The shrill note of Sally’s old-fashioned corded desk phone spilt the late night quiet of the station. Sally glanced at her watch in the pause between the first and second ring; only 40 more minutes until she was off the clock. It was tempting to just let it roll to the next officer on the phone rotor. But in the end, her sense of duty bound her to sigh and pick up the receiver.
The dispatcher’s voice came through loud and clear. “Disturbing the peace. A drunk’s making a scene at a pub.”
“Not my division,” Sally replied, using her boss’ favorite retort.
“I think you’ll want this one, Detective Sergeant Donovan. The bartender who called it in said it’s Sherlock Holmes.”
“Sherlock Holmes? Drunk at a pub? Are you pulling my leg?”
“No, Donovan, I’m telling you, I heard him in the background during the call. It’s him. Shouting about being able to tell who was cheating on their wife by the part in their hair.”
Sally’s lips lifted in a bitter smile. “I’m on it. And thanks for thinking of me.”
The dispatcher laughed. “I knew you’d want this one. Have fun.”
Sally dropped the heavy receiver into its cradle to end the call. She shrugged into her jacket and glanced at her watch again as she slipped her purse strap over her shoulder: 12:18 am. Her shift would end at 1, but she didn’t mind putting in some extra time in exchange for the possibility of seeing the Freak pissing-in-his-pants drunk.
Anderson looked up from his desk. He’d been attempting to look like he was working on reports as he beat in time until the shift change. “You’re not really going out on a call now, are you?”
Sally gave him a tight smile. “Freak’s drunk, causing a dust up in a pub. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Anderson’s jaw fell. “Sherlock Holmes, drunk? I have to see this.” He started to get up.
Sally’s curls bobbed as she shook her head. “I’ve got it covered. Go on home. Won’t your wife wonder where you’ve been if you’re late?” Sally barley tried to keep the bitterness out of her voice. Anderson had cooled things off between them when his wife got suspicious a few weeks ago.
He opened his mouth to answer but Sally grabbed her purse and strode quickly toward the lift, cutting off any chance his of retort.
The pub was crowded but at least the smoking ban had made it easier to breathe in the press of bodies. Sally thought back to the many late nights she’d spent in smoky pubs and the early mornings trying to wash the smell of stale cigarette smoke out of her hair. She pushed her way to the bar and signaled the bartender by holding up a black leather badge wallet with her Met identification card.
The bartender came over immediately. He was a tall, burly young man with pale skin, a full brown beard and sandy hair caught up in a man bun. He leaned toward Sally and shouted over the crowd noise, “Sorry to call you out. He’s calmed down now. Another whiskey was all it took.”
Sally looked around but didn’t see Sherlock in the throng. “Where is he?”
The bartender jerked his chin over his shoulder. “In the back. I settled him into a corner booth. As long as he’s quiet I don’t mind if he stays. He made quite a scene earlier raving about cigarette ash.”
Sally smiled at the man while she pocketed her badge. “I’ll have a word with him. We go way back.”
The bartender smiled gratefully. “Ta. Have a drink, on the house?”
“Thanks but I’m working. Another time.”
She threaded her way through the crowd until she reached the back room. The first corner booth she checked held a couple snogging. She changed direction and found Sherlock Holmes slumped in the booth in the opposite corner, staring moodily into a tumbler of amber liquid. His overcoat was balled on the seat next to him; the formalwear he sported was rumpled and stained, the champagne-colored tie askew and waistcoat unbuttoned.
Sally slid into the booth’s empty side, facing him at an angle.
“Hullo, Freak. Thought you had a wedding to be at tonight.” Sally had to speak so loudly to be heard over the crowd that it took some of the barbs out of her words.
“I did. I left.” He let his head fall back against the wooden booth with a thunk loud enough for Sally to hear over the crowd noise. “Gotta cigarette?” he asked glumly.
“Sorry, don’t smoke. And neither can you, in a pub. Come on, I’ll take you home.” Sally pulled Sherlock’s forearm none-too-gently.
Still lolling his head lazily from side to side, Sherlock answered glumly, “Notready ta gosh. Have a drink wimme.”
Sally started to protest then glanced at her watch: 1:02am. She was officially off duty now. “I’m off duty now. What the hell, I wouldn't mind a drink.”
Sherlock slid toward the booth’s opening. Sally strengthened her grip to signal he should stay put. “I’ll get it myself.”
She slid out of the booth and pushed her way back to the bar. Man-bun-bartender treated her to a whiskey fizz on the house and to a suggestive smile as she collected the drink. She lifted the glass to her lips and smiled over the brim. She might be a few years older than him, but she still had it. She took a sip then drew in a sharp breath at how strong he’d made the drink.
Back at the booth, Sherlock was staring blankly into the middle distance with his hands steepled under his chin. Sally slipped into the bench opposite him and lifted her drink in a mocking salute. “To marriage. Cheers.”
Sherlock’s attention snapped back to Sally. He glumly lifted his glass and met hers. “Sheers.”
Sally sipped her drink and looked around. She noticed the crowd was thinning, men and women pairing off and leaving as the evening drew to a close. “That was a short wedding reception. Greg made it sound like it would go into the wee hours.”
Sherlock dropped his head and sighed. “I do sho hate repeating myself. I tol’ you, I left.”
“Left early? What a thing to do at your best friend’s wedding!” Sally realized her words sounded harsh. It wasn’t like it was any of her business what went on at John Watson’s wedding. Both he and Sherlock had made it clear that she wasn’t their favorite officer at the Met. And she was fine with that - she was no fan of theirs, either. Even if she did feel bad about falsely accusing Sherlock of kidnapping and poisoning two kids, and unwittingly helped frame him as a fraud, she didn’t particularly care for him. He was gorgeous, sure, but usually such a prick at crime scenes that his beauty faded in her eyes as soon as he opened his mouth.
Sherlock propped an elbow on the table and covered his face with a large hand. “Yes. Left early. I’m sssssure John and that wife haven even notished.”
The barely-concealed anguish in his voice got Sally’s attention. She’d been confused to learn that John Watson was marrying a woman after Sherlock came back from the dead. Like most of the detectives at Scotland Yard, Sally had always assumed the were a couple. They’d sure acted like one. So when John turned up with a fiancee, Sally had shrugged and assumed he played for both teams. And Sherlock had acted happy that John had found a woman to settle down with, so Sally’d thought they’d had an amicable breakup.
Suddenly it all clicked in Sally’s brain. John and Sherlock, acting like a couple. Sherlock jumping and finding John engaged when he returned. Sherlock’s overinvolvement with the wedding plans. She winced when the pieces fell together in her mind and gently grasped his wrist, just below where he was still rubbing his face. “Sherlock, I’m sorry. I didn't know it was like that.”
Sherlock didn’t answer, just continued rubbing his face and breathing hard. A sound between a hiccup and a groan escaped his throat.
Sally downed her drink in a gulp and gasped as it burned its way down. She grabbed her purse with her free hand and tugged on Sherlock’s wrist with the other. “Come on, time to go home. My car’s right outside.”
Sherlock lifted his head at last and stared at the small brown hand gripping his wrist. “I donride in polich cars.”
“Come on, just this once.” Her words came out more gently than her earlier observation. Even so, she was sure Sherlock, especially three-sheets-to-the-wind Sherlock, would balk at her offer.
Head rolling from side to side, Sherlock answered thickly. “I havea internationalreputation to holdup. Hold up. Uphold. Ridin in your car won’t. Hold it up.”
Sally tried to pull him forward by the wrist but her small stature wasn’t a match for his drunken inertia. If he didn’t want to go with her, there was very little she could do about it other than calling for backup. “Your reputation’s safe with me. We’re two colleagues sharing a ride. That won’t harm your international reputation. Come on now.”
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes as he scooted across the wooden bench toward the front of the booth. “No need to gesh pushy, Detectivesergeantdonovan.” He stood unsteadily and shrugged into his greatcoat then turned up the collar with a flourish. The coat swirled as Sherlock turned toward the pub’s front door and started to push a path through the remaining crowd. Sally followed in the void he left behind.
Sherlock strode unsteadily to the front passenger door of Sally’s police cruiser. “Uh-unh, Sherlock. In the back you go.” Sally’s voice showed her growing exasperation. It was now well past 1 and she was off the clock. She could swing by Baker Street and drop of the drunken heap of consulting detective and still have time to meet up with friends at their favorite club before closing time.
Sherlock’s face fell. “But my reputation! I can’t be sheen in the backa a policshcar. It looks sho common.” The corners of his mouth turned down as if the last word left a bad taste behind.
“Common or not, I’ll not have you vomit in the front of my car. In the back you go,” Sally said as she opened the back door.
Sherlock shook his head. The motion made him weave a little; he reached a hand to steady himself against the car. “Nope. Fron seat. I won’t be shick.”
Sally sighed, irritated at the way he popped the ‘p’ but she pushed the back door shut and opened the front one for him. Sherlock collapsed into the car seat in a fluid motion. Sally shook her head, even more irritated that the consulting detective who was a thorn in her side at crime scenes managed to move like a dancer even when he was pissed. At least she’d be rid of him if a few minutes. Just get him to Baker Street and maybe if she was feeling very magnanimous, help him in the door - and then she could be on her way.
It was late enough - or early enough - that traffic was light. Sally was lucky enough to find an open parking spot in front of 221B Baker Street. Sally walked around the car and opened the door for Sherlock, who nearly fell face first onto the pavement since he’d been in the process of opening the door for himself. Sally let out her most irritated sigh yet and hauled him up out of the car by the elbow. Sherlock straightened himself and ran his hands down the front of his Belstaff, smoothing the wrinkles left by the seat belt. He wove his way to the door and dug in his trouser pocket for keys. Once procured, he tried unsuccessfully to fit the key into the lock.
“Oh for god’s sake, Sherlock, give me your key,” Sally snapped as she grabbed the key from hand opened the door. She held it open as Sherlock passed then followed him into the foyer.
Sally stood uncertainly in the foyer. She’d done her duty to her colleague, even if it was a colleague she didn’t particularly care much for. She could leave him there in good conscience and be on her way. But as Sherlock slipped his coat off, and she caught a glance of the rumpled morning coat underneath, something made her hesitate. John had been more than Sherlock’s flatmate. She would have bet money that they’d been shagging, but John had treated Sherlock differently since his ‘resurrection.’ Something seemed different about Sherlock, too. He wasn’t quite as offensive as his usual self. And now, looking at the way his shoulders slumped and his spine rounded the wrinkled morning coat, Sally found herself loath to leave him alone. She turned to shut the door and shoot the bolt.
When she turned back around, Sally found Sherlock sitting on the third step, elbows on knees, hands hanging limply between them. His head was bent; the dark cloud of his curls obscured Sally’s view of his face. “Come on,” she said, irritation creeping back into her voice. “Up you go.”
The look in Sherlock’s eyes as he glanced up at her shocked Sally. He looked open, unguarded and more human than she could ever have imagined he would ever be. She took his elbow gently and said with a bit less venom in her voice, “C’mon, Sherlock. I’ll make you some coffee.”
Heaving a sigh, Sherlock pushed himself up from the step. He took a minute to adjust his posture, snapping into his usual confident pose. To Sally, It seemed as if he was putting on his ‘Sherlock Holmes persona.’ She marveled at the change; the vulnerable man she’d glimpsed a moment ago was gone and in his place stood a composed, unemotional consulting detective. “Coffee would be...” He paused, eyes cutting up and to the left, clearly looking for an appropriate word to finish the sentence. “...good.” He gestured for Sally to precede him up the stairs.
Sally felt his eyes on her back all the way up the staircase. At the bend, she looked over her shoulder and met those strange, icy eyes. The energy surrounding them seemed to shift. Sally couldn’t pinpoint what had changed, but expectation crackled in the air around them.
The door to the flat was standing open; Sally stepped aside for Sherlock to enter first. He kept his gaze locked on hers as he passed through and took off his coat and scarf. He hung them both on hooks near the door then collapsed (again, elegantly) onto the sofa.
Sally went into the kitchen and found the coffeemaker on the cluttered counter - with cold grounds and a sodden filter still in the basket. She binned it and rinsed the basket under hot water for several seconds, then settled it back into the the coffeemaker. “Where do you keep your coffee?” she called over her shoulder.
“Above the sink, to the left, top shelf.”
Sally tiptoed as she rummaged among the clutter on the top shelf. She was surprised to find a package of Sainsbury’s store brand ground coffee instead of the expected ridiculously expensive coffee she assumed Sherlock would drink; she was even more surprised by Sherlock’s basic Braun model drip coffeemaker.
Turning toward the fridge, Sally braced herself before opening the door. Instead of the molded mess she’d expected, she found it nearly empty and sparkling clean. She found the milk and added a splash to a cup for herself while calling out, “Do you take milk?”
“No, double sugar. From the bag, not the sugar bowl.”
She’d noticed an opened package of sugar beside the coffee. She tiptoed again to reach it, then added two teaspoons to the bottom of a mug. Once the last dribble fell into the carafe, Sally added coffee to both mugs and carried them to the living room.
Sherlock’s head was laid on the back of the sofa and his eyes were closed. He stirred as Sally approached, turning his head toward the sound of her footsteps. He held out a hand and took the offered mug then sat up to sip. Sally stepped around the coffee table and seated herself on the sofa.
They drank in silence and Sally noticed the charged atmosphere had once again returned.
She laughed silently at herself. She was helping a drunk Freak home - why should that cause the hairs on her arms to stand up? She finished her coffee quickly and sat the empty mug on the coffee table.
Sherlock leaned forward and carefully placed his empty mug beside hers, invading her personal space, his nose nearly brushing hers. He lifted a hand and barely brushed the side of her neck with his fingertips. “Your skin. It’s so luminous.”
Sally brushed his fingers away. “Sherlock! I didn’t think you were into girls.”
“I’m not into girls,” Sherlock said very solemnly, holding her gaze. “I’m into women. And you, Sally Donovan, are all woman.” He leaned forward and placed his lips gently on hers.
Shock kept Sally motionless in place for several seconds. The last thing in the world she would have expected would have been for Sherlock Holmes to kiss her - ever. His eyes were closed, his head tilted, lips soft and warm against hers. After the initial shock, Sally noticed the sensations that came with the kiss: Sherlock’s full lips moving to part hers, enveloping first her top lip, then bottom; the heat of his hand as he slid it up her neck and into her hair to angle her head just so; the scent of his subtle cologne mingled with the fresh smell of starched fabric and the strong odor of liquor on his breath.
Then the tip of his tongue traced a hot line inside her lower lip, just beyond the margin where dry lip turned to wet. Without quite realizing it, her eyes fell shut and her lips responded, opening slightly as she let out a soft sigh. His tongue teased again, testing the ridge of her bottom teeth, then caressing her lip again. She dimly registered the taste of whisky, coffee, cigarettes and a slight hint of salt. The kiss deepened and continued, Sherlock shifting closer, cradling her head gently, laying her down along the length of the sofa. Sally relaxed into the cushy surface; Sherlock’s weight was partially on her, but the brunt of it was born by the sofa back. He’d shifted her forward, toward the edge of the cushions, and wedged his body between hers and the sofa back, his torso propped up on an elbow, his right hand still caressing her scalp.
Sherlock lifted his head slightly, eyes still closed. His left hand now stroked the tender skin at the base of her neck then slid into the collar of her blouse to trace her collarbone. “Your skin. It’s soft. Warm.” He buried his face in her neck, kissing between words. He continued a wet trail up Sally’s neck to the tender spot just in front of her ear, where he sucked gently, pulling a soft groan from Sally’s throat. His knee parted her legs as he shifted his weight, capturing her mouth once again and teasing her lips apart with his tongue.
As Sally relaxed into the kiss, Sherlock pressed his hips against her thigh; she felt his reaction to the kiss, hard and hot through the fabric of both of their trousers. Her breath caught in her throat and Sally bent her knee slightly to press her thigh more firmly against the buldge.
The hand tracing her collarbone shifted to the front of her blouse and lingered at the top of the button placket. Sherlock broke the kiss and breathed, “Is this alright?”
Sally opened her eyes. The sound of his voice brought her partially out of the trance she seemed to have fallen into. She blinked, realizing that this was the point where she should squirm out from underneath him and tell him she’d made a mistake, that she had to go and they’d both forget it and act like nothing ever happened - but of course she’d feel awkward at crime scenes and be unable to meet his eyes. That’s what she should do. But … Philip had reconciled with his wife six weeks ago and put things with Sally on hold. It had hurt her pride and left her lonely. Sally was woman enough to admit she had needs, and those needs had gone unmet since that painful conversation. Her brain told her to do the responsible thing but her body said otherwise. The pleasant weight of Sherlock’s body against hers, the heat of his erection against her thigh, his full lips against hers, his acrobatic tongue - all combined to override the voice of reason in her mind with the pressing needs of her body. Nodding, looking him in the eye Sally spoke firmly, “Yeah, it’s alright.”
Lush pink lips captured dusky, full lips again and tongues traded caresses as Sherlock flicked open the buttons of Sally’s blouse one-handed, his nimble fingers making short work of the buttons holding the crisply pressed maroon cotton closed. He gently brushed the cotton back from her torso to expose a dusky mauve lace bra and Sally’s trim midriff and waist. Sherlock ended the kiss with a wet sound and gazed down at Sally’s exposed skin.
“You’re aesthetically pleasing,” Sherlock breathed as he filled his left palm with the swell of Sally’s breast then softly thumbed her nipple through the filmy lace. “I’ve always thought your breasts are amazing, but truly that word falls short now that they’re not hidden by your blouse.” He lowered his head and breathed softly against the nipple he’d been stroking. It peaked in response. Pink lips captured the plum-colored peak, sucking gently, wetting the mauve lace thorough. Sally sucked in a breath then let it out in a soft moan. She moaned louder as Sherlock’s tongue played her nipple through the lace, sending tingles of pleasure between her legs. She shifted her hips and Sherlock’s shifted in response; he pressed the top of his knee up between her legs. Sally could feel her heartbeat in her sex, the pressure of his knee between her legs causing it to accelerate.
The tip of Sherlock’s long, white finger traced the edge of lace at the top of Sally’s bra. After a few minutes he gently lifted it over her pebbled nipple and pushed it down under the generous swell of her breast. Sherlock’s tongue teased at the nearly-painfully-hard nipple, swirling and flicking until Sally’s breath came in ragged gasps.
He leaned into the back of the sofa to Sally a chance to catch her breath and said, “This sofa really wasn’t designed for two people to recline. My bed is large and extremely comfortable. Shall we?”
Sally knew this was her last out, the last chance for cool reason to gain control of her body’s responses. She captured her lower lip between her sharp, white teeth and bit down hard. The pain did nothing to cool the heat coursing through her veins. Suddenly she was tired of always being the level-headed one, good ol’ reliable Sally, the one you could always count on to make rational decisions. She threw caution to the wind and said, “Yeah, lets.”
Sherlock pushed himself up off the sofa. He held out a hand to help her to her feet then laced their fingers together. Sally felt a sense of unreality as she trailed behind him through the kitchen and down the hallway; if not for the warmth and pressure of his hand around hers, she would have believed she was imagining the whole evening.
Sally hesitated slightly when she stepped through the doorway. Sherlock must have felt it through the connection of their hands because he stopped and looked at her. “I don’t bite.” A chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Only the spots you want bit.”
Sally looked up into his face. She wanted this - she really did - and she wasn’t ashamed to admit it. And obviously Sherlock wanted it, too. She knew they both wouldn’t let one night interfere with their professions. They could both compartmentalize it. The last hint of Sally’s reticence melted when Sherlock turned to her and wrapped his arms around her, one hand on her lower back and the other on her nape. He bent to kiss her, slowly backing her toward the bed.
When Sally’s legs hit the side of the bed, Sherlock’s hands slid to her waist and guided her to sit, finally breaking the kiss. His knee nudged hers apart and he knelt between them. With her petite stature and his height, his eyes were level with her breasts. He slowly slipped the blouse off her shoulders and down her brown arms, then tossed it casually to the floor. Next Sherlock placed his hands on her shoulders, fingertips sliding the straps of her bra off and letting them fall down her upper arms. He sat back on his haunches and paused. Sally reached behind her back, unhooked the bra and dropped it on top of her blouse. With a sigh, Sherlock cupped Sally’s generous breasts in his palms, moving his thumbs slowly over the mocha-toned nipples.
Sally closed her eyes and lost herself to the sensation; she placed her hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and when he bent to mouth at her breast, she slid one hand up into the dark curls she’d always secretly wanted to touch. But the texture was … crunchy? “Sherlock,” Sally couldn’t help but say, “What the…”
Sherlock sat back and blushed. “I tried, too, ummm. Well, I’d gotten a rather awful haircut, so I tried to make my hair look presentable for the wedding. And it got rather … out of hand. The more I tried to improve it, the worse it looked. Until, well. This.” He gestured toward his head and smiled sheepishly.
“Jesus, what did you do, use the entire bottle of product?”
Sherlock grinned. “Nearly.”
After a few seconds of silence, they both erupted into laughter.
“Christ, I get my hands on those curls and what do I get? Crunchy as crisps!” Sally giggled at her own joke.
Sherlock slipped the morning coat from his shoulders and let it pool around him on the floor. He grasped the knot of the silk tie and pulled. “God I hate neckties,” he muttered as he unbuttoned the stiff white shirt. Sally leaned forward and pushed the shirt from his shoulders. Her small, dark hand stroked the pale skin of his neck, his shoulders, his chest. She ran her fingernails lightly through the dark hair between his pale nipples. He hummed his appreciation then gently took her wrists in his hands, guiding them to the edge of the bed. He placed a hand on the waistband on her trousers and gave her a questioning look, raising an eyebrow to ask permission. Sally nodded.
Deft fingers made short work of the hook and eye at Sally’s waistband then the zip. She lifted up slightly so Sherlock could slip the trousers over her hips, then down her legs and tossed them aside. Her knickers matched her bra, dusky mauve lace. Sherlock ran his fingertips over the sheer fabric and made an appreciative sound. After a moment’s admiration, he bent to mouth at the lace between her legs until it was wet through. Sally moaned at the feel of his hot, wet tongue lapping against her most sensitive area. Her hips tilted forward of their own accord, seeking more and she laid her hand on Sherlock’s curls, seeking contact. Sherlock responded by cupping the top of her thighs in his palms and stroking the lace-edged leg opening with his thumbs. Sally let go of Sherlock’s head and leaned back on her elbows, breathing in short gasps and sighs, pushing her sex harder into Sherlock’s eager tongue.
Sherlock threaded his thumbs under the lace edge and stroked the wiry hair underneath. He gently tugged until the knickers began to slide down Sally’s hips.
“Hold on there, cowboy!” Sally sat up on the edge of the bed. “You have entirely too many clothes on for this to be fair.”
Sally watched as Sherlock stood quickly and unfastened his grey trousers. They dropped to the floor; he stepped out impatiently and kicked them to the side. Underneath the formal trousers he wore tight, black, low-cut trunk boxers. The tip of his cock peeked from the waistband; its erect state unmistakable through the clingy knit fabric.
Sally swung her legs onto the bed and slid to the middle. Sherlock grasped the top edge of the blanket and pulled it down; Sally squirmed to allow it to slide underneath her. The sheets were bright white and freshly laundered, which surprised Sally based on the state of the rest of the flat.
Sherlock crawled onto the bed and lay facing Sally, looking but not touching. Sally wondered about his state of sobriety. Would he even remember this in the morning? She thought it best to check before they went any further. Just because Sherlock had started this didn’t let her off the hook. If he were truly pissed, he may just be operating on instinct - but the finesse of his kisses and his nimble fingers made Sally doubt that he was working on autopilot.
“Sherlock, how drunk are you?”
“Drunk enough. We both know I’d never have started this if I were sober.” One dark eyebrow lifted.
“Really, I need to know.”
Sherlock let out a sigh. “Sally, if you’re worried I’ll claim you took advantage of me in the morning, have no fear. I have a fast metabolism and the majority of the alcohol has worked its way through my system. I’m quite in command of my facilities.”
Sally captured his face between her hands. She looked into his eyes, turning his head slightly to the left and right. Sherlock’s eyes tracked to hers with each movement of his head. “Okay, you look to be in control of yourself.” She sighed in relief and leaned in to initiate a kiss.
Sherlock immediately opened his lips and invaded her mouth. She rose to an elbow, pressing him onto his back with her weight, sliding one leg over his thighs, pressing her weight onto his, kissing roughly. She undulated against him, rubbing his erection with the wet lace of her knickers. Sherlock’s hands came up to grasp her breasts, both thumbs lightly caressing her nipples.
His low growl told Sally he heartily agreed with everything she was doing. And she wanted this, she really did. She’d told herself that she’d be fine without Philip, that she needed neither romance nor physical affection, but her body betrayed her now. She wanted - so badly, she wanted a firm, warm body against hers, strong hands on her back, the hardness of arousal against the wetness of her own. And if she closed her eyes, she could even get past the fact that those hands, that arousal belonged to Sherlock Holmes. So she did, concentrating on the physical sensations: the large, strong hands roaming her back, her thighs, her shoulders; the soft, wet lips working against hers, the tongue exploring every crevice of her mouth; the firm abdomen under hers, flexing and relaxing as the slim hips thrust upwards against her; the erection pressing hot against the throbbing at the junction of her thighs.
And the hand that slid into her lace knickers, stroking and teasing, sliding long fingers inside - she sighed, broke the kiss and threw her head back with a moan. That hand was certainly welcome, even if it was attached to Sherlock Holmes’ arm. Sally rose up on her knees, peeling her knickers off impatiently. Sherlock withdrew while she contorted her legs to get them free of the lace while also trying to maintain as much contact with his skin as possible.
Sally hooked both index fingers in the waistband of his tight black boxer trunks and lifted the elastic over the prominent bulge. Sally had never given a thought to Sherlock’s cock before, other than to call him one under her breath when he was a royal pain in the arse at crime scenes. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but the reality of seeing it hard and flushed against his flat belly wasn’t it. “God, Sherlock. Even your cock is beautiful. It should be a crime.”
Sally reached for him and found his skin hot, smooth and dry. She teased the tips of her fingers lightly up and down its length, then held its girth in the circle of her fingers. Again she was surprised - Sherlock was much larger than she would have thought - if she’d ever given it a thought. Her thumb traced a bulging vein from root to tip. Sherlock hummed and shifted his hips. His hands slid to her waist, pulling her forward against him for another kiss.
Sally surrounded Sherlock’s head with her arms, burying her hands in his curls as far as the stiff product would allow. Sherlock’s hands continued to roam her skin, stroking and kneading and fondling as their hips rocked in unison and they kissed and kissed, trading breath, lips soft and tongues probing. After a time Sally eased herself down Sherlock’s torso, planting her hands on either side of his hips. She paused and looked up to find Sherlock gazing at her, enraptured.
“This okay with you?” Sally asked.
“Have you ever known a man to turn down a blowjob?” Sherlock’s voice sounded breathless.
Sally pretended to consider for a moment. “Got a point there,” she said dryly. Circling the base of Sherlock’s cock again, she held it straight up and lowered her head. At the last minute she reconsidered. Sally had no idea what Sherlock’s sexual habits may be - until half an hour ago, she had never given the subject a thought, or if she did, it was to assume he was fucking John Watson. Now she was in bed with the enigma, set on sucking his cock, and she had no idea how many partners he’d had, their sex, or what acts he practiced with them. The extensive training Scotland Yard provided during Initial Police Learning and Development Programme in personal safety had included biological safety. From those courses, Sally knew the chance of catching a sexually transmitted infection from fellatio were slim, but real nonetheless. She sat back on her haunches.
“Be right back. Got to fetch my purse.”
Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, annoyed. “Whatever for, now?”
Sally rolled her eyes. “Condoms. Unless you …”
Sherlock cut her off by rolling to his side, toppling her off his thighs, and reached into the drawer of the bedside table. Sally righted herself and knelt beside him while he fished around and eventually pulled out three condoms and a medium sized bottle. She took them all, examining the assortment curiously while Sherlock flopped back onto his pillow: a bottle of strawberry flavored personal lubricant, a wild strawberry flavored condom and one labeled ‘Kyng.’ The Kyng package stated, ‘Designed for the man who needs a larger fit.’ Sally smiled because it was so true. The third condom package proclaimed ‘Lifestyles Tuxedo: A lubricated condom colored in a midnight shade. For elegant occasions.’
Sally snorted. “Elegant occasions?”
“Hey, I like those. They’re rather … errr, snug. Makes things last longer.”
Sally tore open the wild strawberry condom. She held it between her thumb and finger, using it to point at Sherlock, still chuckling. “Ok then, we’ll save that one for later.” She bent to her task, rolling the pink condom over Sherlock’s stiff length.
Sally knew she was doing something right by Sherlock’s gasp and the way he ground the back of his head into the pillow as she took his strawberry-flavored shaft into her mouth. She mouthed the head for a bit before going down, taking as much of him into her mouth as she could without gagging, bobbing slowly, keeping her tongue pressed firmly against the underside of Sherlock’s length. Sherlock propped on his elbows to watch. When Sally glanced up, the expression on his face was once again soft and open. Sally grinned to herself - as much as she could with Sherlock’s cock in her mouth - that she’d put that expression on his face again.
Sherlock spread his legs wider and propped his feet flat against the mattress and rocked his hips in time with Sally’s ministrations, rolling just slightly upward into Sally’s mouth. Sally liked that - she preferred partners who were active participants when receiving head, not lazy fuckers who just laid back and let her do all the work. She hummed and glanced up, giving Sherlock encouragement with her eyes. He understood and pressed his feet deeper into the bed, thrusting upward, driving his cock to the back of her throat. Sally relaxed as much as possible, breathing through her nose and using her hand around Sherlock’s cock to stop him just short of driving into her throat.
The strawberry flavor helped make the experience even more enjoyable for Sally and she would have continued but for Sherlock’s loud groan and hand on her shoulder, pushing her back. She sat up between his spread thighs and watched as he grasped his still-latex-clad cock and squeezed roughly, exhaling loudly in his effort to stave off orgasm. Her small, dark hands stroked his pale thighs soothingly.
Once again in control, Sherlock grabbed Sally’s wrist and pulled her down on top of him again, kissing her deeply enough that he could probably taste the strawberry. When he let go, he murmured, “That was good.”
She’d never had a compliment about something she’d done from Sherlock Holmes before; Sally felt disproportionately proud. It would have been nice to have received positive feedback from him for her police work, but if it took a blowjob to get a compliment, Sally was going to take it in the spirit given.
Sally sat up and rolled off the pink condom. She folded it into a tissue from the box on the bedside table and dropped it to the floor then gave Sherlock’s bare flesh a few languorous strokes before tearing open the black condom packet. Its jet black content was noticeably smaller in diameter than the flavored one.
Sherlock had been silently watching the entire time. He hummed when Sally deftly settled the black condom into place, shifting his hips under Sally’s weight.
“Okay, Sherlock?” Sally paused to admire the contrast of Sherlock’s alabaster skin and his now jet black cock.
“Quite,” Sherlock replied, teasing Sally’s nipple with his thumb.
When she could stand the building tension no longer, Sally reached between them and guided Sherlock into place, settling herself fully against his lap. She closed her eyes and went still, savoring the feel of Sherlock filling her up. She began to move, slow, small motions of her hips. Rolling forward to feel the stiff cock massage her g spot, then lifting just an inch to tease herself as much as Sherlock. “God, that’s good,” she breathed as Sherlock cupped both of her breasts in his warm hands then slid them down her sides to settle at her waist.
Sherlock opened his eyes and met Sally’s gaze. His pupils nearly swallowed his iris, leaving only a thin sliver of blue-gray. Sally gasped. She’d never seen Sherlock look so open. He surged upwards, shifting Sally back into his lap, holding her in place with strong hands on her buttocks. Sally shifted her knees to give better leverage and started a slow rhythm, sliding up Sherlock’s length slowly, settling herself down even more slowly.
Both of them breathing hard; Saly built the rhythm by tiny increments, flexing her internal muscles to tease Sherlock. He slipped his hands around her back, holding her close as he rolled to the side, flipping Sally onto her back and hooking one of her knees in his elbow, planting the other forearm beside her head. He kept his eyes locked on hers as he quickened the pace, thrusting hard enough to slide Sally bodily up the mattress with each stroke. Sherlock’s hand cupped the crown of her head to hold Sally in place.
Sally moaned and clutched Sherlock’s buttocks, pulling him as close as possible, wrapping her free leg around his waist, tilting her pelvis to meet each thrust. It was good, so good, rough enough to be satisfying but without any element of cruelty. Sally clutched his back, digging her nails in either side of his spine, reaching for the peak she so desperately needed. She groaned, curling around Sherlock, panting, on the edge but unable to fall over the cliff. “Oh god, Sherlock. Harder! Fuck, harder,” she growled through gritted teeth.
After long moments filled with the sound of flesh slapping flesh, Sherlock paused and studied Sally’s face. “You can’t come like this.” He gave her his ‘deductions’ look, followed by a soft “oh!” “Care to turn over?” he asked as he sat back on his knees, black-condom-covered cock jutting obscenely in front of him, glistening from Sally’s arousal.
“Yeah,” Sally answered breathlessly. She turned, posing on hands and knees facing away from Sherock. He knelt between her spread legs and grasped her hips, easing in again before setting a fast pace. Sally gasped and groaned, rocking back to meet each punishing thrust, the sound of skin slapping again joining their pleasured exclamations in the dimly lit room.
“Oh god yes. Like that,” Sally moaned in time with their tempo.
Sherlock slid his big hands around Sally’s torso and hauled her up, holding her tightly against his chest. He thrust upward, over and over, just the spot that he’d deduced Sally needed, while he pressed his other palm against her flat belly. His long, white fingers curled in the black curls of her sex and rubbed small circles.
Sally held her breath and went still, stomach clenching. Sherlock felt the waves of her pleasure around him. He kept his thrusts precise to draw out her pleasure, his fingers lightly stroking her clitorus over and over.
When Sally at last inhaled and relaxed, Sherlock lowered her gently to the bed. He planted his hands on either side of her shoulders and gave into his own need to rut. He came with a groan, his hips stuttering.
Sally propped her forehead against her folded hands and gulped air while Sherlock withdrew and dealt with the condom with tissues from the box beside the bed. He dropped the wad beside to the floor, somewhere in the vicinity of the tissue Sally had dropped earlier and reached for Sally, drawing her to his side, burying his face in her hair.
“Did I remember to tell you how beautiful you look when you’re concentrating?” he drawled.
Sally laughed softly. She settled with her head on his shoulder, enjoying his heat and the way he nuzzled her curls.
They caught their breath, lazy and sated, and relaxed into the down pillows. When Sally was sure Sherlock was asleep, she groped on the floor for her knickers. She flinched at the sound of Sherlock’s drowsy voice. “Stay the night.”
She turned and found Sherlock blinking at her, trying to maintain focus despite his need for sleep.
“I’d better go.”
Sherlock leaned up on an elbow. “You think it will be awkward in the morning. Don’t worry. It won’t.”
“I know. But I have an early shift tomorrow.”
Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around Sally’s head, tilting it for a kiss. The kiss went on and on, and the longer it did, the less either wanted Sally to leave. At last Sherlock pulled back, lips hovering just above Sally’s. “Give me half an hour and we can have another go.”
Sally sighed regretfully. “I’d like to, really I would. But I do have to be back at work at seven.”
The hand cupping Sally’s curls dropped to her shoulder and Sherlock sat back. “Another time then.” Sherlock grinned as he squeezed Sally’s shoulder.
Grinning in response, Sally looked long into Sherlock’s eyes before answering. “Sure, why not? We’re good together. But just sex. I’m not looking for anything serious.”
Sherlock smirked. “I don’t do relationships, Sally. I wear thin with familiarity.”
Her laughter rang out as Sally stood to step into her knickers. “Yeah, well, no conversation then. Best keep on task as much as possible.”
Sherlock reached for the blanket bunched at the footboard. He adjusted it around his torso and curled to his side. “I was trying to be polite. I prefer to sleep alone.”
Sally ruffled Sherlock’s stiff, chaotic curls. “I appreciate it. And I don’t think I have to say it but if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll cut off your bollocks.”
Sherlock opened one eye and frowned. “Noted. Same to you.”
“Not a word. You can bet on that.” Sally picked up the rest of her clothing from the floor and opened the door to the loo.
“Sally,” Sherlock turned toward her and opened both eyes. “Thank you. For tonight.”
Sally returned to the bedside, leaned over and gave Sherlock a chaste kiss. “Today was a rough one for you.”
Sherlock reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Could you get a glass of water for me on your way out, and turn out the lights? And make sure the door locks when you shut it.”
Sally rolled her eyes with a sigh. Of course he’d end the night by being a demanding prick.