoffed at the implication of the question.

“If you think for one moment that I thought you were good for anything other than a decent shag then you were sorely mistaken. You many say you never stopped caring, but believe me when I say that the only one I ever cared about was her.”

The wind was robbed from John’s lungs. He couldn’t speak. He gasped for breath.

“Thank you for your preliminary care Dr. Watson, but we will no longer be in need of your services. Please pass all discharge information to a nurse or another doctor.”

And with that Sherlock left John standing, paralyzed, in the hallway.

Chapter Text

“Casino Royal is on Netflix!” Sherlock’s spine went stiff at John’s words, hollered from the living room.

At the time he had been hunched over a microscope examining mold spores, but the image of John, sitting in Clementine’s leather chair, mouth slightly agape and quirked up at the side in excitement and self-satisfaction, remote control clutched in his left hand, eyes alight with excitement and glued to the screen, played easily across his mind.

Sherlock panicked for a moment, a mere second to devise a cover, an escape route. He let out an indignant scoff.

“Aren’t you a little old for spy movies?” His voice was thick with taunt and boredom. Good. That would work.

John just chuckled at him.

“Fine. Fine,” he said, his tone relenting, but affectionate. “It just seemed like the kind of movie you would like.”

Sherlock’s heart clenched. His lungs lost the capacity to draw air and words failed him.

“How about this,” John called again. “It’s some new true crime docuseries about a guy wrongfully charged with murder. You can sit here and tell me everything they get wrong and who really did it until Clem gets home.”

John Watson was a menace. He had been a rather new addition to Sherlock’s and Clementine’s life. Yet, somehow, he had slowly eased into a space Sherlock hadn’t realized was empty. The tall man had a sickly sinking feeling now that, were John to leave, the space he filled would no longer be an ignorable anomaly. It would be a gaping maw intent on devouring their hearts.

Just then Sherlock felt soft strong hands rub across his shoulders and a soft kiss land at the top of his head. He had not yet lifted his gaze from the spores, but he hummed contentedly at the contact.

“Come on,” the soft voice above him spoke, “Come lay with me on the couch and watch this. It’s starting to get cold out and you’re going to need the body warmth you lanky git.”

Sherlock finally lifted his head from the scope and gazed out the windows of the living room. Briefly he recalled John pulling back the curtains earlier saying something about the magic of snow falling over the city. Though, as he examined the precipitation, it seemed less like magic and more like a hazard.

The flakes fell heavily and a wind had picked up, causing the windows to rattle slightly in their old wooden frame. Sherlock decided the best place to be at that moment, the only place he wanted to be, was wrapped around John Watson.

A few moments later the lights had been dimmed, the docuseries was started, and John had a lap full of lanky chemist. He smiled to himself and gently stroked the curls laid before him, smooth as a fine whisky.

Periodically Sherlock would pipe in with a comment.

“Do they really think this man possessed the mental faculties to commit such a crime?”

“Apparently blood spatter analysis means nothing to anyone.”

“Those tests are hardly conclusive and only based on pseudoscience.”

“The documentarians are leaving out crucial bits of evidence and testimony.”

At this, John looked down and saw Sherlock on his phone, apparently researching their evening movie pick.

“Text Clem and see when she’s coming home.” John figured since he was already on his phone he might as well do something useful.

Sherlock sat up from his lap and sneered.

“Tired of being left alone with me already?”

The look of hurt on Sherlock’s face, poorly concealed under his spiteful mask, pinched at John’s affections. He reached out and pulled Sherlock back to him.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, planting a gentle kiss to the other man’s lips. “I was merely curious.” A kiss to his cheek. “She doesn’t usually work this late.” A kiss to the neck.

Sherlock held on to is sulky countenance with an icy grip, but with each warm press of lips to skin he melted further until he was laid back on the couch, completely surrounded by the med student on top of him.

Their lips brushed every inch of exposed skin. Hands running over lean muscles and under soft warm fabric. John hummed in satisfaction. Sherlock whimpered with desire.

“Christ, I want you so bad,” John growled has he bit down on Sherlock’s plump lower lip, before sucking it into his mouth.

Sherlock let out a mewling cry at the sensation before recovering himself.

“Should we wait for Clem,” he suggested.

John had already moved on to nibble at his neck.

“When is she due back,” he asked.

Quickly Sherlock grabbed his phone and shot off a text, as John began pecking kissed to his collar bone.

He heard the ping of his text alert at the same moment John ground their hips together, causing their twin erections to slide against each other. He gasped and nearly dropped the phone in his hand.

“John Watson you are a wicked man,” he purred and wrapped his arms around his shoulders, diving in for another desperate kiss.

Once he was able to come up for air he swiped the screen of his phone to read the text. Before he could even lay eyes on the message John had snatched the device from his hands. He sat up, straddling Sherlock’s lap and began reading out loud.

“Have you two twats looked outside?”

The aforementioned twats shared a confused look, then turned their gaze to the windows. The sight and sound slowly filled their senses, washing over the heat and lust. The snow had rendered the normally streetlight-stained black night to a sheet of nearly pure white. The windows were rattling more fervently than before and John caught the sting of a draft at the back of his neck.

The phone pinged again.

“It’s too dangerous to walk home or take a cab. I’m going to sleep in the grad lounge tonight.”

 John began to type back.

“That is too bad. John and I were just about to—”


“Tell John I’m sorry and I wish I was there with you.”

A look of warmth and affection cascaded over John’s face as he stared down at the screen. Sherlock ran his hands gently over the other man’s thighs as he regarded him. Sherlock’s heart felt heavy. It was not a burdensome weight, though. It felt full to bursting, like a flower ready to bloom or a holiday cracker ready to spill treats to an excited child.

John’s fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard.

“This is John. I miss you and want you here with us, but more than anything, love, I want you safe.”

Sherlock smiled up at John.


“I miss you too. Take care of Sherlock for me.”

John smirked lasciviously and looked down at Sherlock.

“Oh I intend to.” Sherlock noticed John’s fingers had not moved. This message was intended for Sherlock.


“I wish I could be there with you two.”

John’s flagging erection jumped at the thought. Sherlock could feel it hardening against him and he started to grind their hips together again. Slowly they rocked together as John typed out the next message.

“What would you do if you were here?”

Sherlock let out a low moan.


This time there was no message, just a picture. John bit his bottom lip and ground down hard against Sherlock before turning the phone for Sherlock to see.

On the screen was a close-up of Clementine’s nickers. She was clearly wearing a skirt that day. He could see the bunched-up fabric at the tops of her thighs. The nickers were white, silky, soft, and bulging with Clementine’s fingers, slid down their front.

“Oh you dirty bird,” John typed back. “Is that for us? Come on. Let us have a look then.”

The two waited, rocking together. Sherlock sat up as best he could and pulled John’s t-shirt over his head. John set the phone on the table next to them and began unbuttoning Sherlock’s wickedly tight dress shirt as the other man peppered kisses to his chest. He was nearly to the last button when—


Sherlock scrambled to grab the phone as John undid the last few buttons and pulled his shirt tails from his trousers. Sherlock slid his finger across the screen of the phone and let out a deep growl of approval. John quickly snatched the phone from his grip.

Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John’s trunk and began sucking at his neck. John stared over Sherlock’s shoulder at the image in his hand.

The white silk nickers were gone. All John could see was Clementine’s fingers gently spreading herself open for them. He could see her glistening wetness.

She must be gagging for it, John thought.

Then suddenly John felt a searing wet heat envelop his right nipple.

“Oh, fuck! Sherlock!” He arched his chest to meet his lover’s mouth.

Quickly, as deftly as possible, he typed back a message to Clem.

“Your cunt is gorgeous. I want to see Sherlock burry his face in it and not come up until he is as dripping wet at you.”

Sherlock moaned deeply at his words. John could feel the vibrations in his chest.


“I showed you mine. Now you show me yours.”

John set the phone aside again and gripped the edges of Sherlock’s shirt.

“With pleasure,” he growled before smashing their lips together. With more desperation than finesse, John relieved Sherlock of every article of clothing. Then, with a sharp slap to his bare arse, positioned his lover back on the couch on all fours.

Then, with the greatest of haste, John unzipped his flies and pulled out his cock. It ached and flushed with desire. Gripping his member in one hand, he snatched up the phone with the other.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt the silky weight of his lover slide between the crack of his luscious arse and he knew what John was doing. He could see the picture in his mind’s eye: John’s cock perfectly framed by the supple round globes of his behind. Then he heard the camera click.

Sherlock mewled at the implication. He had never taken naughty pictures before, and while he was sure John would angle it in such a way that there were no identifying features, his stomach swooped at the thought of being caught.

He began to push back against John, feeling the other man’s cock slide along his crack.  

A moment later he heard the sound of his phone’s video call notification.

“Hello love.” Sherlock heard John say. “Are you doing okay? Are you safe?”

His voice was high and breathy with arousal, but the sincerity of his concern rang true.

“I’m safe.” Sherlock heard Clementine’s voice ring beautifully through the phone. “But I need my boys.” This time her voice whined with a deep lust-filled need.

“Are you alone,” John asked. Sherlock continued to rock back against John.

“Yes.” He heard the soft voice respond.

“Then why is that blouse still on? Hmm?” Sherlock could hear the dangerous edge in John’s voice. God, he loved how John took control. Sex with two people had enough moving parts as it was. With three people it required coordination, teamwork, and trust. Their lovemaking was an orchestra, Sherlock thought, and John was the conductor.

“I’m going to hand the phone to Sherlock,” John continued, “And you are going to strip for him while I work his tight little arsehole open.”

Sherlock and Clementin moaned simultaneously at his words. Sherlock felt John’s hand spreading his cheeks apart, cool air hitting his entrance as John pulled his cock away. He couldn’t be sure, but Sherlock hoped that John was tipping the camera to give Clementine a view of the salacious tableau he was arranging.

Then suddenly the camera was being forced into Sherlock’s hands. He put the screen in front of his face and was met with a sharp, crisp image of Clementine perched on the edge of a familiar couch.

Sherlock had taken many a nap on that couch, an old fake-leather piece that sat in a small room reserved for graduate chemistry students. Her skirt was hiked around her waist, legs spread wide, her dripping pussy exposed to the air of the room and Sherlock’s hungry gaze.

She was unbuttoning the flowery blouse that spilled over her luscious breasts and he surmised that she had propped her phone up in the coffee table that accompanied the couch.

He could see, from the small window in the corner of the screen that the image Clementine had was of Sherlock’s face and John, just over his shoulders.

“Hello, love.” She shot Sherlock a coy smile.

His return greeting was a low drawn out moan as he felt long thick fingers slide deep into him. He watched as Clementine’s blouse slid from her shoulder, revealing a nearly see-through purple bra.

John leaned over Sherlock, pushing his fingers deeper into him. Sherlock’s eyes fell closed in pleasure, as John began to focus on the image on the small screen.

“God, look at those tits. So fucking beautiful. Come on. Give us a peek.”

Slowly, and with much effort, Sherlock lifted his eyelids. John continued to pump his fingers into Sherlock’s body.

Clementine’s fingers gently crawled over the mounds of her breasts and snaked into the soft fabric of her bra. Slowly she pulled the fabric down, over her nipple, under the most sumptuous part of her small breasts.

The gathering and tension of the fabric put her breasts on wanton display. John added a third finger to his efforts and Sherlock shouted with pleasure.

“Oh you dirty little thing,” John growled. “I have three fingers up this luscious arse right now. I can feel him clenching around me.”

John punctuated his words with a dep thrust. Sherlock howled and Clementine moaned at the sight and sound, rubbing a hand over one breast and plucking fervently at one erect nipple.

“Do you think you could sink three fingers deep into that hot wet cunt of yours?”

Clementine took the hand that was not currently occupied with her breasts and slid her hand between the slick folds of her most intimate parts. Swiftly she sank three fingers into herself.

Sherlock’s eyes shot open at the sound that ripped from her mouth. The dual stimulus of John’s fingers and the image of Clementine, writhing on her own fingers while she pulled and twisted her dusky-pink nipples had Sherlock’s cock leaking.

“Go on, Sherlock.” He heard John whisper in his ear. “Tell her how she looks. Tell her how wet she’s making you.”

How did John know? He always knew.

“You are so fucking beautiful.” Sherlock’s voice was trembling with desire. “I’m so hard, leaking all over the couch. I wish I could burry my face in you. Taste you. Aaaaaahhhhhh!”

Sherlock wailed in pleasure as John inserted a fourth finger. The widest section of his strong hand stretching him to the limit. Sherlock could feel John’s thumb rubbing against his perineum as he made short, machinegun jerks with his hand.

“Fuck. Fuck! Fuuuuuuuck!” He hollered. “He’s fucking me with four fingers. Clem, it’s so much. So much.” Sherlock was jittering, the screen shaking with his movements.

“You can take it Sherlock. You’re so fucking sexy when you are getting fucked. It makes me so wet,” Clementine purred. John could see that she was fucking herself hard and deep, the hand that once played with her tits had slid south to rub against her clit.

John snatched the phone from Sherlock’s hand just as his head fell to the couch, completely overcome with sensation. John straightened up from where he had been hunched over Sherlock and stared at the image on the phone.

“God you are beautiful. Fuck this fucking weather. I want you here right now, perched on my throbbing cock.”

Clementine moaned loudly, her thrust picking up speed. John matched her pace with the hand buried deep in Sherlock.

“If you were here right now I’d bend you over on the bed and take you from behind.” Her breath hitched. John could tell she was close. “I would sink deep into that wet pussy of yours, fucking you hard while I gripped your hips.”

“Yes. YES!” She was gasping.

“Sherlock would have you by the hair, holding tight while he fucked your face.”

“God! Oh GOD!” She whined.

“Yes.Yes.Yes,” Sherlock gasped below John.

“You’d like that wouldn’t you,” John continued. “Being filled from both ends. You’d be our little toy. Wouldn’t you? There for our pleasure. Oh and you’d give it to us. Wouldn’t you? Gagging on Sherlock’s cock while I fucked you into him. Would you cum for us? Would you squirt all over for us?”

Clementine was completely lost. John could see it. Her head was thrown back. She leaned back against the couch, only her tits and cunt on full display as she fucked herself in front of the camera.

“Yeah that’s it. I want to see you cum all over yourself. I want you to squirt your juices all over than lounge. I want you to know, every time you walk back in there, what we made you do. What a dirty little minx you are. Cum for me love. Let me see it.”

With those final words Clementine pulled her fingers out of her aching cunt, continuing to rub hard and fast on her clit. Suddenly John saw as streams and streams of cum shot from her body, splashing her thighs, covering the pleather of the couch, a drop even falling on the lens of the camera.

John stilled his hand inside Sherlock and took in the image in his hand. His cock throbbing at the sight. He didn’t allow her much recovery time before he had another demand.

“Grab the phone. Keep your hand on that spent cunt of yours. You gave me such a beautiful show. I want to return the favor.”

Clementine did as instructed, wiping the screen before settling back on the couch, gently rubbing her over sensitized flesh. John hit the button on the screen that flipped the image to the front camera.

Suddenly Clementine was met with the filthy image of John’s hand buried most of the way into Sherlock’s arsehole, unmoving, his thumb resting gently on the man’s perineum, the tip of his cock just at the corner of the screen.

“Look at you naughty boys,” she sighed, gently rubbing herself. “Is this what you two get up to when I’m not around?”

She heard John chuckle off camera, “I don’t know how you live with this perfect arse every day without bending him over and fucking him every chance you get.”

“That would require some rather expensive equipment, harnesses and what not,” said Sherlock, his voice strained and wrecked. He was clearly on edge. Just then John slowly began stroking his hand in and out of his body.

“I’m fucking you right now and I have no expensive equipment.” His voice was casual, but self-satisfied at proving his know-it-all lover wrong.

“I think the time for talk is over boys. All I want to hear is the sound of you two fucking each other into oblivion. Put that brilliant cock of yours to work, John Watson.”

With an audible growl, John removed his hand from Sherlock, pausing briefly to spread Sherlock’s cheeks, giving Clementine a gorgeous view of his slick stretched hole.

He dripped a few more drops of lube onto the head of his cock. They had taken to hiding bottles of lube around the flat so they would always be prepared.

Then without further preamble John gripped the base of his cock, lined up with Sherlock’s entrance, and thrust in until his hips slapped against the man’s arse. Sherlock howled. John angled the camera with one hand and clung to Sherlock’s hip with the other.

It didn’t take but a few moments of unremitting pounding before Sherlock was close.

“Touch yourself Sherl. Wrap those gorgeous fingers around your aching cock. I know you want it. You need it, love. Go ahead.” Clementine’s voice came through over the phone.

Sherlock frantically began jerking himself in time with John’s thrusts and a few seconds later he was cumming.

John could feel Sherlock’s body clenching around him. He was close too. He could feel the buildup in the pit of his stomach. Once Sherlock had come down from the last wave of his orgasm, just before John was about to spill over the edge, he pulled out jerking his cock furiously.

Clementine watched as hot thick ropes of John’s cum landed over Sherlock’s cheeks, his crack, his hole.

“God, that’s beautiful,” Clementine huffed, “Push that up into him, Johnny. That greedy little hole wants your cum.”

John groaned as he ran his fingers through the pooling strips of cum dripping down Sherlock’s arse. Then gently, with two fingers, gathering the viscous liquid, pushing it into his lover’s stretched and swollen hole.

Sherlock moaned low in his throat. Clementine purred.

John did it again, gathering even more of himself and pushing it into Sherlock. He quickly swiped at the drips that began pouring from Sherlock’s hole, thrusting it back inside.

Then suddenly the screen on Clementine’s phone went black.

“John! Sherlock? Are you there? What happened?” She sat up straight, her attention now focused on the sudden loss of her lovers.

She heard the telltale sound of a phone being shuffled in someone’s grip.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are still here. The power’s gone out.” The screen flipped suddenly and Clementine was greeted with John’s face, sweaty and flushed, illuminated by the light of the phone’s screen.

Now that their senses were more focused, she could hear the pounding of the windows in the flat.

“Sounds like you guys need to batten down the hatches there,” she said, slipping her blouse back on.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” said John.

“Close the curtains tight,” she instructed, “It will be important for you to stay warm. You need to create a small space that you can keep as warm as possible. Get some blankets, start a fire, close off the doors to the living room and hunker down.”

“Yes mother,” John snickered at her as he extricated himself from the couch, Sherlock gingerly shifting himself.

“John Watson! You watch your mouth!” By this point Clementine had dressed herself and was looking sternly into the camera. John was trying to gather his clothing from the floor with what little light emanated from the phone.

“My apologies,” he soothed her. “Are you sure you are going to be okay there by yourself?”

He banged his shin into the coffee table and winced.

“Looks like you are in more danger than I am,” she said. “I will be just fine. It won’t be the first time I’ve slept in the lounge. Sherlock can attest to that.”

Sherlock made a non-committal grunt from where he laid puddled on the couch.

“Okay. Well, be safe and I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Thank you for the wonderful night.” Clementine blew him a kiss before ending the call.

John flipped on the torch app on Sherlock’s phone and set about following Clementine’s instructions.

A short while later he was wrapped around Sherlock on the floor in front of the fireplace. Curtains and doors sealed in the minimal heat provided by the small fire he had coaxed to life. The temperature had dropped sharply and quickly. The two men lay on a bed of blankets and pillows, sharing the heat from their bodies, John on his back, Sherlock curled into his chest, head tucked under his chin.

John ran his hands lightly down his lover’s flank. They had managed to find all of their clothes in the dark, but decided to lay in their pants. Sherlock said it would maximize body heat transfer, but John had his doubts. Still, he wasn’t going to complain.  

“This is tedious,” Sherlock huffed into the crook of John’s neck.

“Laying with me is tedious is it?” He tried not to sound affronted.

“Don’t be daft. This weather is tedious, John.” Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to his clavicle and nuzzled deeper. John brushed his lips across the crown of curls on Sherlock’s head.

“Laying with you could never be tedious.”


John wash the memory down with the sting of cheap whisky. The lines of reality and fantasy blurring.

Had he imagined it? Was it all a clever ruse concocted by his lonely heart and desperate mind?

He took another gulp of the harsh spirit and sunk deeper onto his bar stool.

Chapter Text

“Watch out!”

Clementine stumbled aside as a large man and a seemingly larger box charged toward her. Her shoulder collided with the wall, her school bag, heavy with books, swung through the air, pulling her body with it.

The clumsy and dangerous dance concluded with the giant man pirouetting down the final two steps, before firmly planting his feet on the graciously flat floor and Clementine gripping the unhelpfully smooth wall, backpack slung across her chest in a mocking display of defiance.

“Sorry ‘bout that there love.” The giant ox put his load on the floor. “Them damn stairs get me every time. ‘m not as nimble as I use ta be. You okay?”

Clementine straightened herself, flinging her bag back to its traditional place on her back.

“It’s okay. I’m okay, Mr. Wheeler.”

Frank Wheeler, the resident of 221B Baker Street, was an older gentleman with a smattering of white hair across a mostly balding head. He was a lecturer from the London School of Economics, though he did not actually teach economics, he taught English. The box, Clementine assumed by the loud thunk it gave when hitting the floor, was full of books.

“You know, it is a better idea to pack books in small boxes. Otherwise they get too heavy and unruly.”

The man looked at her with a genial grin and wiped sweat from his forehead.

“How’d you get to be so smart young lady?” The older man chuckled deeply.

Clementine offered a congenial smile that didn’t reach her eyes as a response.

“Well, I’m about done getting my shite out of here and then I’m off to Reading for bit to visit family.”

Clementine nodded, unsure what to say. Mr. Wheeler had always been a pleasant neighbor. He made little noise, save the heavy footfall up the stairs each evening. He rarely had guests and always had a smile. He charmed Aunt Martha and paid his rent on time. Still Clem could not bring herself to feel anything toward the man other than pure indifference.

“Have a good time,” she said with a slight wave. “And drive safe. It was nice to have met you.”

Clementine had been raised with manners and was adept at executing them in the most hostile and stressful of situations. It was mere reflex to dispense formalities at this point. She gave another small smile and scooted into her apartment. Well, not hers.

She felt like a homeless drifter, living out of bags and crashing on random people’s couches. The only difference, she thought, was that it was the same random person’s couch and the bags had eventually turned into a small chest of drawers.

Mycroft had not told her that the apartment she was to share with Aunt Martha was a one-bedroom. So shortly after she was left, face and heart shattered into fragments, at this new domicile she would call home, she was shown to her new bedroom, the living room.

It could have been worse, she realized. Aunt Martha was a lovely woman, a saint really. She apologized for what seemed like weeks over the sleeping situation, but tried her hardest to create a private space for Clem. She purchased privacy screens for her as well as a new set of pillows and blankets just for her.

After Mycroft’s assistants had brought in the few boxes of her possessions, Clementine still having not released the rucksack she carried on her shoulder, she had been led into the living-room-turned-bedroom.

“I’m so sorry dear. The only spare bedroom is on the second floor and technically belongs to apartment B. I know it’s not ideal for a young lady your age, but I thought we could go to the furniture shop together and pick out some things you might need to make this space a bit more yours.” Aunt Martha tried to reassure the pathetic broken looking thing that had shown up at her door.

Clementine didn’t say anything. She just dropped her bag, scooped the folded blanket, wrapped it around her body and sank onto the couch. She didn’t move or say anything for three days.

Martha had called Mycroft every day concerned, until she finally had to rouse her for a doctor’s appointment. Clementine had gone easily if reluctantly. She answered the physician’s questions in the most perfunctory of manners. The swelling had gone down significantly and she was fitted for a smaller, less imposing brace. Her face still wore a mask of angry deep purple with a smearing of yellow around its edges.

“How is your appetite? Is it still painful to chew,” asked the doctor.

“I’m fine,” Clementine droned.

The doctor noticed the concerned look on her Aunt’s face.

“It is really important that you keep your nutrition adequate. You will heal faster, better, if you stay well-fed.”

Clementine hadn’t actually been listening to the woman’s advice. She was staring at a poster on the wall of a waterfall. What an odd thing to have in a surgery. Did they actually think that was soothing? The thought was ridiculous.

Sorry to tell you, but you have cancer. Don’t worry, though, just stare at this painting of a waterfall and you won’t be consumed by the overwhelming terror of your impending death.

“Clementine?” Oh, the doctor is talking.

“Fine.” She hoped that was a proper response and was pleasantly surprised when the doctor accepted it with a nod.

As soon as they were back in the apartment, Clementine made a beeline for the couch.

“Absolutely not!” She paused, her blanket gripped in her hand. Her Aunt sounded furious. She couldn’t help it, Clem began trembling.

“It’s not fair,” she was still yelling, but her voice sounded more pained than angry, like she was struggling to keep her composure, while remaining firm. “I know that none of this is fair. You’ve been dealt a really raw hand. A terrible, terrible, fate, but I will not sit back and let you waist your life on that couch. You will go shower and put on clean clothes, which you really should have done before the doctor’s, while I make tea. You will then sit with me at the table and eat!”

Clementine, slowly turned to face the woman behind her. The pinched face, the glassy eyes, ready to spill tears, gripped her heart. But there was nothing for it, nothing she could do, not really. So she dropped the blanket on the floor and headed to the bathroom.

When she joined her Aunt at the table for tea a plate of scones was placed in front of her. They were her mother’s scones. Her favorite.

“These are your favorite? Your mother always said so.”

Clem reached out her hand as if at any moment the apparition would disappear. She gently lifted one and brought it to her face. It was soft, fluffy, light. She inhaled its delicate scent, butter and flower with just a hint of lemon zest and sugar. She took a bite. It crumbled in her mouth, the pieces melting on her tongue.

“It is your gran’s recipe. I’m sure your mother told you.”

She hadn’t.

“She taught us how to make these when we were little girls.”

Clementine took another bite, pressing her fingers to the plate to pick up the fallen crumbs. She sucked the tip into her mouth ravenously. Suddenly there was a hot cup of tea in front of her. A milky Irish breakfast, her other favorite.

She sipped it, letting the comforting aroma fill her senses. She hadn’t truly smelled anything in about a week. Then she began crying.

The tears were heavy and salty. She dropped the pastry to her plate and set the tea down, cupping her face with her hands. She sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. It was all so beautiful and perfect and horrible and wrong. Aunt Martha didn’t say anything, just pulled her chair next to the young girl and wrapped her arms around her.

Now, a year later, the two got on jovially. Aunt Martha was the shining ray of light in the shite show that had become her life. She had transferred schools for sixth form. This was good, she reasoned, as it meant Sherlock likely wouldn’t have to change schools. She wouldn’t have put it past his parents to pull him from the most prestigious public school in the area because of her. Probably would have sent him to Harrow or Eaton instead.

Clementine still had not seen or heard from him.

She found Aunt Martha at the kitchen sink and kissed her cheek lovingly before setting her bag down at the table and sinking into a chair.

“He’s going to kill himself or someone else before the day’s up,” Clementine warned her.

“Oh he’s a grown man. He can handle his affairs just fine,” Aunt Martha clucked at her.

“Not that you are concerned with my safety one lick, but he nearly flattened me on my way into the building.”

Her aunt merely clucked her tongue at the teen.

Just then there was a rapping at the door. Clementine rose slowly from the table, as if trying to remain undetected, and began scooting her way into the living room.

“Clementine Powers,” her aunt scolded. “I am up to my elbows in dirty dishes. Answer the door!”

Clementine groaned and stomped petulantly to the door. She just wanted to curl up on her couch and not talk to anyone. It was probably Mr. Wheeler anyway, wanting tape, or food, or cleaning supplies. She had better things to be doing with her time, like napping.

When she swung the door open, ready to be charge with some remedial task, like fetching old new papers, she froze.

“Clementine,” the unexpected houseguest greeted her.


A few moments later found her sat in her living room/bedroom, sitting on her couch across from Mycroft, who sat in Aunt Martha’s armchair, with a small tray of tea and biscuits on the table between them.

Mycroft had asked to speak with her privately.

“What do you want?”

She hadn’t actually seen Mycroft since he dropped her off here a year ago. He had been a brother to her for so long. It was Mycroft that had opened up the Holmes family to her in the beginning. He always suggested including her in their family outings or setting up visits between her and Sherlock. She was never sure if he did this more out of a sense of brotherly duty to Sherlock, to make sure he had a friend, or whether he did it to protect Clementine.

But then he left. He left her hear and he didn’t look back. He abandoned her, cut her off from everything she knew and loved.

Now, as he sat silently across from her, she wasn’t sure how to feel about him.

She wanted to hit him, scream at him. But she also wanted to hold him. She wanted to throw her arms around him and pull him near. She wanted to cry and tell him how much she hated him, how much she missed his stupid face and his posh suits and his condescending tone.

“You look well,” he said. “I suspect school is going well.”

She knew he didn’t have to suspect. The bastard had probably been keeping tabs on her. She drew in a ragged breath and spoke again.

“What do you want Mycroft?”

“I need your help,” he said staring at the tea cup in his hands.

Clementine just scoffed, but a voice at the back of her head reminded her of all the times he had helped her. All the times he intervened just in time. How he had pulled strings to ensure she didn’t lose her entire trust fund. How he had cared for her in hospital.

“It’s Sherlock.”

What? She went stiff.

Mycroft put his tea back on the tray and straightened his posture, bringing his eyes to meet Clementine’s.

“I need you to bring him home.”

Her brows knit together and she leaned forward on the couch.

“What makes you think I know where he is? You have made damn sure that I have had nothing to do with him for the last year!”

Mycroft looked properly chastised.

“I—I know. I’m sorry.”

He took in a deep breath as if steadying himself.  Mycroft wrung his hands and pursed his lips.

“He’s not doing well.”

Clementine leaned back to regard the man she once called brother. He was sweating and worried. She could feel her heart racing. What had happened to Sherlock?

“You need to tell me everything, Mycroft. Everything.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing his hands down his face, and sat back in his chair.

“He did not take kindly to our parents’ insistence that you two be separated.”

Clementine scoffed.

“He tried breaking back into the hospital to see you a few times. They sent him to the country for the rest of the summer. He ran away three times. Presumably to find you. When school started things just got worse. He came home with bruises every week from fights. At first it just seemed to be insipid teenagers saying things about what had happened to you. We thought it would settle down, but then he began instigating the fights. He would spout off cruel and unnecessary deductions to provoke people.”

Clementine gave a lopsided grin at the thought. She had been at the receiving end of Sherlock’s sharp tongue. She had wanted to punch him too, but in the end it had just brought them closer. There was no hiding from Sherlock. When she had finally come to terms with that and laid herself bare, let him see all the nasty broken pieces of her, is when they became inseparable.

“Then there’s the drugs.”

“The what?” Clementine sat up bolt straight.

“The drugs. He began using a few months ago. Cocaine mostly, sometimes morphine. Then he began running away again. I found him one evening in a drug den. He was laid out on a dirty mattress, unresponsive.”

Clementine’s stomach turned. She could feel the remanence of her lunch threaten at the back of her throat.

Mycroft was shaking now. His voice was thin.

“I got him to hospital, but he refused to see me when he came to.”

Tears began flowing, his steel-like visage crumbling before her eyes. She had never seen the man express an emotion on anything other than a completely neutral level. He was the epitome of British grace. The scene was hard to watch.

“He hates me,” Mycroft sobbed. “He thinks I’ve ruined his life. I’ve only ever done what I thought was best. You have to believe me. What was I supposed to do? Mummy and Daddy were never interested in him. Never wanted to take responsibility. They left it all to me!”

The veneer had not just crumbled. It had shattered. Mycroft was a quivering blubbering mess in a chair.

“It was always, ‘Mycroft go see after your brother.’ and ‘Mycroft, go make sure your brother isn’t causing trouble.’ And I did it. I did it because I love him. Someone had to look after him. Someone had to be there. And now he is gone and he hates me and I can’t be there and it is killing me.”

Clementine’s heart ached at the sight and sound of her brother in so much pain. He was hunched over in the chair, as if he were mere moments from falling out of it. She leapt from the couch and knelt before him, wrapping her arms around him. He returned the embrace and she could feel his body shaking with sorrow.

“I’m so sorry, Clem. I’m sorry for everything that has happened to you. I’m so sorry that I couldn’t stop it. I’m sorry for any hand I had in any of it. I’m sorry for all the pain I have caused you and Sherlock. I didn’t want any of this. Not for you two.”

Clementine ran her fingers through the posh man’s sleek auburn hair and shushed him.

“He doesn’t hate you. Not really. He’s just angry. He feels safe with you. He knows you will always be there so he takes liberties with you, beats you up because he knows you are strong. He thinks you are indestructible and he wants to be that.”

“I’m not. Dear God, I’m not,” he sniffled into her shoulder.

 Clementine tightened her hold and continued to gently stroke his hair.

“I know, you great ponce. You’re big softy and no one will ever convince me otherwise.”

She was concerned, genuinely for his feelings, but she needed him to calm down and tell her where Sherlock was. She leaned back, sitting Mycroft upright, wiping away the tears on his cheeks.

“Lord knows I’ve spent a great many days hating you Mycroft Holmes.”

His face began to crumple at her words.

“But,” she interjected to stave off his tears, “you have nothing but love in your heart. I know it and so does he. And right now I need you to tell me where he is. Where can I find him?”

Mycroft sniffled.

“I don’t know.”

Chapter Text

One more whiskey and he would officially be drunk.

This had become a regular routine for John Hamish Watson. Each evening, after clerkship or class or rugby practice or whatever he was doing that day, he would come down to this bar, sit on this stool, and drink himself into oblivion.

I’m not a drunk. He would tell himself. I only drink until I feel good.

The truth was he drank until he forgot.

For the first few days after the incident at the A&E, Sherlock’s statement stung like the coldest of ice, sticking to his skin, unable to loose itself without the soft heat of a stiff drink.

If you think for one moment that I thought you were good for anything other than a decent shag, then you were sorely mistaken.

He swallowed those words nightly. It was the only way he could get any sleep.

Believe me when I say that the only one I ever cared about was her.

He tossed back the remnants of his glass and asked for the check. He had no intentions of getting drunk tonight. In fact he had plans tonight. And while those plans required liquid courage he could not be belligerent or sloppy.

Between the moment his day ended and the moment he drunk himself to amnesia, he had been thinking about the true meaning of Sherlock’s words. Their implication.

John had left because he thought he could see where things were headed. He cared for Sherlock and Clem. When he was really drunk, just before he forgot his own name, he would even admit to himself that he was falling in love with them.

When he was being even more honest with himself he would admit it was really Sherlock he was falling for. Clementine was a wonderful, intelligent, beautiful woman who he cared for deeply, but there was something about Sherlock that lit a fire in John’s heart.

At the time he thought they returned his affections. Thought they both had.

That was why he had to leave. If they cared for him the way that he cared for them his deployment would have been horrific for them. He had no intentions of starting any kind of emotional attachment before he left. In fact he was actively avoiding it. He had no intention of starting a relationship when he took Clem home that first night.

How had everything gone all cockeyed?

Fuck it. Don’t think about it. It’s a good plan. Just stick with the plan, John.

It was a terrible plan, as are most plans concocted by broken-hearted drunks, but it was the first time in almost two weeks that he was motivated to do anything other than melt into a bar stool. So off he went to catch a cab.

When he pulled up to 221b Baker Street he paused an inch away from the door. Then swiftly he turned and began walking away, changing his mind. Almost immediately, he turned and headed back to 221b, only to hesitate again.

It was a pathetic dance he performed, oscillating outside Sherlock’s apartment.

Finally, steeling himself, he sucked in a reassuring breath and knocked. Of course Ms. Hudson opened it.


He cringed a bit at her volume. The plan had not been to announce himself.

“It’s so lovely to see you! I feel like I haven’t seen you in months.” She gave him a tight squeeze and kissed his cheek. John returned her affections with a warm, if slightly lopsided, smile.

“Yeah, I’ve…uh…been a bit busy lately. Are Clem and Sherlock home?”

He already knew the answer, well mostly.

“Clem is working late at the lab, but I’m sure Sherlock is up there somewhere. I think I heard the shower running a bit ago.”

She stepped to the side and John headed up the stairs with a final friendly nod to the landlady. He knew that Clem was going to be at the lab. She always worked late on Tuesdays. His plan only involved Sherlock.

He was only confident that it would work with Sherlock. He only needed it to work with Sherlock.

John knocked on the door to the sitting room.

He heard feet pounding from deep within the apartment and a deep voice grumbling loudly about inconvenient prats knocking on the door at this time of the evening.

He took the last few seconds he had to straighten his hair and jacket and lick his lips, trying to keep his breath steady.

Sherlock flung the door open with a frustrated huff and froze.

John matched his statue-like posture as he took in the sight before him. Towel dry curls cascaded around Sherlock’s sharp features. His bare chest was pink and moist from the hot shower it was evident, by the large white towel wrapped around his hips, he had just finished.

“John?” He finally whispered when his body’s immobility finally ceased.

It was a quiet whimper. A question. A wonderment at the mirage before him. With the utterance of his name, John surged forward to declare forcefully that he was there. He was real.

He pushed Sherlock back into the apartment with the sheer force of his forward movement, closing the door behind him. Sherlock backed up quickly, gripping the towel around his waist. John looked determined, hungry. It took Sherlock’s breath away.

He stopped when he felt the side of his overstuffed chair hit the back of his legs. He didn’t fall over, just stood firm as John continued his forward march. When he reached his final destination, John pressed their chests together, swiftly cupping the back of Sherlock’s shower damp head and pulled him in for a kiss.

It was hard and lacked finesse. Not the standard John Watson fare. But it was full of passion and heat and the moment John heard a soft whimper escape Sherlock’s lips he doubled his effort.

They melted into the kiss. Their mouths worked as one inseparable unit. Pressing, nipping, licking, and gasping. John wrapped his other arm around Sherlock’s waist and pulled their bodies flush.

He could feel the erection tenting under his towel and John growled in response. He rubbed their groins together and gasped at the friction, Sherlock moaning in response.

Suddenly Sherlock’s hands were on John’s shoulders pushing his jacket off. John began kicking out of his shoes, never once losing contact with Sherlock’s lips.

When he finally felt brave enough to move away from that tantalizing cupids bow it was to lick and suck at the tall chemist’s neck. John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s chest, circling thumbs over hardened nipples. Fingers exploring the topography of a muscled back, the swell of a luscious ass.

Sherlock shivered under the attentions, gripping onto John’s shoulders to keep himself standing. As John began to kiss down his chest, tongue darting dangerously close to those erect nipples, Sherlock gasped the question that had hit him the moment he opened the door.

“John? What are you doing here?”

He knew it was coming, was prepared. He didn’t flinch or pause, just continued to kiss down to his chest. To stave off the eventual response he would have to make, John sucked a pink pebble into his mouth.

Sherlock nearly melted. With a loud groan he laced his fingers into John’s hair and threw his head back. Taking the other man’s movements as a sign, John sank to his knees.

He kissed at the tight ridges of Sherlock’s abs and around the edge of the towel that was now only tenuously hanging onto the man’s thin hips.

“I’m here for a decent shag.” John finally responded gripping the point where the towel overlapped, affixing itself. “I didn’t realize you would be wrapped and ready for me. It really is a lovely surprise.”

With those words John loosed the towel around his lover’s waist and let it drop to the floor. Sherlock’s erection sprang free and jutted in his face for just a moment before he swallowed it down in one gulp.

The fingers in his hair went tight.

“Holy shit!” Sherlock couldn’t help but jerk his hips forward in pleasure. John hummed in satisfaction.

“John. John. John.” Sherlock was tugging his hair as John bobbed up and down on his cock.

“John. John!” With a particularly harsh pull to his hair John realized Sherlock was trying to get his attention. John pulled off of Sherlock’s prick with a loud smack and a gulp of breath.

“Why are you here,” Sherlock asked again.

John could see the confusion in his eyes, swimming there just underneath the desire.

This is it. John thought.

He stared up at Sherlock, his eyes firm, his jaw set, but his expression uncertain.

“I thought about what you said to me—at the hospital—about not caring and only wanting me for a shag.”

Sherlock loosened his grip in John’s hair, trying to pull back, but was blocked by the chair behind him. John could see his trepidation. He clamped Sherlock’s hand back down onto his head, urging him to keep his grip.

“I thought about it and realized that it meant I didn’t have to leave.”

At these words Sherlock tore his hand from John’s hair and sidestepped him, ducking quickly to grab his towel, wrapping it back around his waist. John leapt to his feet, chasing Sherlock. The other man’s posture gave a clear sign, though.

Keep your distance.

“What do you mean ‘didn’t have to leave.’” Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, John sensing a hint of anger and fright in his voice. He held up his hands in a placating gesture and took a step back.

“I—I just meant—since I was just a shag to you and—and—and you didn’t care then I wasn’t going to—um—to hurt you when I ship out in three month.”

Sherlock’s gaze became laser focused.

“What do you mean three months? You had over a year I thought?”

John licked his lips nervously, scratching the back of his head.

“Yeah, I—uh—I thought so too, but I got my orders about three months ago, the day of our—our last night, saying I had six months.”

Shifting from foot to foot John clenched and unclenched his fists in a vain attempt to grope his way through the situation.

“That’s why I’m at the A&E. They’re putting my on the frontlines as a field medic. I thought it would be good to get some trauma experience before I went out there.”

Sherlock just gaped at him, disbelieving.

“I just—I just figured—,” John continued, bumbling his speech in an attempt to explain. “You had told me once, about being lonely and—and abandoned. I didn’t want to be another person you loved and depended on that just walked out of your life. Someone that was never there. I didn’t want to leave you here waiting for my once a year leave. I couldn’t ask you to wait. To watch me leave you, over and over and over again, never knowing if I would come back. I couldn’t do that to you. But after what you said at the hospital, after knowing all you wanted was a shag, I figured there was no reason for me to have left. We could still—”

“But that’s exactly what you did!”

Sherlock’s screech was so forceful it nocked John back a few steps.

“You left!” Sherlock stalked toward him face reddening. “You don’t just leave people you care about! You don’t disappear with no explanation whatsoever!”

John could see tears threatening at the corner of his eyes as the taller man fought back the avalanche of emotions cascading in his expressions. He could see anger and pain and confusion and elation and remorse and fear.

John took a few commanding steps forward until he was nearly toe to toe with Sherlock.

“You do if that is what will protect them. You do anything to protect the people you love, even if it kills you inside. Even if it makes every day of your life miserable and lonely, because you know it would be worse if they were hurting.”

“But I did hurt John!” Sherlock threw his free hand into the air, bringing it down forcefully to point accusingly at the med student.

“I hurt every single day since you walked out on us.” The tears were no longer threats as they poured full force from his eyes.

It was a gut response, as natural as breathing. John reached out and pulled Sherlock into his arms. He held him tight, as the other wrapped his arms around John’s stout frame, burring his face into the crook of his neck.

John felt wetness on his own face as he stroked Sherlock’s quickly drying curls.

“I thought you didn’t care about me.” John husked out. “That’s—that’s—”

Sherlock held him tighter.

“I’m so sorry John,” he sobbed. “I was so angry. I didn’t mean any of it. Please forgive me. Please.”

Sherlock sobbed into his shoulder. John’s heart clenched. Then just, as suddenly, it opened like a flower on a sunny day, dropping all the weight it had been carrying.

“You are the wisest and best man that I know. Of course—of course I forgive you,” John hiccupped. “I only beg that you can forgive me for leaving. Please forgive me for all the hurt I caused you.”

Sherlock lifted his head to press desperate tear stained kisses to John’s lips.

“Yes. Yes. I forgive you. Always, John. Always.”

As their kisses grew more frantic and needy words ceased to matter. Sherlock began to push John backward, pulling at the hem of his shirt as he went. They stumbled through the kitchen, where John’s shirt was discarded on the floor, followed quickly by Sherlock’s towel.

John’s trousers ended up in the hallway and his pants on the bedroom floor.

They tumbled onto the bed with a relieved sigh, their bodies sliding together like two missing cogs in a watch. As if time had ceased to be while they were apart and only now could they begin living again.

John towered over Sherlock, encasing him in the frame of his arms and chest, pressing sucking kisses to every inch of his neck, his shoulders, his chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s back, holding on to his body as if he were a cliff from which Sherlock might fall to his death, but with the gentlest comforting touch, like John was a piece of porcelain that may shatter under his large hands.

Sherlock interrupted John’s attentions to press fervent, devoted kisses to his lips. He nipped at the soft flesh of his mouth, indulging in the taste of the man above him.

“I’ve missed you so much.” John achingly admitted between kisses. “I’ve missed the feel of your body under my hands, the sound of your voice in my ear.”

“John.” His name was a benediction, a gasped confession of everything Sherlock felt, but was unable to express, as the sensation of John’s body on his had robbed him of coherent speech.

They remained like that for an eternity which passed in mere seconds, feeling each other, tasting the salt of skin, the hard planes of muscle and the soft slide of skin. They rutted against each other building an overwhelming tide of rapture between them.

When it got so heavy, so overwhelming, John thought he might burst, he slowly pulled away, Sherlock chasing him with his lips. As John leaned over to the bedside table Sherlock peppered his chest and stomach with delicious, hungry kisses.

Shortly after John returned to his place above Sherlock, the tall man felt slick fingers at his entrance.

“Yeeeesssss,” he groaned as John entered his body.

Slowly pulling in and out, John kissed Sherlock sweetly on the lips.

“I want to make love to you. Will you make love to me Sherlock?”

Sherlock whimpered against John’s lips frantically nodding his head.

“Yes. Yes. Make love to me. I want you inside me. I want to feel you.”

Within a few moments, John was pulling his fingers from Sherlock’s body and slowly pushing in his aching erection. Sherlock gasped at the sensation.

They made love that night. Slowly, passionately, reverently. When John had climaxed inside Sherlock, the curly haired man turned them over and slowly began working his lover open. Then Sherlock made love to John again.

They heaved their breaths. They licked and sucked and kissed their way over each other’s bodies. They wrapped their limbs around each other, never leaving more than a hairs breadth of room between them.

As John clung to Sherlock’s neck, legs wrapped around his waist, Sherlock’s hands at John’s hips, he could feel the other man’s climax building.

“Sherlock. Sherlock. I—I—” John was lost in the pure pleasure that washed over his body.

“Say it,” Sherlock urged. “Say it.”

As his climax crashed over him John wailed, “Oh god. Oh god, Sherlock. I love you!”

The force of his words landed heavy on Sherlock’s chest, pulling him over the edge into his own forceful orgasm. He pulled John closer as he shuddered, hips pumping erratically into his body. As Sherlock slumped on top of John, the blond nestled his lover’s head onto his shoulder, kissing and stroking his now sweat soaked curls.

Sherlock purred, shifting out of John and tucking into his side, John still stroking his hair.

“I love you too, John,” he whispered. “More than you will ever know.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and the two men promptly fell asleep.


When morning came John was drawn from the bed by that ever incessant need for the loo. He extracted himself from Sherlock’s long heavy limbs and silently crept to the bathroom. Once finished he headed to the kitchen to prepare tea.

It wasn’t until he made it to the electric pot, completely naked, that he noticed the suit sitting at the kitchen table.

“Jesus Mycroft!” John startled and jumped, quickly cupping his groin for some modicum of privacy.

“Dr. Watson.” Mycroft’s face was impassive, but somehow stern. “I take it my brother is with you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” John said hurriedly. “Let me just—uh—go get him.”

John ran out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom, where Sherlock still lay strewn over the bed completely undisturbed. After quickly pulling on his pants, John leaned over Sherlock and gently kissed his face.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, love. Get up. Your brother is here. He’s in the kitchen.”

Sherlock grumbled and dug his face deeper into the pillows.

“Tell him to go away.”

“I don’t think that is going to work Sherlock. And besides my clothes are out there.”

With a huff Sherlock pulled himself from the bed. He grabbed Clementine’s dressing gown from the back of her door and wrapped it around his naked frame, before plodding into the kitchen. John, following close behind picked up his trousers from the hallway and hurriedly put them on.

Sherlock met his brother in the kitchen with a curt nod, flopping into a seat at the table. John continued with his previous task of making tea.

“What on earth could be so important that you would interrupt my morning so early Mycroft?”

“It’s Clementine.”

Sherlock hadn’t even thought about her since John showed up at their door last night. He assumed she would be back and join them in bed. Only now did he realized that this hadn’t happened. His posture stiffened as he leaned forward in his chair, urging Mycroft to continue.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice faltered.


Sherlock knew what he was going to say. He could see it written on his brother’s face. In the slant of his shoulders, the curve of his back. But it wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

“Say it.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper, a silent choke.

Mycroft gripped the handle of his umbrella as if, furnished with enough force, it would speak for him. Sherlock could see the faint redness in his eyes. Could see how his features threatened to crumple, to shatter completely.

Sherlock slapped his fist down on the table. John nearly dropped the mugs in his hands.

“SAY IT!!”

Mycroft sucked in a convulsing breath before finally speaking.

“She’s dead.”

Chapter Text

Where could he be? Where would he go? Sherlock had talked about running away many times. The disdain he felt for his parents’ apathy ran deep, but he never actually went through with it. He would spout all sorts of big talk of stealing money, using his smarts to get a job and going somewhere they would never find him, not that they would ever look for him. Then slowly, but surely the talk would shift to how dull and predictable a move that would be and how Sherlock could never do anything so pedestrian. In reality, at least Clem always believed, he could never leave her. His house, his parents, Mycroft offered a safe haven for Clem. It was the one place she could go to be free of the abuse she suffered at the hands of her father. He talked about them both running away once. That idea had not lasted long. For all of his posturing he knew, they both knew, there was a good chance they would be found. And once found there would be a reckoning.

Mycroft had mentioned drugs. There was only one person Clem knew that Sherlock would go to for drugs, Victor Trevor. He was a scholarship kid from Clem’s old school. She was not a fan, but Sherlock was transfixed. He was tall, athletic without being overly muscular, with sandy blond hair that fell in his eyes so frequently he constantly ran his hands through it, giving it a greasy look that turned Clem’s stomach, but made Sherlock’s roil with desire. In addition to being a scholarship kid, Trevor was also the only other gay kid they knew at the school. He wasn’t the out-and-proud type. It was more of a rumor that he never bothered to dispel. Sherlock had to know for sure, though.

Under the auspice of buying a bag a weed Sherlock and Clem found themselves at Victor’s apartment one evening. Sherlock and Victor sat on the small twin bed while Clem sat on a beanbag chair that took up half of the floor space in the room. There was about as much floor space as there was bed. They chatted a bit about inane teenage things. The kind of conversation that Sherlock normally loathed, but seemed perfectly content to engage in now. Clem was utterly board. Then Victor lit a joint and took a drag.

“Ya know I never pegged you as a stoner Holmes,” he said, passing the joint to Sherlock, who took a short drag.

“I guess I’m a hard guy to peg,” he said, letting the smoke slip from his lips.

Victor shot him a wry smile. Sherlock could feel his cheeks burning. Clem rolled her eyes.

“While you two talk about pegging, I need to use the restroom.” Clem struggled to her feet, careful not to step on the various detritus that littered the floor or knock over the plastic milk crate that supported Vic’s CD player. Victor didn’t even bother telling her where the bathroom was, opting instead to continue staring at Sherlock. Clem rolled her eyes again.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have the most ridiculous lips?” Victor asked. Clem saw him reach out to brush his thumb across Sherlock’s lower lip as she walked out of the room. Truth was she didn’t need to pee. She just couldn’t stand to be in that room any longer. They weren’t actually there to buy weed and she wasn’t trying to fuck Victor so why did she need to be there? She had only gone because Sherlock was too nervous to go himself. That seemed to no longer be an issue.

The apartment was small. Most apartments in the London area were. She wandered down the hallway and into the living area. No one appeared to be home besides them. There was a wall covered with family pictures. She paused to inspect them. Perhaps they held some insight into who Vic actually was. Neither of them really knew this kid. There were recent pictures of him and his family on what she assumed was vacation, fishing, drinking, eating, hanging on the beach. There were older pictures of who she assumed was Vic in diapers running around a muddy backyard playing with sticks. There were birthday pics of kids with cake smeared faces and wrapping paper strewn floors. It was all so positively normal. She didn’t know why, but it made her chest ache.

“You know your boyfriend is probably sucking my brother’s dick right about now.” A voice pierced the silence of the living room. Clem looked in the direction of the noise and saw a girl. She looked to be a few years older than Clem, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Um,” was all Clem to could think to say. The girl walked over and stood next to Clem, looking at the pictures.

“I’m not trying to be mean, but that is what my brother does. It’s like a hobby. Invite straight boys over to the house, regardless of whether they have a girlfriend,” she looked at Clem sympathetically, “and convince them to suck him off. Or at least let Vic suck them off.”

Clem wrinkled her nose at the implication of such a practice. The other girl turned to gaze at the pictures on the wall fondly.

“He’s even done it to a couple of my boyfriends,” she said without turning back to Clem.

“Sherlock isn’t my boyfriend,” she said. Then for some reason she added, “And he sure as hell isn’t straight.” The girl just smirked.

“Well then be careful when you go back to his room. You might get an eye full.” And with that she walked away.

Clem hadn’t been gone for long. Ten minutes at the most, she thought. There was no way they started doing anything in such a short period of time. But when she approached the room she quietly peered through a crack in the door anyway. Victor sat on his bed, hands fisted in Sherlock’s hair as her friend’s head bobbed up and down in Victor’s lap. It didn’t look like Vic was pushing or pulling his head. More like he was holding on for a ride. That’s when she heard a wet moan tremble from Sherlock’s chest.

“God your lips look amazing around my prick,” Victor whispered. His face was flushed, his hair falling into his eyes.

Clem shook her head, trying to loose the memory of those words from her mind as she stood on the stoop of the Trevors’ apartment. Resolutely, she reached for the knocker and announced her presence. Within a few moments the door opened. There he was. The same greasy hair flopped into his eyes.

“Ah,” said Victor, “little orphan Annie. What brings you slumming into this neighborhood?”

“Where is Sherlock?” She demanded, ignoring his jab at her.

“Sherlock?” Victor said, as if it were the first time hearing the name. “Oh, yeah! Tall guy? Dark hair? Beautiful lips?”

Clem’s jaw tightened.

“Where is he?”

Victor ran his hand through his hair, bushing the locks from his eyes. “Haven’t seen him.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me Victor. I know he is on drugs and I know he would come to you to get them.”

Victor crossed his arms, leaning against the door frame, seeming genuinely affronted. “I don’t do drugs.”

Clementine scoffed, mostly to herself. Time to change tactics.

“Did Sherlock ever tell you about his brother?” Clem asked. The prospect of another gorgeous Holmes boy seemed to spark Victor’s interest. He uncrossed his arms, shoving his hands into his pockets and standing a bit straighter.


“Well, here’s the thing. Sherlock’s brother works for the British government. Hell, he practically is the British government. I doubt you want to rouse his attentions. Probably wouldn’t be good for business.” Clem warned. Victor just scoffed.

“What a load of shite. I told you. I don’t do drugs and you aren’t going to scare me with some fairy tale of a powerful big brother.”

As Victor spoke Clem retrieved a cell phone from her pocket, pressed a few buttons, and held it up to her ear.

“Yeah, he’s here.” She said into the device. Hitting another button, she returned the phone to her pocket. Victor looked at her tentatively.

“Who was that?” He asked.

Clem shrugged, “Mother Goose.”

Suddenly a black car pulled up behind her and two men in suits stepped out. They strode resolutely toward Victor as Clem simply stepped to the side. Victor stood, affixed to his place in the doorway, dumbfounded. Each man swiftly grabbed the teen by an arm and began dragging him toward the sinister sedan.

“Wait! Wait!” Victor shouted. “I saw him! I saw him! I saw him!”

Clem raised a hand and the men stopped their forward motion, not letting go of the boy. She approached the trio.


Victor was frantic, panicked.

“He-e-e-e—Uh—He, uh st-t-toped by,” the boy struggled to get out.

“When!” She shouted as one of the men squeezed Vic’s arm a little tighter. Clem was pleased.

“Th-th-the last time I saw him was about a week ago. He crashed at my place a few nights. He, was—uh—he was really strung out.” Vic looked nervously between the two men. “L-l-listen. I don’t do that hard shit.” Another tight squeeze to the arm, this time with a slight twist. Victor yelped in pain. “I mean it! I-I know people who do, but—”

“Where is he?”

“I-I-uh, I don’t know for sure,” Victor tried to affect a conciliatory air.

Clem waved at the two men holding the teen and began walking off. Panic gripped Victor again as they began to drag him off.

“Wait! Wait!” He screamed, his voice cracking, a testament to his youth. “I can—I can—” He was desperate, reaching for anything to appease his captors. One of the men opened the back door to the car. “Seb! Seb! He’s with Seb!”

The men stopped. Clem turned around, marching straight for him.

“Who is Seb?”

Seb, as it turns out, was a heroin dealer. Victor had let Sherlock crash at his place for a while. Her friend had been couch surfing between junkie friends and dealers for a few weeks. Victor kicked Sherlock out when he came home to find the curly haired boy passed out on his bed with a need in his arm.

“I don’t know for sure he is with Seb, but I know that he buys from him.” The men had finally let the boy go, but still stood close, flanking him. “Listen,” Vic continued, running his hands through his hair. “I like Sherlock, yeah. I just, I can’t have him around my place with those kind of drugs.”

“You were the first one to sell him drugs.” Clem shot back. Victor knit his brow in an affronted look.

“A bit of weed isn’t ‘selling him drugs’ sweets. I’m not a fucking junkie like your mate. He chose to squat in drug dens. I’m not pimping him out for drugs or anything. He did that shit on his own.” Clem slapped Victor across the face. Victor looked sufficiently contrite.

“Listen,” he said in a lowered, sympathetic tone. “He’s in it bad. He could be anywhere. Honestly. But if you want to find him your best bet is to start with Seb.”

Sebastian Moran was a mid-level drug dealer. Not exactly a criminal mastermind. It didn’t take long for Mycroft to find him and only slightly longer for his men to locate Sherlock, squatting in an abandon building with a group of other junkies.

“I will go and get him,” Clem said.

“Absolutely not.” Mycroft and Ms. Hudson responded in unison.

“You may not go into a drug den, young lady. It’s too dangerous,” Ms. Hudson chided.

Clem sighed and shook her head.

“I’m the only one who can.” This earned her a confused look from the pair of adults. “The goal isn’t just to get Sherlock out of the drug den. The goal is to get him to come home and stay home. Clearly you have not been able to do that yet.” Her statement sobers Mycroft and stops him from interrupting. “He trusts me. He will come with me willingly—”

“Honey,” Ms. Hudson interjects solemnly, “If he is on these drugs that may not matter. These things rob you of the very things that make you…you. He may not be the friend you remember.”

“He is. It doesn’t matter if he is on drugs. Deep down he is still Sherlock and he needs my help.” Clem turns to Mycroft. “You have the British government at your disposal. Just give me a wire or something and put a bunch of guys outside the place so that if I get into trouble you can come in and rescue me.”

They both looked skeptically at her.

“Listen. I’ve survived far worse that a house full of junkies. I can handle myself and you can provide me back up.”

Their skepticism had morphed into pensiveness. Clem could tell they knew she was right, but didn’t like the implication.

“It’s our best chance of getting him back for good. You know it.”

They did know it. So eventually, with much trepidation, they agreed to let Clem go in after him. In addition to a wire, Mycroft insisted that she also wear a camera and a mic. He surrounded the house with agents and even planted a few inside, posing as junkies. They located Sherlock in the building so Clem knew right where to go.

It was a large abandoned industrial building with a small office complex. Sherlock was holed up in the back office of the main work area. The floors in there were cement so they had not succumb to the years of leaking roofs and rainy London nights. They decided to go in during the early morning, figuring most everyone would be asleep at that point.

As Clem walked through the building she stepped over heaps of trash, wet clothing, drug paraphernalia, and the occasional passed out body. At one point she came upon a young woman who looked to be about her age. Clem couldn’t tell if she was breathing. The urge overwhelmed her and she reached down to check on the young woman.

“What are you doing?!” Came Mycroft’s sharp voice through her ear piece. Clem ignored him. She started by shaking the woman, who did not respond. She checked her nose for breath. It was present, but shallow. Then she grabbed her wrist to check for a pulse. Again, present but weak.

“She needs help Myc.” Clem said.

“She isn’t why we are here.” Mycroft responded.

“It isn’t her fault that she doesn’t have friends and family who are rich enough and care enough to come find her.”

“It’s not that simple,” Mycroft warned.

“Myc, we can’t leave her to die. What would that make us?” Clem insisted.

Mycroft let out an irritated huff.

“Fine. Once Sherlock is out I will have my men bring her to hospital.”

“Okay,” Clem said and continued moving.

The walls were besieged by graffiti and riddled with pock marks. Clem couldn’t tell if they were bullet holes or divots of some other origin. The smell was overwhelming. Mold, human waste, blood, and an undercurrent of an oddly acidic smell she couldn’t place. It made her want to vomit, but she kept going. Eventually she came upon the office where Sherlock was supposed to be. When she opened the door she was practically knocked back with the smell. Body odor, blood, and that strange acidic smell smacked her in the face, bringing tears to her eyes.

There were at least five people in the cramped room. Each lay on some form sleeping pad. Some were actual mattresses. Some were nothing more than broken down stacked cardboard boxes. She couldn’t tell if any of them were actually Sherlock at first. She peered around, checking for any recognizable features. Then she spotted it. A matted snarl of greasy dark curls. She knelt down beside the body. Placing a hand on its shoulder, she shook gently.


The body roused with a groan. As the face turned up toward her, Clem drew her hand back in fright. This wasn’t Sherlock. The face of an old man, sporting only about three teeth, all black, peered up at her. His face was sagged, scarred and dirty.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Clem said backing away from him as much as she could in the tight space. Her heart was racing. She looked around frantically. Panicked, she wasn’t sure what to do.

“Clem?” A broken voice sounded behind her. She shot around searching for the source. A thin figure, splayed out on a bed of cardboard sat up. The figure wore filthy tattered clothes and a stocking cap. But through the dimness, underneath the grime Clem could see the sharp features of her friend.

“Sherlock?” She asked tentatively. He didn’t respond, but Clem saw as tears began spilling from his eyes. She was on him in a second, scooping him into her arms. He clung to her as a drowning man clings to a life raft.

“What are you doing here you complete numpty!?” She chided him. Sherlock just cried and cried. They sat there for a several moments.

“How did you know I was here?” Sherlock asked. Clem sat back a moment and looked into his eyes. They were glassy, but still held a drop of that sharp cunning that defined Sherlock.

“Hey, Sheza,” she heard a voice call from behind her. “Ya brough’ us a lil gift? ‘ow’s about sharing the goods.” Suddenly there were hands on her. Groping at her arms and sides. Clem yelped. In the blink of an eye, Sherlock pounced. He tackled the offending man to the ground wrapping his hand around the other’s throat.

“Keep your fucking hands off her!” He growled. The man threw is hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay! I mean’ no ‘arm.”

“Are you okay?” The question came simultaneously from Sherlock, in front of her, and Mycroft in her ear.

“I’m okay. It’s okay.” She reached out to Sherlock. “I need you to come home.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I’m not going back there,” he said.

Clem slapped him across the face.

“Goddamn it Sherlock Holmes!” Her tears began pouring again. “How could you do this to yourself!? How could you do this to me?”

Sherlock stared at her, dumbfounded. “I—They—They wouldn’t let me see you. I tried so hard to find you. To get to you. It just—”

“So this is the answer?” Clem gestures around her. “I’ve taken you for a lot of things Sherlock Holmes, but an idiot was never one of them.”

He looked confused now.

“Did it ever occur to you that we are almost adults? That you could have simply waited? Fuck your parents, for sure, but this is just ridiculous. If you keep doing this you might not live to see adulthood and if you do you won’t be the Sherlock that I know and love. He will be gone and so will I.”

Sherlock’s face crumpled and he began sobbing.

“Come home,” Clem continued. “I need you. I need you safe and healthy and sane.”

She wrapped him up in her arms and they wept together.

“Please,” she begged. “Please come home. For me. I’ll talk to Mycroft. We will work it out.”

Sherlock sniffed the snot from his nose, wiping at the remains with the back of his dirty hand. He still looked unsure. Clem reached around her neck and unclasped the necklace she was wearing. It was an antique locket, gold with filigree. It had belonged to her mother. Sherlock knew this. He knew the locket was passed from Clem’s grandmother to her mother. It was one of the few items Mycroft had been able to save when the estate was sold. Inside was an inscription which simply read, Always with you.

She grabbed Sherlock’s filthy hand, gently placing the necklace in his palm and wrapping his fingers around it.

“I’m going to trust you with this.”

He looked down at his hand then back to Clem, disbelieving.

“I need you with me, but I need the real Sherlock. Mycroft will get you help.”

Sherlock recoiled, pulling his hand from hers. She grabbed him back pulling his hand close to her chest, holding him tight.

“Stop it! He loves you and you know it. Let him help. Get clean. Finish school. When you are ready give this back to me. We can start over, move in together. We’ll go to university. Be grownups. Be together.”

She squeezed his hand tighter around the locket.

“Until then, remember. I’m always with you, even if I can’t be near you.”