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Cheers

Chapter Text

“I’m not a slave to my desires, John!”

“I’m not a beast!”

“You’re wrong. I’m not the least bit interested!”

“Liar.”

John might not be able to identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, but he knew when his Alpha was aroused.

“If you think I would deprive my child of one ounce of…”

Weakest argument yet!

As Sherlock looked up from the microscope, John opened the refrigerator door and gestured to the row of bottles.

John closed the distance between them and felt the muscles tighten in his chest. Sherlock must have felt it too—or rather sensed some pheromonal trace of it—because wave after wave of lust poured off him through the ether.    

“John.”

John opened his shirt and pressed his chest to Sherlock’s back. Then he leaned back and, looking at the two dark stains, said, “Shirt’s all wet. Guess you’ll have to take it off.”

It was a ridiculous line—straight from a pornographic film—but John had discovered that it was often this type of statement that snapped his self-composed, self-controlled Alpha’s last chord of resistance.

WHAM!

John’s back was against the wall. Sherlock’s mouth was clamped around John’s nipple.

“Oh, God!”

Sherlock was sucking hard, painfully hard, but John didn’t care. He rolled his head against the wall, revelling in the wet heat of Sherlock’s tongue as it swirled around each bud.

“What does it taste like?”

“Liquorice toffee.”

 John chuckled. “Liar.”

“Taste for yourself.” Sherlock’s mouth covered John’s in a hard kiss.  

Sherlock was right. Liquorice toffee.

John’s whole body loosened as Sherlock began kissing down his neck, pausing to lick at the bond-bite site on his shoulder ridge; Sherlock’s hands caressed John’s exposed skin as they expertly rid him of his shirt.

As Sherlock suckled John anew, John arched his back and pushed into Sherlock’s mouth, his body begging for more. His hands went to the front of his own trousers and opened them.

“Fuck me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock groaned as he pulled off. “Too soon,” he protested before lapping up the cloudy drops that dribbled down John’s torso.

John threaded his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “I say I’m fine. Other doctors say I’m fine. But why don’t you come inside, judge for yourself?”


When Sherlock was fully sheathed, John cried out, “Oh, God! To be wanted, not just needed!”

“Should you ever need the reminder, this,” Sherlock slowly pumped his cock in and out of John, “or this,” he covered John’s nipple with his mouth, then released it with a pop, “is always available. I am always hungry for you.”


“The window for indulging in this is narrow,” said John when they had been reduced to a pair of sticky, sweaty tangled bodies on the sitting room rug.

“True, perhaps a repeat indulgence—“

A tiny wail rang out. Sherlock and John smiled and said in unison,

“Tomorrow.”

Sherlock rose and walked towards the refrigerator. “My turn. You rest. Wouldn’t want production to lag.”

Chapter Text

“I’m killing myself for nothing!” Sally shouted. She threw the mobile and a pair of handcuffs on the sofa.

Just then, keys rattled and the front door opened. Irene stomped into the room. “No more members of the Royal Family! No exceptions!” she cried.

“Press?” asked Sally.

“No, he puked on my good jute. That,” Irene tossed a coil of lime-green coloured rope on the sofa, “was all they had. Well, that or orange.”

Sally frowned. “Wait, your good jute, you mean, our good jute?”

“I was running late. I grabbed the first one I saw. I’m so sorry. I’ll order some more tonight. It’ll be here by—“

 “You need it tonight?”

“Now! The day I’ve had!”


 Sally tugged the fabric aside to expose Irene’s breasts.

Best tits in the world.

Bound in bright green cord, however, they did resemble a hanging flower planter, which had been feeble reason that she and Irene had given the tradesmen for needing a sturdy set of hooks and pulleys installed in the centre of the guest bedroom ceiling.

Sally pulled the rope and hoisted Irene off the floor.

Irene tilted her head back and looked at Sally, upside-down.

“Aren’t you supposed to be subspace?” asked Sally.

“Difficult to drop when I look like a macramé project!”

Sally fingered a green knot and nodded. “The rope is distracting,” she admitted.

Irene hummed. “So’s my girlfriend’s gloomy face. Bad day, was it?”

Sally bit her bottom lip. “Waters gang got off. Again.”

“Oh, love!”

Sally shrugged. “We’ll get them next time.”

“I’d offer to help, but you’d just refuse. Again. Well, I have some news that might make you smile: the Anderson have reconciled.”

“Why would that—wait, how do you know?”

“That’s why you’re a good detective: you always ask the right the question. A colleague just had a spot for a regular open up. Guess Mrs. Anderson decided that playing Godzilla to someone’s Tokyo for free was better than paying for it.”

Sally smirked. “Good for her, but I’m surprised at you, of all people, kink-shaming.”

“Not kink-shaming. Idiot-shaming. He was an idiot to have treated you as he did.”

“I was more of an idiot for thinking, well, whatever I thought for so long.” Sally lowered Irene to the floor. She cut the rope and threw the bits aside. “No need to keep this.”

“Indeed.” Irene slipped into the dressing gown offered. Then she said solemnly, “I would be Godzilla for you. Tonight, if you’d like.”

Sally giggled. “No, thanks. How about a curry and that baking contest on telly?”

“Sounds wonderful to me, but you hate curry and that programme.”

Sally grinned. “But I love eating you out.”


 

Sally wiped her mouth on Irene’s inner thigh. “I know we typically keep our personal and professional lives separate, but seeing how your client ruined our rope, how about we try these,” she held up the pair of handcuffs, “for dessert?”

“Yes, please!”

Sally bent her head; Irene sighed,

“God, I love detectives!”

Chapter Text

“…and so regrettably, the situation will require my personal attention for another two days.”

“I’ll update your itinerary and re-schedule your meetings on Thursday and Friday.”

“Thank you. Your signature brand of efficiency is sorely lacking here. Anything else require my attention?”

“A gift arrived.”   

“I am a public servant, I cannot accept …”

“Knipschildt.”

“A label was attached?”

“No, I am afraid not.”

“Pity. I don’t supposed it is, by chance, the Madeline truffle.”

“No, the Emerald Box.”

“Ah, well.”

“Should I log it as required by the Civil Service Code of Conduct and Anti-Bribery Statute?”

She heard his smile. “You should remove it from the premises. I cannot have my integrity compromised, perceived or otherwise. Emerald, hmm. I know someone with a penchant for the refreshing blend of mint and chocolate. Who was it? Oh, I forget.”

She reached out and caressed the Malacca handle of his umbrella.

“That is all, sir. Your servants await your return.”

“Were that I had you both by my side.”


She propped his umbrella against the armchair and plopped down on the sofa.

When she finally bit into a dark mound, she moaned.

Beep!

“Oh Lord.” She swallowed quickly and picked up her mobile. “Yes, sir.”

“Have you had neutralised the potential threat?”

“I’ve initiated the process, sir, but it’s only,” she eyed the box, “ten percent complete.”

“I was feeling uneasy about the matter and felt I should provide some oversight.”

She set her mobile on the coffee table and put it on speakerphone. Then she popped another chocolate in her mouth. She hummed. “So good.”

“Please continue with your efforts. I am listening.”

After eating a third chocolate, she gave a loud, theatrical moan. He chuckled.

After a fourth, she gave a softer moan, and he whispered, “Good girl.”

She eyed the umbrella.

Good? Naughty!

“One moment, sir.”

“By all means.”

When she returned, she was naked from the waist down. She coated the end of the umbrella handle with lubricant.

“I’m ready to resume, sir.”

“As you wish.” His voice was strained.

She sighed, she groaned, she whimpered, all the while teasing her clit and the rim of her pussy with the end of handle.

She ate chocolate after chocolate. Then, with that sweet rich flavour in her mouth, she pushed the Malacca shaft inside her, testing how deep the curve of the handle and the curve of her body would allow.  It was perfect, smooth and hard. The folded silk of the umbrella canopy rustled as she began fucking herself in earnest.

He might have been calling her a good girl, but she was too far gone to hear. The sweetest burst inside her, and she came.

She licked the brown wood, then devoured the final chocolate.


“Thank you for the gift, sir.”

“Thank you, my dear, for all that you do, for serving your Queen, your country, and me. I approved your request for holiday—“

“I didn’t—“

“I expect to see you looking well-rested and refreshed on Monday.”

 

Chapter Text

“Bastard! I get worse nicks shaving!”

A small red bubble appeared in the centre of the cut, which was no wider than Seb’s fingernail.

“You’re awful rude for someone with a knife to his throat!” Seb pressed the blade deeper, and the bubble burst, painting the steel with a scarlet smear. Then he said coolly, “If you’re feeling unsatisfied, you can always safeword.”

“I’ll say that bastard’s name in hell!”

Seb chuckled. Then he drew the flat side of the knife down Jim’s nude form and mused, “How should I slice you? Debone you like a fish? Fillet you like a steak?” He shook his head. “No, I know. A Y-incision. Like a post-mortem. Dead. Meat.”

He mimicked the strokes as he spoke and when he got to the final tip of the Y, Jim’s hips bucked.

He was hard. They were both hard.

“Uh-huh. Careful,” said Seb. The blade was flat against Jim’s body, lying almost parallel to his erect cock, as if the two were first-time lovers gazing into each other’s eyes in the afterglow.

They were not first-time lovers. Not Seb and Jim, not the knife and Jim’s cock.

“Incompetent sod, you don’t know what you’re doing with that thing,” breathed Jim. His eyes were closed, his head thrown back.

He was smiling.

Seb smiled, too. The invective was mild; Jim was enjoying himself. “Wouldn’t be the first time I separated a man from his man’s prick,” he replied.

The tip of the knife pierced the skin of Jim’s abdomen. Seb counted one, two, three seconds, and a crimson rivulet began flowing southward.

“It’d be the last,” hissed Jim; his eyes were open now, dark and wild.

“But what a way to go,” whispered Seb. He licked the trail of blood and sucked at the tiny slit.

Then he looked up and saw it.

Detonation.

He wished he could sit down with a pint and a shot and tell someone, someone who might understand, maybe that Watson fellow, what a marvel, nothing short of a bloody miracle, it was to see the flicker in Jim’s eyes when he ceased to be Moriarty, world’s only consulting criminal, spider at the centre of a web.

And became Seb’s bitch in heat.

“Sebby, please,” Jim whined.

The transformation was beautiful, as beautiful as an old building—or a bastard who thought himself clever—crumpling in the dust.

Seb slowed his thrusts. He had a surprise.

“Wait,” he said. Then he coated the handle of the knife with lube and teased Jim’s hole and slowly, very slowly, pushed the wooden shaft inside him.

Jim cursed Seb in four languages. He mewled like a kitten in two. He raged, he begged, sometimes in the same breath.

It was beautiful. Like a clean shot.

Then, with a magician’s flourish, Seb produced a second, identical knife. He held it up for Jim’s examination while he continued thrusting.

“A twin,” said Jim, cackling.

Seb smiled. “A secret twin.”

They spoke in unison.

“It’s never twins.”

Chapter Text

“Jim! I wasn’t expecting—“

“I was on my way home. Sorry you weren’t feeling up to coming out tonight. We missed you. I missed you.”

“That’s so sweet, thank you.”

“Listen, Molly, you don’t look ill. If I’m coming on too strong or you’re just not—“

“It’s a woman thing.”

“Oh, right.” He nodded. “Well, if you want a good-night snog to go with these.” He smiled and produced a spray of violets.

 She chuckled. “Sure.”


He looked down as his fingertip traced her areola through the fabric of her blouse. “Sore?”

She shook her head. “Just sensitive.”

“I’ll be gentle.” He kissed her. “You won’t feel a thing.”

She giggled. “Too late.” His pad of thumb was teasing her nipple now; slowly circling it, then moving back and forth over the tip.

“You know, I don’t mind.” He nodded toward her lap. “If you wanted me to stay, I’d stay.”

“Most men…”

He put two fingers to her lips.

“I’m not most men. I want,” he cupped her jaw and pulled her close, “to make a right mess of those pretty sheets of yours.”

“Oh God, yes.”


He looked up from between her legs, the lower portion of his face mottled.

“You look like a beast at kill,” she said, between pants.

“Not by half. More?”

“Yes, please.”

“Such a good girl. Good girls get as many orgasms as their beautiful bleeding bodies want.” He bent and kissed her clit.

“Oh, Jim!”   

He licked and then pressed his face to the very core of her as blood dribbled out. He pushed his tongue inside her, tasting her, drinking from her, breathing in her thick scent. He kissed her clit again, and she whimpered.

“I want to be under you, beautiful,” he said.

Then she was bracing herself against the wall with arms outstretched, her splayed knees sinking into the soft mattress. Then she was lowering her cunt to his greedy mouth as the pads of his fingers dug into her buttocks. Then she was coming, again, bucking into him, losing purchase and falling back onto stained sheets.

She laughed as he nuzzled her neck and shoulders, then her cleavage and her stomach; everywhere he went, he left dark red smears on her skin in his wake.

“You’re going to maul me like a jungle cat! Toby’ll be so jealous.”

“No beast. Just an artist. With an unusual medium, brush,” he kissed her hip bone, “and exquisite canvas.”

“You are not most men. Not at all.”

His eyes drifted, then flickered, and with an index finger, he scooped up a dark glob from the bed. He studied it for a moment, then squeezed it between two fingers, and said, “Time to get clean, beautiful. We’ve both got work tomorrow.”


“Flying on red wings tonight, eh, Boss?”

“Shut up. I like her. And it’s nice, once in a while, to play with blood you had no hand in spilling. Send her some new sheets. Nice, but not too nice.”

“Yes, Boss.”  

Chapter Text

“One piece of toast, Sherlock.”

“It’s just transport!”

“Says the Lamborghini with the hood ornaments.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed, then froze at the creak of the front door.

Impatient grunt. Hurried footsteps.       

“Oh, it’s Christmas!” he cried. “Case!”


“What are you drinking?”

John twirled a ribbon of orange peel around his finger.  “Old fashioned. Like me. Muddled. Bitter.”

Sherlock sipped. “Like you. Strong. Slightly sweet. You were good today, with the victim’s family.”

John sighed. “The things we see, Sherlock.”

“Speaking of, interesting choice of words this morning. Hood ornaments. You observed.”

“Difficult not to. Your shirt buttons deserve the Victoria Cross for courage in the face of the impossible odds of keeping your torso covered.”

“I’m flattered—“

“It’s all fine, Sherlock.”

“—by your interest and relieved that I’m not the only one admiring his flatmate’s chest.”

John met Sherlock’s gaze.

“Remember the cufflinks, John?”

“The ones you got for recovering that painting?”

Sherlock hummed and fiddled with the glass. “I had them refashioned into something more suitable. So, we can sit here and be bitter and muddled or we can go home and sit by the fire and watch things sparkle. What say you?”

John dropped the orange peel in the glass. “I say that I’m a much more modern man than I look.”


They were on the rug before the fire, opposite each other, beside two untouched cups of tea.

Sherlock leaned back against his armchair and curled his arms behind his head. A theatrical gesture, but the right one, because John’s pupils blew completely black, having already darkened some when Sherlock had first removed his shirt.

“Christ, you’re gorgeous. They do sparkle and quite nicely. Sensitive?”

“Naturally. That is the point, John.”

“I thought the point was to make blokes like me stare at your chest.”

“I am quite sure there are no other blokes like you, John. And just stare?”

John grunted. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard you say. Touch them.”

Sherlock’s hand went to his nipple, toying with the ring.

John licked his lips. “Feel good?”

“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard you say. And I’ve heard a lot. Only one thing would make it feel better.”

John shook his head. “Not yet. Show me how hard you are, then keep going.”

“You first.”

John opened his jeans, never shifting his gaze from Sherlock’s trousers. He groaned when he saw the dark spot staining the front of Sherlock’s pants. “You want to wank just like this?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I want that cock inside me.”

“On your back, so I can see those—“

“Naturally.”  

“—play with them.”

“Until the novelty wears off.”

John’s face darkened. “That’s my fear, too. That one day an ex-Army doctor will be yesterday’s news.”

 Sherlock shook his head.

John uncurled and crawled on all fours towards him. He took Sherlock’s nipple in his mouth, gently savouring it with his tongue.

Sherlock read John's thoughts.

Metal.

“Platinum."

Stones.

“Diamonds.”

John released it and whispered, “My treasure.”

Chapter Text

Tap-tap-tap.

Help! JW

“Delete.”

Tap-tap-tap.

Home soon? JW

“Good enough.”

Tap!

John waited.

No. Barts. SH

“Fuck!”


“Nothing for it. Exceptions must be made.”

Sherlock put her mobile to her ear.


John fled to the ladies toilet.

“John.”

“I’m dying, Sherlock. I’ve drunk three of these hideously sweet American cocktails just to survive. ‘Southern Comfort’ is, in fact, a misnomer.”

“Then leave!”

“But it’s Stamford’s birthday! Stamford! You know, the one who introduced me to my tall, dark, and dreamy bond-mate! Honestly, I think she wants to leave, too. Her American cousins are a pack of marble-mouthed porcupines, if porcupines had horrible taste in liquor.”

“Tell her you’re heat suppressants have failed and you’ve gone into oestrus.”

John laughed. “My suppressants haven’t failed in twenty years. No one’s have since the injection was invented. Twice a year like clockwork. I’m not due for months.”

“Betas don’t know that. They still read those silly stories.”

“Stamford is a doctor—“  

“—who wants to escape a prickle of idiots! She’ll offer to escort you to the nearest heat facility.”

“Too bad it closed a hundred years ago.”

“Your skin is warm, John, itching. Your clothes suddenly feel too tight. What ever could it be?”

John giggled. “Oh, no! A poor defenceless Omega! At the whim of every predatory Alpha in the metropolis!”

“I smell your delicious fragrance on the wind. My cock stirs.”

“What do I smell like?”

“Something unfortunately named ‘Alabama Slammer.’”

John giggled again. “Close. SoCo & lime.”

“There’s always something. I follow your scent like the sleuthhound I am.”

“I’ve barricade myself in the bedroom.”

“I bang the door. ‘John! Open up!’”

“’Go away, Sherlock! I don’t want you to see me like this!’ I inhale your manly—“

“Hardly, John.”

“Okay, Alpha-y pheromones. I’m wet!”

“I’m hard!”

“I throw off my clothes!”

“I break the door down with my manly—“

“Really, Sherlock?”

“Okay, Alpha-y strength! I take you in my arms!”

“I mewl!”

“I growl!”

Sherlock’s voice softened. “I nibble that spot on the right side of your neck, the one that makes you sigh.”

John touched her neck and sighed.

“I trace your scar with my tongue for the hundred time. I lick the valley between your breasts and whisper something patently absurd in your ear like…”

“…’I’m yours.’ I crawl onto the bed…”

“I push you onto a pillow…”

“I mount it…”

“I mount you, my cock slid between your thighs.”

“I rut…”

“So do I…”

“…with your weight on me, pinning me down…”

“…with your naked form beneath me, writhing…”

“I feel as if…”

“…I’m where I belong…

“…and the world…”

“…can go hang.”

 “I reach a hand back and turn my head.”

“I kiss you. I don’t stop kissing you.”

“Your Cupid’s bow. That bottom lip.”

“Your clever tongue. Your teeth. The way you say, ‘Fuck, Sherlock’ when I confess how hard I am, how much I need your cunt. Like a prayer.”

Fuck, Sherlock. I am wet.”

“And I’m hard, John. And in a cab downstairs.”

Chapter Text

“You’re thinking of him,” whispered Mycroft.

“John?”  

Mycroft hummed and jerked at his shirt cuffs, letting the garment fall to the floor.

“Yes. So are you. You wish he were here, between us."

“Naturally. It’s what’s been missing all these years.” Mycroft kissed Sherlock’s bare shoulder, then scraped the skin with his teeth. “Someone to balance us.”

“Unbalance us.” Sherlock sucked and bit at Mycroft’s neck.

“That, too.”

“You want to watch him fuck me.”

“That mouth,” Mycroft cupped Sherlock’s chin, squeezing the lower half of his face hard, “was meant for filthy things.” He kissed Sherlock’s puckered lips.

When Mycroft released his grip, Sherlock growled, “Like sucking cock.”  He kissed Mycroft with an open, hungry mouth, dragging a searching tongue over his lips and teeth.

“And not just mine. Maybe…”

“He won’t let you top him, even with the prize of having his cock sucked by me while you do it.” Sherlock unbuckled Mycroft’s belt and opened his trousers.

Mycroft looked down as Sherlock sank to his knees. “Even if I beg?”

“You’ve never begged in your life.”

“Not for your wanton hole. But for the pleasure of sinking my cock in John Watson’s, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do, including prostituting my own brother’s very fuckable mouth.”

Sherlock licked a stripe up Mycroft’s hard shaft through the fabric of his pants. “Let him piss all over you?”

“Gladly.”

Sherlock groaned. “There’s isn’t much I wouldn’t do to see that.”

“Take us both in your hole at the same time?” Mycroft toed out of his shoes. His trousers and pants fell to the floor. “Be fucked and filled to tearing? Used all night like the good little toy you are?”

Sherlock peeled off Mycroft’s socks. “Oh, God, yes. But I want his fist in me first. Doctor. He’d be so slow, so careful, make it so fucking good.” Sherlock licked around the base of Mycroft’s cock. “If he found out you’re really a ginger, he’d go mad.”

“My hair is a distinguished shade of auburn, Sherlock.”

“Too bad. I bet John’d suck a pair of ginger balls all night.” He took one of Mycroft’s sacs in his mouth and then the other. “Like this.”

“Show me how you’d take John Watson’s cock. There.” Sherlock opened his mouth as Mycroft fed him his cock. “Take it all like a good boy.” He petted Sherlock’s head. “That’s right, suck, oh, a little harder, yes, just like that. A soldier like Captain Watson would not have my sensitivities. He’d want it, well, a bit rough. That’s enough, Sherlock.”

Sherlock pulled off and sat back on his heels. “If we let him watch us, without his knowing that we knew, do you think he might join us?”

Mycroft sank to the floor and brushed Sherlock’s cheek with his knuckles. His voice fell to Sherlock’s low rumble, like a storm brewing afar. “My fantasy is that he would…”

A voice from the bed cracked like lightning.

“Enough foreplay, you gorgeous pricks. Let’s get started.”

Chapter Text

“What happened?!”

Sherlock did not look up. “Experiment.”

“You will clean this mess up by morning, Sherlock!”

Sherlock sneered. “Yes, Mummy!”

John’s hot gaze turned icy. His lips pursed. His chin jutted. His feet spun on their heels and marched upstairs.


When John returned, Sherlock had not moved: he was still tilted back in the chair, with one foot braced against the table for balance, fiddling with his mobile. The room around him looked more bombsite than kitchen. He looked up.

John crossed his arms over his chest. He worse a tight vest, camouflage trousers, and boots.

“Drop and give me twenty, soldier.”

Sherlock huffed. “Um, no.”

WHAM!

Sherlock was on the floor. He stared at John, wide-eyed, and brought a hand to his bleeding lip.

“I said ‘twenty,’ soldier.” John’s voice was cold and hard.

Sherlock sputtered but slowly moved forward on his hands and assumed a push-up position.

“One.”

 “Two.” John rested one boot on Sherlock’s back as he moved up and down.

“Three. That’s right. Keep going.”


“Twenty.”

Sherlock collapsed to the floor and rolled onto his back. He exhaled, and immediately, John dropped, positioning his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and his feet on either side of Sherlock’s body. Then leaning his weight on one hand, he used the other to nudge his dog tags between Sherlock’s bruised lips.

“Don’t spit them out or drop them or I stop.”

Then John lowered himself until his breath brushed Sherlock’s face. Then he pushed up, the dog-tag chain spanning the space between his neck and Sherlock’s mouth, binding them together.

“One. I may be an idiot, but I am not stupid, Sherlock.”

“Two. I saw the way you looked at the soldiers at Baskerville. And the ones we met during ‘The Case of the Bloody Guardsmen.’”

“Three. Hell, the way you're looking at me. Right. Now.”

“Four. You’re hard. Deny it.”

Sherlock grunted.

“Five.  Here’s what’s going to happen.”

“Six. You’re going to clean this entire kitchen. To my satisfaction.”

Sherlock’s grunt was louder, angrier.

“Seven. Oh no? If you don’t, then you don’t get to shine my boots.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Eight. Did I mention that I’ll be wearing nothing but my boots?”

“Nine. Well, boots, socks, and dog tags.”

“Ten. And a healthy coat of lubricant, which I’ll be spreading along my cock while I talk about how I’m going to tongue-fuck, then cock-fuck, your gorgeous civilian arse.”

Sherlock whined.

“Eleven. Oh, I didn’t mention that? Details.”

“Twelve. So after the kitchen is done, and my boots are done, then you, my beautiful brat, are going to be done.”

“Thirteen. Over. And over.”

John looked down.

“Fourteen. Christ, you are hard right now.”

“Fifteen. Like watching my muscles?”

“Sixteen. Like that metal in your mouth?”

“Seventeen. Like taking Captain Watson?”

“Eighteen.  His orders?”

“Nineteen. His cock? In that mouth? In that arse? Hell, even between those pretty thighs.”

“Twenty. Done.” John jumped to his feet. “Get to it, soldier.”

Sherlock smiled and said, “Yes, sir.”

Chapter Text

“Hello?”

A voice in the darkness said, “Please place it on the table. How many dumplings are there?”

John heard the strike of a match. Suddenly, the room was filled with the light of one tapered candle.  “Four,” he replied.

“Good.”

“That’ll be £23.”

“I have no money, I’ll have to compensate you in the form of sexual favours.”

“Listen, I don’t know what’s going on here.”

“I’m a vampire.”

“Yeah, right. Well, I’m John.”

“Hello, John. I’d introduce myself but you already know my name.” From his reclined position on the sofa, the figure gave a languid wave in the direction of the brown bag.

“Yeah, Sherlock Holmes. Unusual. Unforgettable.”

“Thank you. I’m flattered.”

“Listen, Mister Holmes…”

“Sherlock, please.”

“Listen, Sherlock. You’ve got an interesting set-up here, the coffin and heavy curtains.”

“Would you like one?”

John studied the flute. “What is it?”

“Death in the Afternoon. Champagne and absinthe.”

“Isn’t absinthe illegal?”

“When one has lived four hundred years, human laws are merely suggestions.”

“Right, vampire. No, thanks.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq? Oh, don’t look surprised. Your haircut, your tan lines, your injuries, psychosomatic, blah, blah, blah. It’s so boring. Can we skip to the part where I suck your cock?”

“What?!”

Sherlock rose to his feet. Then he roared. His fangs dropped and his face distorted into a monstrous, disfiguring mask. When he closed his mouth, his face returned to its original form.

John stared, slack-jawed.

“We’re mates,” said Sherlock. “I’ve been ordering food from that restaurant for months, waiting for you to deliver it. We meet every lifetime. I’ve been waiting so long, John. That’s yours,” he gestured to the armchair. “One touch and you’ll know that I’m right. Sit, and I’ll give you the homecoming that you deserve.”

John’s cane clattered to the floor as he slumped into the chair.

“Are you going to kill me?” he breathed.

Sherlock shook his head and dropped to the floor between John’s knees. “The only deaths will be your une petite mort. And, of course, my drink.” He nuzzled at John’s crotch, and John’s cock twitched in response.

“Your body knows me, John. It remembers.” He pressed his lips to front of John’s trousers. “’Free your erection,’ as they say, and let me remind the rest of you.”

As if mesmerised, John opened his trousers.

Sherlock swallowed his cock.

“OH, GOD!” cried John. The flood of pleasure mixed with the flood of memories and overwhelming him, body and mind.

Sherlock licked up his shaft. “I’ve missed you, John.”

John wove his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “You, too, love, so much.”

Sherlock suckled the head of John’s prick, probing gently at the leaking slit.

“Let me drink from you, John. Champagne is such a poor substitute.” Sherlock pressed one hand to the base of John’s cock and then bobbed his head, sucking greedily until John came. “Delicious,” he said, sitting back on his heels and licking his lips.

John smiled and turned his head. “You remembered?”

“The dumplings? Always, John.”

 

Chapter Text

“You’re still angry?”

John’s response was to flip a page of The Lancet with as much indignation as the gesture allowed.

“When the fire brigade arrives at one’s doorstep, one expects a response to an emergency, not a lift to one.”

Flip.

“Had you noted the fireman’s name was ‘Anderson,’ your suspicions might have been aroused.”

Flip.

“Nevertheless, when you arrived, the last thing you expected was me at the top of a tree.”

Flip.

“In these shoes.”

Flip.

“And when they insisted that you fetch me down, well, that was quite a surprise, but it’s the 21st century, John, can you really expect that such a spectacle would not end up on the internet?”

WHIRRRRRR!

“What in the hell are you doing, Sherlock?!”

Sherlock poured the contents of the blender into two glasses. “Three weeks ago, when you and Lestrade argued, this beverage smoothed things over nicely.”

“That was a wager about a football match and it was Cinco de Mayo! Today I am the laughingstock of half the bloody free world!”

“Not true. Only sixteen percent of the comments were derisive; the rest were laudatory, so laudatory that I had Mycroft remove the footage permanently.”

“You’re mad.”

“It was surveillance, John.”

“A man trying on leather-print, peep-toe Louboutin pumps is not incognito, Sherlock!”

“He made an unexpected move. I put the pumps on Mycroft’s tab—“

“What?”

“They also sell fine hosiery.”

“Oh, God.”

“—and followed him. That was the best vantage point. These shoes are actually quite comfortable. I could climb up the tree, but getting down was trickier.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Sherlock held up the two glasses. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

John’s gaze traveled down Sherlock’s body. “You wearing anything under that dressing gown?”

Sherlock huffed.

“Eyeballs still in the fridge?”

“I cleaned them out yesterday!”

John took the glasses and deposited them in the refrigerator. Then he returned and lifted the dressing gown by the hem. “Christ, you put a plug in.”

“Make-up sex,” whined Sherlock.

John bit the centre of each Sherlock’s buttocks in turn. “Bit of arse worship, then fucking and sucking. Sound good, my kitten-up-a-tree?” He removed the plug and let it fall.

“Yes! Make me purr, John!”

“Sexy shoes stay on. Want those pointy heels tattooing my back later. How’s this?” He spread Sherlock’s cheeks and gave his rim a cursory lick.

“More!” Sherlock’s heels clicked on the floor as he stomped, then wobbled.

“Steady. Wouldn’t want you to fall. Over there.”

The dressing gown fell away as Sherlock arranged himself on the sofa.

John began flicking the tip of his tongue back and forth over Sherlock’s rim.

“Yes, kitten licks for your kitten! Fuck!”

John continued to tease Sherlock’s hole as Sherlock braced himself on trembling limbs, begging for more with cries, arched back, and thrusts that impaled himself on John’s probing tongue.

“Let’s get you ready for my fat cock, kitten.”

Sherlock mewled.


Much later, John sipped. “Nice. Where’d you get the recipe?”

“It was recommended to me on YouTube.”  

Chapter Text

“How much longer, Donovan?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“Bastards!” He wiped his brow. “I’m poached already!”

“The smell,” she groaned. “Fried death.”

Beep!

“Hey, Donovan, want to see some pornography?” He flashed the screen at her.

“Ooo! Sangría. I could bathe in that right now.”

“I’m brewing a cup of DI sweat in the small of my back.”

“Sir!”

“Apologies,” he said, affecting a posh voice. “It’s the heat.”


The late afternoon sun was dancing on the surface of the pool when Lestrade stepped onto the terrace. Mycroft laid a folded newspaper beside a pitcher and two glasses and asked, “Fancy a drink?”

“I fancy that whole jug on my head, but I’ll start with a glass,” he replied, gulping down the liquid. Then he sighed and handed the glass back to Mycroft. “Like you. Impossibly cool on the hottest day of summer. Also pink, in certain places and at certain moments.” He grinned.

“I’m not sweet.”

Lestrade looked around them. “Luring your boyfriend,” they both winced, “to a slice of paradise just so he can cool off is pretty sweet.” He kissed Mycroft, bracing himself so only their lips touched. Then he pulled back. “Boyfriend is too juvenile, lover's too specific, friend is…”

“Not specific enough,” agreed Mycroft. “Perhaps something more formal.”

“Are you…?”

Mycroft waved a hand. “It’s the heat.” He turned and refilled Lestrade’s glass.

“Quick shower and you can call me, and do with me, what you please.”


“Let’s cool you off,” said Mycroft as he traced Lestrade’s lips with the ice cube; then drew a line down his neck to the open V of the robe.

He circled one nipple, then the other, with the ice, then bent forward and enveloped each bud in the wet heat of his mouth.

He fed Lestrade cold fruit with his fingers, the tips of which Lestrade kissed with every proffered morsel.

Lestrade let the sides of the robe fall apart. He watched Mycroft’s expression melt as his eyes moved up and down, ogling the body and thick cock that jutted out of wiry hair. He took a raspberry between his lips, then kissed Mycroft, then whispered, “Fuck me.”

Mycroft’s double-blink was the only sign the request was a surprise.

“I want to show I’m husband material.” Lestrade looked away and shrugged. “It’s the heat,” he added coyly.

Mycroft stood and removed his waistcoat. 


“Fuck!" exclaimed Lestrade at the brush of Mycroft’s cock deep inside him.

“Right there, Gregory?”

“Yes! Oh, God. It’s perfect. Please, love, don’t stop!” He felt Mycroft’s hands running up and down his back as he thrust. “Your touch, so cool. Lovely.”

“You’re so warm, Gregory.”

“Hot mess, you mean?”

“My hot mess. My filthy, sweaty, utterly fuckable mess. Mine?”

“Yours,” groaned Lestrade. “Always.”

Mycroft came. Then he quickly pulled out.

Lestrade flipped over, wound a hand in Mycroft’s hair, and pulled him closed. “Now wrap those beautiful lips ‘round my cock and suck me hard while I finish my drink.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft groaned.

“Love you, too.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock pressed her lips to John’s damp collar. “She was right. People do get sentimental about their pets. If the bomb, or the snipers, had killed you …”

The sponge in Sherlock’s hand made a soft noise as it displaced bathwater.

“…I would have burnt London to the ground.”

John licked at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“A retired service dog ought to spend her days chasing butterflies, but then you’re not that kind of dog, are you?”

John nosed under Sherlock’s jaw.

“A gun dog’s always a gun dog. Waiting for the flush, the chase. The hunt’s in your blood just as the game’s in mine. The game’s the game, but the possibility of losing you, well, it just makes the stakes that much higher.”

John’s eyelids closed.

“Out. No napping in the tub.”


Sherlock slowed her belly-rubbing when John’s breathing resumed to its steady deep-sleep cadence.

Were the chlorine-scented nightmares like the desert sand ones?

She didn’t know and refused to deduce the answer.


“Hungry?”

John blinked twice.

Sherlock fed her slices of oranges and peaches and cold meat and bread with her fingers. She held cups of tea and water to John's lips.

John ate and drank, then turned her head.

Sherlock set plate and glass on the coffee table. “What now?”

John blinked once.

And then Sherlock was on her back, looking up into John’s grinning face. Then she was closing her eyes, reveling in John’s playful licking of her face.   

Oh, the licking!

Affection kindled to desire as John lowered her body to Sherlock’s. Sherlock drew the two sides of her dressing gown apart. Their scenes rarely ended like this, but it wasn’t every day that they faced a criminal mastermind. And John wasn’t the only one torn apart by what had happened at the pool.

John licked down Sherlock’s body, from chin to neck to breasts and belly.

Sherlock planted her feet on the floor and lifted her hips in invitation, but John moved lower; Sherlock turned on her side, giggling, at the wet, tender nuzzling at the backs of her knees. When she turned back and offered herself again, John accepted, lapping greedily, happily at her clit and cunt.

Sherlock remembered a picnic cloth beneath her and a cloudless blue sky above her and John’s wet tongue inside her; she remembered the utter decadence of being bare and caressed by a summer breeze as well as John’s mouth. She had thought then,

I do not deserve this.

But John had quickly rid her of deserve.

Sherlock came, gripping John’s head by the hair and whimpering her name.

Then John was tented above Sherlock, her face wet, her eyes shining. Sherlock silently implored her to end the scene. She wanted more. She wanted to hear her name on John’s lips. She wanted to mount John, fuck her the way that they both adored for as many times as their bodies would permit.

As always, John understood. She barked, then smiled and said,

“Sherlock, my love.”

Chapter Text

“Problem?”

“Yeah, I’m not desperate to root around in some bloke’s dirty underwear.” John’s eyes caught on something in the far corner. She stepped toward it, bending. “A souvenir. Too small for a real horse. Van Coon must’ve brought it back from somewhere. Not Hong Kong. I doubt they’ve saddles like—“

WHAM!

John was on the floor, on hands and knees. Something heavy—then something heavier—was on her back. Sherlock’s tall black boots were on either side of her.

“Oh, you’re joking!” she cried.

Then the weight was gone, and Sherlock was placing the saddle back on its stand. “Too early to say if it’s relevant,” she said. “Those symbols at the bank, the graffiti. Why were they put there?”


John felt Sherlock’s deductive gaze and knew an acerbic observation was in the offing.

“Three Continents, John? And you’re still thinking about that saddle?”

“Unlike you, I’m not a walking encyclopedia of the ways people get off.”

“If getting off weren’t so often related to getting killed, I wouldn’t be.”

“It’s interesting.”

“Fancy yourself in a bridle?”

“Of the two of us, we both know who’s the pony, Sherlock. Lustrous mane, long legs, uncomfortable-looking hoofwear, in desperate need of reins all the time, a crop to the flanks occasionally, and…”

“And?!”

“Nice hindquarters,” said John with a grin.

“I would throw you,” retorted Sherlock.

John laughed.


Sherlock was running, faster than she had ever run, to a line in the mud in the distance amidst a cloud of pounding thunder.

John’s voice was urgent. “Go, Sherlock, go!”

Sherlock crossed the line to applause and cheers.


Sherlock knew it was a dream, not because she was a horse in a stable, but because John was wearing a dress and a hat, the latter of which resembled a green parrot meeting its demise upon her head. The tall glass in John’s gloved hand was sweating, heavy with ice, and dotted with leaves that matched the molting plumage at her crown.

As John’s hands ran up and down Sherlock’s form, her voice cooed endearments—extraordinary, quite extraordinary, amazing, fantastic—which were no less charming for being received by equine ears.

Sherlock quivered at John’s touch, at her murmur.

“My gorgeous, gorgeous girl.”


Then John was not a woman in a horrid hat, but a horse

She was mounting Sherlock, pinning her, filling her with a stallion-sized cock, bucking into her, spending seed inside her, snorting in her ear.

Fuck!


Then there was metal in Sherlock’s mouth. She was drawing John in a sulky around Trafalgar Square. People stared, took photographs. She did not care. She pranced with head held high. Her boots were tall and black; her harness was dark leather straps and silver rings and studs. She knew, before John even breathed the word that she was,


“Magnificent.”

Baker Street. John was mounting Sherlock—


“Sherlock.”

Sherlock opened her eyes.

Crates of books. John taking a pen from Sherlock's lips.

“You’ve been at this for too long, let’s get some fresh air.”

Chapter Text

“Give me five minutes and a flat surface, Lestrade, and you’ll have your culprit and the location of the body.”

Lestrade gestured to the far corner. “Take that one. Bosses have got us doing some kind of Taskforce-Training-Hold-Hands-and-Be-Pals-Drill with the River boys, excuse me, the Maritime Policing Unit, but they’re out right now. Five minutes, Sherlock.”

Sherlock approached the desk.

Not a bad spot, if one must choose one in an open-floor-plan office. A bit of quiet. A bit of privacy. Perhaps one could actually think, as opposed to just chatter and ogle like apes at the zoo.

He sat.

Good. Chair’s not too low. Paper?

Sherlock opened a drawer.

Yes. Pencil? Yes. Very sharp. Excellent. What’s this? Coloured pencils? Even better. And equally sharp. Straight edge'd be helpful. And there’s one right here, right where it should be, logically. Well done, whoever you are. It’s positively refreshing to see some order and method in this, Sherlock looked up and scowled, skep of inanity.

He glanced down at the map pinned to the desk beneath a layer of hard plastic.

What a fine map, too. Detailed, exceedingly detailed. And unfortunately for you, not very well secured to this desk. Note to self: pilfer map for future case walls. Now back to work.

River Thames.

Sherlock began to sketch.

Body went in here, weight of the body, currents, time, movement of boats…

His eyes shifted to the map.

…slight correction for…of course…yes……and there we have it! Simple. Thank you very much, Officer…what is your name…

Sherlock searched the top drawer.

Nothing.

When he opened the second drawer, he spied a book.

Bertillon’s Identification anthropométrique…

Sherlock lifted the cover and read the faded handwriting.

‘To Stanley, my favourite detective, Love, Gran’

Sherlock caught himself before the twitch of his lips turned into a smile.

Efficient, organised, interesting. What else?

He studied the stub of raffle ticket.

Soft spot for animals though not a pet owner himself.

Sherlock opened a third drawer.

Extra set of clothes. River Police are more likely than most to get wet in the line of duty. Nice clothes, not new, but well cared for. Keeping up appearances, are we, Stanley? For someone? No sign of a someone, but inconclusive. And just what are those appearances? Trollish, I imagine.

Sherlock tapped his phone.

No, not trollish, at all. More like a tall cool drink on a hot summer’s day.

Sherlock eyed a short stack of files on the corner of the desk.

Cold cases, Stanley? River cases, naturally. And very cold ones. Sherlock studied the scribbled notes in the margins. Good thoughts, yes, but have you considered...? He added a few phrases to the bottom of the page and closed the file.

Wouldn’t mind being on the receiving end of some of your efficiency, Stanley.


“Hey, some wanker stole my map!”

“New case, Stanley?”

“Open and shut,” he said, holding up a white rectangle. “Thief left his card.”

“Maybe he wants you to call him.”

Chapter Text

Prime Status: Confirmed.

“It’s your lucky day, my alien-friend. Here I am, all tied up.” Greg looked down at the straps that held his nude body fast to the table. “Like a gift under the tree or in your extraterrestrial stocking. All ready for my kiss under the cosmic mistletoe.”

The darkness lifted to reveal a hovering figure with a long neck, a pair of glowing oval eyes, and, atop a grey bulbous head…

…a Santa hat.

Greg laughed. “Horror-struck is a bit of challenge when you’re all decked out for the season, and I’m afraid no amount of eggnog is going to change that.”

The oval eyes pulsed.

Two, one. Two, one.

Greg’s voice softened. “Doesn’t make it any less of a fantasy because I’m laughing. I’m still your captive. You’re still going to have your wicked, otherworldly way with me.”

The soft light coalesced into one beam in which appeared a squirming, self-slicking, tentacle-fingered stump of an arm headed straight for Greg’s half-hard cock.

“I must’ve been a very good boy this year,” he murmured, straining against the straps to meet the alien’s grasp. His eyes closed and his mouth opened at the first touch of tentacles to cock. Then he exhaled loudly and relaxed into the stroking and tugging, pumping and pulling, as the creature wrung every drop of pleasure from his body.

With every movement of the creature, with every brush of foreign skin to human, with every sensation, cool, warm, wet, dry, Greg felt himself descend, step by step by step, into a separate world.

He was cleaned. He was stretched. He was turned. He was, of course, captive, and yet….

You. Are. Prime.

Greg forced his eyes open.

Darkness.

Except for the eggs. Glowing. Hovering in the air. Moving towards him.

“Special Christmas eggs?” he said with a snort, but his cock stirred at the thought.

As a rule, Greg didn’t waste a lot of time on whys. ‘Just the facts, ma’am’ was the only way to survive the job and you couldn’t just switch it off at the end of the day. But even he knew that the why of this was somewhere in that word.

Special.

First egg was inside him.

He had been chosen.

Second egg.

Not as prey.

Third egg.

But as something else. Something more. Something special.

You are prime.

They were resting inside him, the eggs, proof that Greg was, in fact, prime despite all human evidence to the contrary.

Suddenly, it was all too much to bear alone.

“My!”

In an instant, the straps were gone. Then there was a loud rusting and a concerned voice.

“Gregory?”

As Greg rolled toward the sound, he was quickly enveloped in a pair of slightly sweaty, but very human arms. He pressed his face against damp cotton and mumbled, “Am I prime, Mycroft?”

“In every way that matters, Gregory.”

“God, I love you. Shower, then Christmas cuddles?”

“You must enlighten me as to the Yuletide element.”

“Keeping the hat on.”

Chapter Text

“John?”

“Yeah?” John closed the doors of the van.

“You, uh, missed a spot. Two, actually,” said Sherlock.

“Really? Show me.”

John followed Sherlock up the stairs.

“There.”

The two sitting room windows dripped with egg. A ladder stood between them and a bucket of cleaning supplies to one side.

John grinned. “I guess I’d better see to it. Wouldn’t want ‘Men in Kilts’ cleaning service,” he gestured to the lettering on the front of his shirt, “to get a bad reputation for leaving a job undone, even if I am just filling in for Stamford for the day.”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. “Mrs. Hudson would be disappointed.”  

John climbed the ladder. “You know, I’m not world’s only consulting detective, but these look fresh. Mrs. Hudson may have a copycat egger on her hands.” He turned and caught Sherlock’s eye. “You know the shirt says ‘No peeking!’” he teased.

Sherlock blushed, then sputtered, “Well then, the shirt is wrong!”

John giggled. “Maybe your right.” He drew the shirt over his hand and tossed it toward Sherlock. “Guess I’ll just have to take it off.”

Sherlock turned back, wide-eyed.

“Ogle all you want, Sherlock, I am going to clean these windows. Something tells me your new landlady’s troubles are just beginning.”


“Aren’t you done, yet?” whined Sherlock as he kissed John’ thigh just below the hem of the kilt.

“One last swipe and yes.”

Sherlock pulled away as John turned on the ladder. Then he buried his face in the plaid fabric.

“You know we are in front of two—thanks to me—very clear windows.”

“Don’t care,” murmured Sherlock into John’s crotch. He licked at the cock beneath the tartan.

“Is that your thing?” asked John, petting Sherlock’s hair. “People watching?”

Sherlock grunted. “No. Just want you.”

“Well, come on, you gorgeous git, and take me.”

Sherlock disappeared under the kilt.

John stifled a shout as Sherlock swallowed his cock. As he jerked hard into the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth, the whole tableau—ladder and lovers—threatened to pitch on the floor.

John clung to the ladder. Sherlock clung to John.

“Cliché to ask, but is it just the kilt?”

Sherlock pulled off John’s cock and nuzzled his inner thigh. “I’m not asking the kilt to take the room upstairs. Or if we’ll be needing two. Or to accompany me to a crime scene.”

“You’re extraordinary.”

“You said that.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s lovely.”

“So are you.” John’s eyes travelled down Sherlock’s bent figure. “Speaking of which, you amenable to me fucking that lovely arse?”

“I was just about to insist that you throw me over the chair arm and have your wicked, wicked way with me.”

“Are you always this bossy?” John glanced at the windows. “And messy?”

“Will you spank me if I say ‘yes’?”

“Jesus Christ. You need to be aged a few years in an oak barrel.”

“That’s a new one, John, you’ll have to teach me,” said Sherlock just before he disappeared back under the kilt.

 

Chapter Text

“Why don’t you put it on the flea on the rat?”

John startled and dropped the rodent by the tail into the hutch.

“No one likes a back seat plague-driver, Sherlock. And are you really going to tell me, Pestilence, how to start a contagion? You also need to stop creeping up on me.”

“I’m Death, John. I creep. And I’m so bored! Waiting for the end of the world to commence is tedious. The last roll of the dice was a six-two! When will we get the snake eyes?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t see how you can be bored. Thinking up all those clever ways for people to die? What about that guy you struck by lightning three times last week?”

Sherlock shrugged, then whined. “I’m so bored, John.”

John chuckled. “Want a distraction?”

 “I want the best kind of distraction.” Sherlock dropped to his knees. “Please, John.”

John freed his erection from his breeches. “I’m only half-hard, Sherlock. You caught me at work.”

Sherlock nuzzled the wiry hair on either side of John’s cock. “I’ll see what I can do about that.” He gave John’s cock one long lick from end to end. Then he suckled just the head, teasing the slit with the tip of his tongue. Then he swallowed John’s shaft until it brushed the back of his throat.

“Fuck, Sherlock. That mouth!”

Sherlock pulled off quickly. “John! I’ve just thought of a novel way that we can work together!”

“What, now?”

“Killer bees!”


WHACK! WHACK!

Lestrade sheathed his sword and wiped his brow. “That’s enough practice for the morning. Lunchtime!” He called out, “You know, you don’t have to lurk, Mycroft.”

Mycroft stepped out from behind a tree. “I don’t wish you disturb you, Gregory.”

“It’s not a disturbance. Plus, that isn’t the best hiding spot.”

Mycroft eyed the tree, then his own belly, and frowned. “I need an oak, not a willow.”

“I’m War, Mycroft. I much prefer oaks to willows.” He winked. “Join me for lunch?”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. “Gregory, I don’t know how you can fortify yourself with those…”

Gregory grabbed a sandwich and bit. “Pimento cheese? My favourite! How can you beat cheese, mayo, and pimentos?”

“Not exactly caviar.”

“That’s okay, it’s just an appetizer.” He dropped the sandwich. “The main course is right here.” He moved towards Mycroft and grabbed him by the tunic. “And I have an enormous War-sized appetite.”

“You’re in luck. I’m Famine.”


Lestrade decorated Mycroft’s belly with streams of come. “You like watching my sword practice?” he asked.

Mycroft rubbed the sticky mess into his own skin and moaned. “Yes! I like you in motion. Muscles rippling. Sweating. Grunting.”

“Well, this is how I like you. Laid out for my pleasure, naked, nipples pinched, neck bit, balls licked, cock sucked, hole fucked and dripping. Pillaged. Plundered. Mouth open begging for more. A picnic feast. Do you surrender?”

“To you, always.”

Lestrade grinned, “Good thing for you that Famine comes before—and after—War.”

Chapter Text

Weather never seemed to affect the great mind of Sherlock Holmes. He readily accepted cases in rain, sleet, snow, fog, and wind. I never even saw him even acknowledge the elements—save for a flipping up of the collar of the Belstaff—until a relentless heat wave gripped London our first summer as flatmates and lovers.

Cold cases, experiments, even reading for idle interest had slowed until we were both caught in a miasma of lethargy and perspiration.

I sat on the sofa, directly in front of one of a pair of large electric fans. The fan’s twin was in Sherlock’s bedroom. I assumed that he, like I, was down to his pants and in a semi-mesmerised state from the loud hum of the machine and the whirring of the blades.

My eyes were closed, but I felt a sudden doubling of cool air. I pried one eye open and saw Sherlock’s fan alongside mine.

“Sherlock?”

He stood in front of the refrigerator.

“It’s so hot, Daddy.”

I stared as he prepared something at the counter.

Then he was a vision in a pink sundress, floating towards me with a pitcher and a pair of glasses. His curls, while always riotous, seemed softer and lighter than usual. They bounced as he approached and sat on the sofa beside me. I reached up to touch them.

“So pretty.”

He smiled and poured two glasses of an iced concoction which was the same colour as his lovely frock, a frock, I noted, of a fabric so flimsy as to lay plain the ruffled knickers beneath.

I peered into the offered glass. It gave off a marvelously cold breath of air and was full of little red orbs.

With stems.

Cherries.

Somewhere in my torpid mind, a penny dropped all the way to my cock.

“Cheers, Shirley.”

Grey eyes lit. “Cheers, Daddy.”

Our glasses clinked.

I gulped the entire drink without pause. It was sweet, fizzy, and damned-near miraculous for at once, I felt body and mind come back to life.

“You’re a life-saver, my dear,” I said. “Such a pretty girl in such a pretty dress.” I took a cube of ice and drew it across his chest. “Feel better?”

He nodded, then looked down and frowned. “No boobies yet, though.”

“Who needs boobies when you’ve got two perfect pink buds. Let me see those ripe cherries.” I pushed the thin straps off his shoulders and peeled the bodice low, giving each nipple a long, wet kiss.

He moaned.

“Show me your knickers, sweetness.”

The head of his cock was peeking out from pink ruffles.

“My lolly’s hard, Daddy,” he whined.

“Can I lick your lolly, Shirley? Make you feel all better?”

He nodded. “Then can I lick yours?” he asked shyly.

“How about you take a horsey ride on Daddy’s lap afterwards?”

He grinned, then plucked a cherry from his mouth and showed me the stem tied in a knot.

“You’ve got me just like that, princess. Tied around your finger.”

Chapter Text

“John! Case. Hampshire. Oh!”

John caught sight of Sherlock in the mirror. “Give us a minute, yeah?!”

When John emerged, Sherlock held out his jacket. “Sorry.”

“Think nothing of it.”

But John thought of it. Often. The look on Sherlock’s face.

The case came and went, so did a pair of experiments. Finally, there was a quiet night of reading and tea.

“Excuse me.”

John left the door to the loo cracked. A shadow appeared on the floorboards, then fled as soon as he flushed the toilet.

After that, John chose his moments so carefully that they were few and far between.

Never during a case. Or an experiment of any import. Or a row.

But after two months of moments, the door was wide open. As John washed his hands, there was a dark flutter, a slam. He stared at Sherlock’s bedroom door and ignored the throb of his own prick.


John stumbled out of the pub.

God bless locals. Meant his drunk arse would be home soon.

Mid-journey, he realised his mistake. He looked around.

Alley? Between two parked cars?

No one was watching. Except maybe Mycroft.

His hands went to his belt.

“John.”

“Fuck, Sherlock! In the neighbourhood?”

“Something like that.”

John’s body stirred in more ways than one, but he ignored them all. He shoved his hands in his pockets, then exclaimed, “Fuck Greg in the arse!”

“No, thank you.”

“This,” John produced a can from his pocket, “is the worst beer ever. Stamford’s American cousins gave him a six-pack as a prank birthday gift. We all drank one. But Detective Inspector Sneaky Squirrel hid his acorn in my pocket when I wasn’t looking!”

“Bastard!” said Sherlock. His lips twitched in a half-smile.

John laughed. “You git.” Later, he would decide it was a mix of the urgency of his bladder, the nearness of Sherlock, the late hour, and his drunken state that prompted him to risk all by saying,

“It’s so foul that I bet the taste actually improves when it’s pissed out.”

Sherlock took the bait at once. “Only one way to find out.”

John popped the can. “Cheers,” he said, offering it to Sherlock.

Sherlock sipped, grimaced.

John finished the rest of the beer on the way home.


“Sherlock.”

“Go.”

John raced up the stairs and down the hall. At the sound of his stream cascading into the bowl, he sighed loudly.

“John.”

Sherlock was in the tub, on his knees, arms stretched wide, in unbuttoned shirt and pants.

John twisted and watched his flow splash across Sherlock’s face, hair, and chest.

Sherlock swallowed, then said, “Your hypothesis is correct, John.”

John blinked. He was relieved. And hard. And ashamed. And…

“What now?” he asked.

Sherlock met John’s gaze, then looked away.

“I’ll be out in a minute.”


Sherlock reappeared in the sitting room in a dressing gown.

“You’ve got questions.”

“Tomorrow, a lot. Tonight, just one. Only that?”

Sherlock shook his head. “That. And everything else.”

John smiled and reached for him.

Chapter Text

“Idiot!”

“Sherlock, you were unconscious at the bottom of a pit of snakes! I got you out and administered the proper antidote. I didn’t stop to sketch Mister No-Legs for the bloody Field Guide to Things that Give People Nightmares. Wait, where are you going?”

“I need to think!”

John raced after him. “About?”

“Going into heat.”

“WHAT?”

“Conventional heat suppressant have never worked for me. I make my own, based on the venom of a certain reptile. Common garden snakes were amongst the adders. One of them bit me. The antidote, however…”

“Oh, fuck,” breathed John.

“Yes, very soon and quite a lot. Taxi!”


“Sherlock, is there someone…?”

“The last ‘someone’ was fifteen years ago. He’s growing tea in India these days.”

“So it’s a centre or…”

Their eyes met.                                  

“I choose ‘or,’ John.”


John counted the linen, then began unloading the hamper, piece by piece, anything to distract from the pheromone soup that was rapidly filling the flat.

“Mrs. Hudson out did herself with provisions. She’s gone to her sister’s for the weekend. Oh, God.”

Sherlock’s bedroom door squeaked.

“John."

John unbuckled his belt. “There’s still time to change your mind, Sherlock.” He exhaled as his cock was freed from the confines of trousers and pants. “Will it do?”

Sherlock approached John clad in only a blue silk dressing gown. He drew one fingertip up John’s shaft, from base to leaking head. “It will do,” he whispered. “Fill me. Then stretch me. Thick.” Sherlock caught a bead of fluid on the pad of his finger; he brought it to his mouth and sucked.

John stifled a groan. “I’m sorry for putting you in this position.”

“I imagine you’ll be putting me in a lot of positions shortly.”

John blushed.

“I’m sorry, too, John. No more rubbish heat talk. Promise.”


John pulled out and made to stand, then wobbled and fell back onto the bed. He was drained not so much from the coupling, but from the constant reining in of his Alpha instincts.

Gentle, tender, soft, his mind had urged while his muscles strained against themselves.

His breath had been the only sound in the room. Sherlock’s noises had been muffled by the bedding.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock uncoiled. John gasped.

Tears. Blood.

“That bad?”

The reply was a trembling whisper. “No rubbish talk.”

“Fuck, Sherlock! It’s okay.” John wiped the red smears from below Sherlock’s bottom lip.

“It’s humiliating.”

“You’re extraordinary.” John kissed the wet streaks on Sherlock’s face. “Amazing.” Kiss. “Fantastic.” Kiss. “Nothing will change that.”

“Really, John? If I say I want you to slam that fat cock in me, fill me with your come, make me yours, make me scream, it’s okay?”

John smiled. “Yeah, then I’ll say I want to mount you, split you open, breed you, make you mine. It’s all fine. You’re still Sherlock. I’m still John.”

Sherlock’s gaze narrowed, then he smirked and ran a hand up the centre of John’s chest. “That was just a rehearsal,” he purred.

“For me, too.”

Chapter Text

It was Pavlovian: the smell of leather upholstery would now and forevermore make John hard.

But he didn’t realise that he had spoken the words aloud until Mycroft’s hummed reply sent a new stab of lust straight to the core of him.

John groaned. “Christ, how you slay me, you filthy cock-sucking slag!” He lifted his hips, pushing up into Mycroft’s mouth.

It was an erotic dream: this brilliant, beautiful, impossibly elegant man crumpled in what must be a ghastly uncomfortable position just so he could suck John’s cock at the precise angle that resulted in John swearing like a sailor and coming like a schoolboy—at the same time.

John glanced at Mycroft’s suit. The floor of a car was no match for something that looked like a country tweed but probably cost more than his army pension.

Mycroft was rumpled. And getting rumplier with each bob of his gorgeous head. And swirl of his dexterous tongue.

John ran his fingers through Mycroft’s hair.

“Fuck!”

He’d been half-hard from the moment that he spotted the tinted-windowed car turning the corner and had barely slipped into his new-found aphrodisiac and mumbled a cursory greeting before brilliant, beautiful, impossibly elegant—and efficient—fingers were making quick work of his belt and coaxing his prick to full hardness.

Eager was fine. More than fine. There’d be plenty of time for pillow talk when…

John felt his balls tightened. He turned his head and sniffed—yeah, expensive, rich, cock-hardening leather—and patted Mycroft on the back of the head.

“I’m there, love. I’m there. FUCK!”


“Baker Street, Doctor Watson.”

“Not to look a gift fuck in the mouth, but…”.

Mycroft wiped his lips with a handkerchief.

“…you could tell me what’s bothering you. It’s the friends part of the friends with benefits, the buddy part of the fuck buddy or, you know, just being a decent human being.”

“What gave it away?” asked Mycroft, folding the cloth in on itself.

“Tie says ‘Ice Man’; trousers say ‘Fox hunt by way of Saville Row.’ Means you changed to give me the blow job that I so richly deserve, thank you very much, by the way. Georges took the most direct route. No time for reciprocation. Or a chat. Which means, of course, there’s something to chat about.”

“I was compared unfavorably to a cold-blooded animal today.”

“Fish?”

“Reptile.”

“Ah. Wasn’t Sherlock. He leans more towards the pachyderm and swine metaphors, but someone whose opinion you value or you wouldn’t be upset.”

Mycroft tucked the folded handkerchief in his pocket.

“There is warmth to you, Mycroft.”

“It’s just sex.”

“True, but you got Harry into rehab when no centre would take her.”

“She qualified for that clinical trial.”

“The one about eating fruits and vegetables? Right. You care about Sherlock. And this, well, it could be more, if you wanted it to be.”

“More?”

“We could have sex in a proper bed for starters.”

Mycroft chuckled, then leaned forward and tapped the glass.

“Home, Georges.” 

Chapter Text

Sherlock buttoned his coat.

“For what it’s worth, Sherlock…” said a voice from the darkness.

He stopped.

“…I don’t wish you weren’t whatever you are.”           

Sherlock caught a glimpse of yellow hair ribbon. He noted a lingering trace of citrusy perfume.

Then he nodded, whispered a word of thanks, and marched on, head down, his shoes crunching in the gravel.


“Molly’s lost two and a half kilos.”

“Yeah, well, grief will do that. Don’t mention it, Sherlock. Please,” said John.

“Grief?”

“Where have you been? Toby died two weeks ago. Don’t you read her blog?”

“Natural causes?”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. I thought his name was Tim.”

“Christ, Sherlock! Tom is, was, the boyfriend, fiancé. He’s gone, too. Not dead, they broke up. That was before Toby, her cat, died. No.” John raised a hand as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. “You may not be aware, Sherlock, but the death of a pet is devastating for many people. So, please, be nice to her. And if you can’t do that, just stay away from her.”

Sherlock grunted. “Well, I wanted to look at that body again. I was going to ask Molly to…”

“No! Find another way.”

“I could switch the information with another corpse in the morgue database and intercept it on the way to the crematorium.”

“Fabulous. Go with that.”

“She’s sad.” Sherlock frowned. “Do you think a new cat would make her not-sad?”

“Sherlock, your heart is in the right place, but I think another cat is the last thing Molly wants right now.”


Sherlock hummed and tapped the screen. “Last thing she wants? So, the opposite would be…? Pets, pets, pets. Ah. Here we go. And they live for twenty years. Much better than Tabby or Terry or whatever.”


“Hullo!” cried Sherlock as the door opened. “Surprise! His name is Pinky!”

“Argh! Sherlock!”

Sherlock held the iguana in one hand and a rose-coloured bottle in the other. “Gifts to congratulate you on your promotion. Pink champagne, your favourite, I checked your blog, and a new pet.”

“Wait, what promotion?”

“I was on the morgue database and happened to dip into the personnel files. Your supervisor will make the announcement tomorrow. All long overdue. So, I brought Pinky’s house.” Sherlock gestured to an enormous glass tank in the hall behind him.

“Sherlock, I don’t know…”

His face fell.

Then she gave him a half-smile and said, “…where it would be best to put Pinky.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” he replied. As he pushed by her, a long scaly tail whacked Molly across the chest.


“He’ll become more affectionate over time,” said Sherlock, frowning.

Molly hummed and nodded toward the bottle. “Would you like to…?”

“Yes.”


Molly raised her glass. “Cheers, Sherlock.”

“Cheers. To cunnilingus.”

Molly spit. “What?”

“John says gifts should have a theme. That’s the third part of the gift. If you’re interested. From me, not, uh, him.” Sherlock glanced at the blinking eye on beyond the glass.

“Sherlock, just out of curiosity, what’s the theme?”

“Pink tongue.”

Chapter Text

The explosion lit up the night sky.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So obvious,” he muttered as the police officers rushed past him, shouting orders and tossing equipment.

John said, “I’m going to go see about—“

Sherlock waved. “Go.”

Over-the-top. It had all the signs of…

Sherlock spied something moving in the water; he leaned closer.

SPLASH!

Finally, something interesting, he thought just before his world went dark.


“Hello sexy, I’ve missed you.”

“Really?” Sherlock twisted his head as far as his bonds allowed. “That’s why I’m tied to a pipe beneath the Thames.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Chloroform. Old school.”

“I was feeling a bit, oh, I don’t know, nostalgic for the good ol’ days of villainy. You know, when you could tie a damsel to train tracks and hear her cry for help.” Moriarty stepped up on a bit of broken pipe and ran a gloved hand down the side of Sherlock’s face.

“Help,” whispered Sherlock.

“See? Makes one feel like twirling one’s moustache.”

“And thank you.”

“For?”

“The case. Buried treasure. Escape from a prison island. A man with a wooden leg. Pygmy sidekick. It’s a pirate story.”

Moriarty smiled.

“John’s run off to see about the girl.”

“Naturally. So we’ve got a bit of time.” Moriarty opened Sherlock’s trousers and slipped a hand inside.

“Kidnapping me from a police launch, that was a stroke of genius.”

“Like this one?” Moriarty ran his hand down the length of Sherlock’s shaft.

“Yes,” groaned Sherlock.

“Genius. Madman. Po-tay-to, to-mah-to.

“Let’s get the whole thing off,” murmured Sherlock as his body responded to the friction of steady up-and-down rubbing of his prick.

“You read my mind, Sherlock.”

“No, thank you, I’m not actually keen on horror stories.”

“Too bad because this is going to be a spooktacular hand job.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

Moriarty blinked. His hand stilled.

Then they both burst into giggles.

“Spooktacular hand job?!” Sherlock snorted. “Is that your idea of an old fashion villain’s threat?”

“Sorry, sorry. I meant to growl, ‘Well, too bad. You’re in one!’ and then bite your cock off.”

“Too late now. You’ve ruined the surprise.”

“True.” Moriarty’s hand began to move again. “You know, my favourite part of your cock, Sherly? Apart from how embarrassingly quick you are to leak that lovely pre-come,” he quickly removed his glove and resumed his ministrations, “is that sinister bend to the left.”

“Does seem to hit the right spot, doesn’t it?”

“Don’t tease. There’s no time. I’ve got to get you back to that police launch before anyone notices you’re gone.” Moriarty dropped and pressed his lips to the damp fabric of Sherlock’s pants. Then he nuzzled the bulging outline of Sherlock’s cock and traced the edges with the tip of an outstretched tongue. “Only time for a cock cuddle and a kiss good-bye.”

“What?!”

Moriarty looked up and chuckled. “Oh, that was worth it all. The panic on your face. Don’t worry, Sherly. My kisses are spooktacular.”

He yanked Sherlock’s pants down and swallowed his cock.           

Chapter Text

“It’s a bit mad, but the kids love it,” said Stamford.

“Yeah, I appreciate the thought, and the invitation, but fun fairs might not be the best place for…”

A giggling trio smashed into John.

They mumbled half-hearted embarrassed apologies before scampering off.

John searched for his cane.

It appeared, and a husky voice asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Uh, Afghanistan.” John looked up into a pair of gorgeous grey eyes. “How did you—?”

“You can shoot, right?”

“Sherlock.”

“Stamford.” The man turned his gaze back to John. He spoke quickly. “A man’s freedom depends on you winning me that rattlesnake.”

John eyed the enormous plush animals that decorated the games booth.

“Can you do it?”

“Oh, yeah,” said John.


“One practice shot?”

“Sure, Gramps,” said the attendant.

John’s shot hit the outside edge of the target.

“A little shaky,” he said sheepishly. Then he felt a firm hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

He took a deep breath.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“That’ll do, yeah?” asked John. The slack-jawed attendant strode toward the target and fingered the large hole in the centre.

John turned. “What would you like, love?” he asked with a smirk.

Grey eyes sparkled. “That one, dear.”

“No. Here,” said the attendant, unhooking a large yellow rat.

“I said I want that one.”

“And I said, no.”

And with that, all hell broke loose.


John pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it towards the door.

“Bull’s eye,” he said when the garment landed on the plush rattlesnake’s head, covering its googly eyes. “I don’t think I could give my best performance with that viper watching me.”

“Mm. Noted: no exhibitionist tendencies. Or is it an aversion to snakes?”

John drew Sherlock to him. “The former. No aversion to snakes. Trouser or the garden variety,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Sherlock snorted. “But apparently bad puns…”

“You have to like bad puns. That’s a deal-breaker.”

Sherlock smiled and ran his hands, and appreciative gaze, over John’s bare chest and arms. He stopped at scarred skin. “So there was an actual wound.”

“Yeah, left shoulder. Christ, what a night! You figured out that they were hiding the drugs in the games prizes.”

“Very clever way to traffic them throughout the country. And no one ever wins those games. Well, almost no one.”

John shook his head, then brushed his thumb across Sherlock’s bottom lip. “Tell me I’m not the only one who feels like my life’s just changed forever.”

Sherlock kissed John, a sweet peck that lingered and grew in passion until they were once again snogging madly. Heads tilted, tongues tasted, fingertips mapped valleys and hills with exploratory caresses, and the bedroom filled with a call-and-response of pleasure grunts.

John pulled away to trail kisses down Sherlock’s neck.

“You’re not the only one,” said Sherlock, leaning into the touch of John’s lips. “You will take the room upstairs?”

“Yes, but I doubt I’ll need it all the time. Mister No-Legs can guard it when I’m down here.”

Chapter Text

“…thank you for your statement, Ms. Hawkins.”

“You’re welcome, Sargent…”

“DONOVAN! WHERE ARE MY—? OH, WAIT. FOUND ‘EM!”

“That your boss?”

“Yeah.”

“Seems like a good one.”

“He is. And despite what you may hear, he’s also very good at his job. Nice dress, by the way.”

“Thanks. Bridesmaid dresses have such funny names. This one’s called…”

“KIR ROYALE! SUCH A GORGEOUS COLOUR! AND WITH A JUST COUPLE OF TINY ALTERATIONS, IT CAN BE WORN AGAIN! HAVE YOU SEEN JOHN? JOHN?! WAIT FOR ME!”

“No disrespect to the bride, but I’ve got a Mimosa, a Bellini, and a Flamingo Piss Punch in the back of my closet that say otherwise.”

“Yeah, brides have to say that. It’s tradition. Sort of like…”

“Donovan. Jennifer.”

“Jeanine.”

“Whatever. Have you seen John?”

“No.”

“John!”

“Yeah, every disrespect, that’s not a tradition, I’d want to uphold.”

“Oh no, but he’s already deduced a couple of prospects. That man. And that man. He’s brilliant, but also…”

“Spectacularly ignorant.”

“Yeah, I’m not in danger of losing my glass slipper tonight.”

“Well, if your carriage turns into a pumpkin, here’s my number.”

“Thank you…”

“Sally.”


Carriage offer still good?

How about a chariot? Behind you.

Jeanine gasped.

At the leather. And the chrome. And the wheels. And the grin.

“Fuck! Your bike?”

“Of course, but I’m disappointed. I thought you’d be speechless.”

“Reducing me to one syllables is speechless, but this Kir Royale isn’t very flexible.”

Sally unzipped a jacket pocket. “Time for a couple of tiny alterations then.”


Jeanine squealed at the waist-high slits in the purple fabric.

“Do you always carry a knife?” she asked as she slid behind Sally in the seat.

“Yeah.”

The engine growled.

“Handcuffs too?”

Sally laughed. “Down, girl. They’re for the second date.”


“What’s the point of this dress,” said Sally, reaching behind Jeanine to unzip and unhook, “if not to force you to buy a hideously expensive, ridiculously-engineered bra? There. Corset-style. Lovely.”

Jeanine whimpered.

“I’ve got you, princess.”

Jeanine shifted. Sally slipped her hand back between the seat of the bike and the crotch of a pair of sodden, barely-there knickers.

“The ride was…”

“Foreplay? Yeah, that’s the point.”

Jeanine rut on Sally’s cupped hand until one finger was buried deep inside her. Sally curled it while she teased Jeanine clit with her thumb. “Like that?”

“Fuck!”


Jeanine licked her lips as she slowly drew the zipper down.

“You are such a naughty girl, Sally Donovan.”

Beep!

Sally winced. “I’ve got to go.”

“What?! What about upstairs? Champagne and...me?”

“Sorry. Work.”

Jeanine pouted, then she kissed Sally. “Things might get strange, but just know there’ll be space in the back of a closet in a cottage on the Sussex Downs for a Mimosa, a Bellini, and a Flamingo Piss Punch.”

Sally’s smile faded. “Don’t follow. Strange?”

Jeanine kissed her again. “Oh, just for the record, how do you feel about bees?”

Sally produced a small object. “Hate ‘em. Epi-pen.”

Jeanine grinned. “Perfect. Good night, charming.”

“Good night, princess.”

Chapter Text

“I’ve got the biggest gun,” said Seb with grin.

“Drop yours, Sherlock.”

“You, and you, first.”

“I’m not going to lower my gun. Sebby is not going to lower his gun. You must lower your gun.”

“No.”

“So stubborn! And short-sighted. We’re wasting time!”

“Not getting killed is wasting time?”

“BORING! We could be doing something much less boring.”

“Like what?”

“Like Sebby here. Show ‘em, gorgeous.”

Seb yanked up the hem of his vest with his free hand.

“See? Six pack, eight pack, packs of packs. Sebby’s guns, well, they only rival Sebby’s guns. And despite his brawn, he’s also limber. And generous in the boudoir.”

“You have a boudoir?”

“We could all have it if you would drop your gun, Sherly. May I call you Sherly?”

“No and no. Though I do commend you, Colonel, on your commitment to your physical fitness routine.”

“Thanks. Nice arse.”

“It is a nice arse, Sebby. And we could both take turns pounding it if Mister Holmes would kindly remove his head from it and lower his gun.”

“Thank you and thank you and no.”

“He could be between us, Sherly. Sucking your cock while I fuck his hole. Or vice versa. I’m also generous. We’re a generous, almost chivalrous, pair.”

“Then why don’t you gentlemen go first and lower your guns.”.

“Not stupid.”

“No, we are not stupid, Sebby. That’s why we use safewords, carefully negotiated boundaries, the whole lot. Exquisite aftercare.”

“Cuddles.”

“Well, if there are cuddles…”

“Yes?”

“No. Drop your guns first.”

“All right, you’ve pressed our hands. Seb, in fact, has the most beautiful cock ever created. It would be pure joy to watch it disappear between those beautiful lips of yours. I’d rim you silly while you did, of course.”

“Tempting but no.”

“We could work together, Sherly. Drive my tiger out of his mind, tease him, toy with him, bring him to the edge over and over until he begs for release. Two great minds towards one purpose, it would be spectacular, no?”

“I’d rather see you in that role, frankly.”

Seb howled. “Yeah, man!” He stepped towards Sherlock with his free hand raised. “High five!”

Sherlock obliged.

Moriarty scowled.

“Boss, let’s play with him.”

“No, Sebby.”

“Have you been a naughty boy, Jimmy? I want to see Papa Seb here put you over his knee and give you the spanking you so richly deserve.”

Seb’s laugh turned to a squeal. “He’s acting like he’s cross but that Irish prick is getting hard.”

“Shut up, Sebby.”

“Lower your gun.”

“No. You first.”

“Too bad. We could be, what did you call it, doing something much less boring. Seb and I could be taking turns, having you in our laps, letting you play with our lollies while we play with yours. What do you say, Jimmy?”

“POLICE! WE HAVE YOU SURROUNDED!”

“SHERLOCK?!”

“I say time’s up. Got to dash.”

“Catch you later.”

“No you won’t!”

“And just for the record,” said Seb. "I’ve got the biggest gun.”

Chapter Text

“Hi! Welcome to ‘My Fair Lady’ karaoke Night at Cheers!”

“Good God.”

Sherlock turned in the doorway. A dark suit blocked his retreat.

“No, Brother Mine, I shan’t suffer alone.”

“This is Lestrade’s doing!” hissed Sherlock. “John would never…”

“DOES ENCHANTMENT POUR OUT OF EVERY DOOR?”

“NO, IT’S JUST ON THE STREET WHERE YOU LIVE!”

Sherlock and Mycroft stared.

“That is—” murmured Sherlock.

“Quite,” agreed Mycroft.

“I know!” cried the hostess. “They’re a fabulous duet, right? Are you with John?”

Sherlock scowled. “John?!”

“Yes, we are,” said Mycroft.

“Right this way, then. They’ve a table in the back. He and Greg—“

Sherlock scowled. “Greg?!”

“That is his name, Sherlock.”

“—just won the first round of trivia, so they got to sing first. Here are your drinks. My Fair Ladys, naturally.”

“There is nothing ‘natural’ about this,” said Sherlock through clenched teeth. He sniffed the glass, then raised an eyebrow. “Grapefruit juice.”

“LET THE TIME GO BY, I WON’T CARE!”

“IF I CAN BE HERE ON THE STREET WHERE YOU LIVE.”

“NO, WHERE YOU LIVE!”

“NO, WHERE YOU LIVE!”

John and Greg grinned and pointed toward Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock and Mycroft immediately raised their glasses and donned expressions of faux cheer.

Then they sipped.

“Not bad,” said Mycroft. “Reminds me of Mummy, perhaps I should collect the recipe for her.”

“Reminds me of Mrs. Hudson.”

“You should offer to make her a pitcher when she tallies the ‘extras’ on the rent.”

“A round of applause, ladies and gentlemen, for…TEAM ELIZA DOESTHELOT! They are the ones to beat! Get ready for round two of trivia!”

“Miss, may we have another round of these delightful beverages?”

“Sure!”

“And I believe the phrase is ‘keep them coming.’”


“BY LAW SHE SHOULD BE TAKEN OUT AND HUNG!”

“FOR THE COLD-BLOODED MURDER OF THE ENGLISH TONGUE!”

Greg grinned. “I knew as soon as we got them here, got a couple of—“

“A couple dozen, you mean,” said John.

“—drinks in them, they’d loosen up and get in the spirit of the thing and—“

“Win the whole lot.”

Greg nodded.

“But how did you get Mycroft to agree to come in the first place?”

“I appealed to his generous nature as a partner.”

“Try again.”

“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell…”

“Did it involve handcuffs? Because that’s how I got Sherlock.”

“Yes!”

“Kinky bastards.”

“Hand job in the gents earlier just to…”

“…make certain he didn’t slip out the back? Yup.”

“Jesus Christ, they are kinky bastards.”

“And I’m no proper genius, Greg, but as of right now, I don’t think those two are going anywhere until last call.”

“AN ENGLISHMAN’S WAY OF SPEAKING ABSOLUTELY CLASSIFIES HIM!”

“THE MOMENT HE TALKS HE MAKES SOME OTHER ENGLISHMAN DESPISE HIM!”

“This cocktail makes me think of Mrs. Hudson.”

“Makes me think of Mummy Holmes. Might be nice to send her the recipe.”

“WHY CAN’T THE ENGLISH LEARN TO SPEAK?”

“Got something nicer.”

John tapped his phone.

"Oh, yeah?"

“I just sent her the video of them singing.” 

Chapter Text

“Take my hand.”


Sherlock’s words are needless as John’s fingers have been intertwined with his since the metallic click.


Since John’s wet tongue met Sherlock’s flat nipple.


Since John commenced his worship of Sherlock’s fading and faded scars as if he were a modern disciple of an ancient god.


Since Sherlock reciprocated by playing adoring fan to the cherub-faced pop singer of John’s mangled shoulder.


They don’t often fuck like this anymore, tethered to one another, linked by chain and a pair of rings.


But today was different.


Not at first, of course. Routine case. Routine chase. Then Sherlock got lost.


Not truly lost, but separated from John, which is lost. Sherlock lost John in the London fog. Cliché, except for the panic that gripped Sherlock, a panic that he saw reflected in John’s face the moment before voices, eyes, hands touched.


Later, in the return taxi to Baker Street, they agreed by mute and mutual understanding—an understanding raised like Lazarus, rescued like an Old Master from a salt mine—that more was required.


More than ‘Never again, John.’ More than ‘I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here.’


More than the brush of skin against skin. Or the weight of body upon body. Or the burn of breach and occupation.


They needed to balance the sweetness of miraculous homecomings and answered prayers with the sourness of reproaches and mistrusts; the bitterness of memories apart with the fluffy, ephemeral promise of tomorrows together.


They needed something as strong as they were.


Steel.


“We are going to need to coordinate.”


Indeed.


Fucking is not easy like this. But neither is wondering if the man beneath John is a figment of the oozing wound of John’s imagination.


Or an early morning stiff-cock dream.


Or one drink too many, the kind that only make their strength know when John tries to stand up. And falls.


Though awkward, the handcuffs mean that John can tug the chain and know that he is here.


Hands wrap around cocks. Lips kiss.


“Gorgeous fucking prick,” mumbles John because it isn’t all reverence or reassurances.


They’re still fucking.


Still Sherlock and John. Even when two cocks are rubbing against each other, held tight by two hands that know, by now, exactly how to coordinate.


John still sucks Sherlock’s nipples like an Internet porn star, laving buds and skin and tiny hairs with a hungry tongue and pulling off with an obscene pop.


And when Sherlock’s hand twists over top John’s cock-head, both their cock-heads, in fact, John still calls him a motherfucking, ball-sucking, filthy bastard whore-dog.


So Sherlock does it again.


And John can’t help but drop his head and watch and groan. He catches Sherlock watching, too. Beefy red, swollen, leaking cocks. One thick; one long and lean.


“Fuck!”


John accidentally yanks the chain, but it isn’t an accident. It’s a reminder. That he is hostage and captor; that wherever Sherlock goes, he will follow.


So they pump and fuck and no one reaches for the key.


Not yet.

Chapter Text

“Finally.”

Janine rushed to the bedroom, threw off her loose vest, and grabbed her dressing gown.

The rumble in the distance was the noise she’d be listening for since four o’ clock in the morning, and no amount of cleaning or primping—herself or the cottage—had completely distracted her straining ears.

The rumble grew louder. And by the time it stopped abruptly, Janine was wet. “Christ, you are an eager bitch, aren’t you?” she muttered just before opening the door.

“Welcome, Detective Inspector Donovan.”

Sally’s face fell.

“It was meant to be a surprise!”

“So’s this.” Janine let the dressing gown slide off her shoulders.

Sally grinned. “Then I suppose we’re even.” She closed the distance between them, cupping Janine’s face, kissing her hard, and pushing her back against the interior wall.

“This is a compromise,” Sally added, running her hands over the gold and black brocade around Janine’s waist. “Antique torture device for you; bare tits and muff for me.” She bent her head, giving each nipple a lick.

“Doors still open,” said Janine.

“Free show for the neighbours. Don’t worry, if they give you any trouble, I’ll arrest them.”

“I bet you will,” said Janine, grinning.

Sally looked down. “That is no compromise.” She sank to her knees and kissed Janine’s pubic hair. “You finally gave up all the shaving and tweezing and waxing and turning yourself into a bloody topiary swan.”

“Well, this is the country, after all. Things are meant to be rustic.”

“Beautiful.” Sally kissed her damp mons again, then brushed Janine’s folds with her hand. “Oh, you are one eager little bitch, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” whimpered Janine. She was too far gone for pride. “After I finished the floors this morning, I fingered myself right here, thinking of you.”

“Housework, too? Bloody hell! You know you’re getting so fucked this weekend.”

“Yeah,” sighed Janine.

“Come here, my gorgeous cunt.”

Sally buried her face between Janine’s legs and brought her off with lips and tongue and deft fingers. Then she wiped her face on the inside of Janine’s thigh and stood. “I’ve got another surprise,” she said. She unzipped her leather jacket.

Janine’s jaw dropped. “Oh God, Sally.”

Gold chain and buttons decorated the front of the black bodice.

“Thought I’d give torture devices a go since you’re so keen on them.”

“I’m surprised.”

“The corset’s not the surprise.”

“No?”

Suddenly Janine’s face was pressed to the wall and her arms were behind her back.

Her knees buckled at the metallic click.

“Those are the real ones,” she groaned.

“Detective Inspector can bend the rules a bit, no? Care to do a perp walk to the bedroom?”

“Fuck!”

“Yeah, my turn."


With her weight on her knees, Sally straddled Janine, slowly inching her way up her body.

“Won’t take long. With the long ride and missing you, I’m so ready.”

“Come here and get the tongue-fucking you deserve, Detective Inspector.”

“Your neighbours are going to need earplugs. And blindfolds.”

“Fuck, I love the country.”

Chapter Text

“Mister Holmes.”

Good Lord. Good. Lord.

“Detective Inspector.”

“It’s so crowded that I didn’t see you until now. Not very observant of me, no? But, to be honest, you’re one of the last people that I’d expected to see in a place like this. Come here often?” He asked with a laugh. “I do, by the way,” he added.

“I have a Skinny Chile Mocha for Mike!”

“No, this is my inaugural visit to this establishment, a result of a small workplace wager of which I was the forfeiter.”

“Ha!”

“I have a Skinny Chile Mocha for Mike!”

“Is, um, that you?”

“Yes, would you please excuse me for a moment?”

Oh, wicked, meddling, match-making, cunning-as-a-serpent Personal Assistant of mine! There will be words when I return! Words, words, words!

“Here we are. The spoils for the victor.”

“Those are new. I’ve been wanting to try one. You didn't get anything for yourself?”

“No, it’s not my, uh…”

“Cup of tea?” he said with a smile.

Oh, that smile. A particular blend of teeth and lips and facial musculature that makes one’s knees weak, that makes one lose one’s grip on...

“Hey, watch out! If you drop it, you’ll stain that handsome suit and have to queue again.”

A brush of a hand. Was it lingering? Surely not.

And handsome? The suit, of course. Yes, the suit was handsome, but not as handsome as—

“I have Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino for Greg!”

“Oh, that’s me. Tis the season, no?”

Surely that was not a wink. No, must be some kind of twitch, involuntary unilateral spasm of the—

“I love these!”

Is it customary to draw the green straw out and—oh, my—sample the whipped cream in such a way that—dear me—provokes thoughts, thoughts, at the flash of tongue and—good Lord—leaves a distracting dollop of said cream on the corner of a mouth. An utterly kissable corner of an utterly kissable mouth. Don’t stare. Don’t stare. For God’s sake, man, don’t—

“Mister Holmes—“

Good Lord, I’m not the headmaster! Not even in my untoward fantasies!

“Mycroft, please.”

“Uh, Mycroft, is there something—?”

“I’m afraid that you have a bit of, that is to say—“

“Oh, yeah, thanks for letting me know. Be tough to play bad cop like that, eh?”

Bad cop. Which would imply a certain amount of roughness, perhaps even physical intimidation, strong words, perhaps even a bit of vulgarity, heavy breathing—no, wait, that would be me.

“Well, if you ever want to cheat on your Earl Grey with a crass, hopelessly unrefined import, text me and I shall—“

“Be my bit of rough?”

Who said that?! Me? No! Surely I am under the spell of this crass, hopelessly unrefined paper cup of cheekiness in my hand. Flee! Oh, no, Gregory is coming closer, closer, and licking his lip.

“—teach you the pleasures of the unholy amalgamation that is cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, cloves and allspice.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Me, too. Bye, Mycroft.”

Chapter Text

John took a deep breath of crisp air, noting the whiff of bonfire smoke in the distance and the heady scent of ripe fruit and fecund earth all about them.

“Dangerous,” whispered Sherlock.

No, it wasn’t dangerous to fuck here, in plain view, amidst sturdy trunks and harvest-heavy boughs, as the autumn sun sank into the rolling hills, with John nestled beneath Sherlock and his stalwart wool coat.

“Dangerous is your cheekbones,” John sighed as he let himself be stroked to hardness. “Kiss me, you gorgeous git.”

Sherlock did. He pressed his lips to John’s in the manner of a fairytale prince, and John found himself thoroughly enchanted.

“Autumn is my favourite season,” John confessed. “And that,” Sherlock’s slicked fist slid up and then quickly down, “is my favourite, oh God, you, you.” He clawed at Sherlock through the fabric of his shirt.

“Later,” murmured Sherlock as he nibbled down John’s neck.

 “When?” John whined.

“When I’ve had my fill of you, which is to say, the day after never.”

Sherlock kissed John’s lips again, but this time like a lover, hard and claiming. John twined his arms around Sherlock’s neck, clinging to him, returning passion for passion.

John released Sherlock and fell back. He could not be more tethered to the earth, but he still felt his world spinning. The cloyingly sweet fragrance curled into his thoughts and jumbled them. His hips pulsed up into Sherlock’s grip and his head rolled back and forth as he chanted,

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Turn me over, strip me, and fuck me, Sherlock.”

“John.” There was far too much caution in Sherlock’s tone.

“Please.”

Sherlock looked about them, then opened his mouth in protest.

John put his own hands aside Sherlock’s. “Want to come with you, with you inside me, right here, right now. Aren’t you hard for me, gorgeous?”

Sherlock’s reserve snapped with a growl. It was awkward, clumsy, and, quite frankly, cold, but John didn’t care. He breathed in the rich blend of aromas that surrounded them and listened rustling of leaves and Sherlock’s lustful grunts.

“That’s right, gorgeous. Fuck, that’s good.” John was balanced precariously on hands and knees as Sherlock thrust. “Christ, you’re hard, aren’t you?”

“Obviously. John.”

John chuckled and took his cock in his own hand and began to stroke. “I’m close, please tell me that you’re close.”

Sherlock twisted as he slammed into John. John’s pleasure spiked. He cried out and spilled into his own hand.

Sherlock came and collapsed atop John, sending them both to the ground.


“What’s your favourite season, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nuzzled the nape of John’s neck and whispered, “You.”

John looked over his shoulder. He watched Sherlock’s lips form the word and then smile.

“Dangerous.”

John rolled from underneath Sherlock. “I suppose one of the farmhands could come along and catch us.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Barometer’s dropping.”

“Which means?”

“Windfall harvest.”

A gust howled through the trees. Sherlock threw himself on John, covering him as golden fruit rained down around them.

Chapter Text

“Oh, excuse me, I thought this was the loo.”

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Uh, excuse me?”

“That’s not a costume.”

“Wow! You can see me? I can’t see—“

Click!

“Wow.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Afghanistan. Just bumped into Stamford today. We were at Barts together. No time or cash or interest in finding a proper costume, even if one could be found on the day before Halloween. Yours is great, by the way. You should enter the contest. I’m sure you’d win. £50. Nothing to sneeze at.”

“I don’t sneeze.”

“Well, yours is much better than that other Dracula. He’s the reason that I’m so keen to find the loo, piss out this monstrosity of a cocktail that Stamford calls a Vampire’s Kiss, and return to my miserable bedsit. So happy Halloween and—”

“What?! I’m the only vampire at this party!

“Sorry, mate. The other Dracula’s been chasing me for the last half an hour, and he can’t seem to take ‘no’ for an answer. I’d rather not make a scene; everybody seems to be having such a good time.”

Sniff!

“Blood type?”

“Uh, AB negative.”

“Would you like to rid yourself and the world of your harasser?”

“I think I just want to go ho—“

“That bedsit isn’t home. My plan might be dangerous.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yeah, I’m in.”

“Excellent. Might require a bit of acting as well.”

“That’ll be a problem. I don’t have much of a poker fa—mmmph!”

Creak!

“Ah, John, so this is where you’re hiding!”

“MINE!”

“NOT IF I FEED FIRST, SHERLOCK!”

“Now, John, through his heart with your cane! Quick!”

Whack!

“Holy fuck! He’s gone! He just…evaporated!”

“Well done and congratulations, John, you’ve just slayed your first vampire.”

“Wait a minute, there’s no such thing as—oh, my God! Those are real?!”

“Touch them, if you doubt it.”                                                                                                 

“Wow. They’re sharp.”

“Indeed.”

“And you can just—oh, God—up and down, just like that?”

“Just like that. You’ve got more questions.”

“Yeah, but, uh, perhaps not here. Wait, uh…”

“John, if I wanted to kill you, don’t you think I would’ve already done so?”

“True. Am I under some kind of spell?”

“As if. Cluck like a chicken.”

“No.”

“See?”

“Hee, hee. Vampire’s Kiss. Nothing like the real thing, which was, by the way, extraordinary.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Or didn’t you think so?”

“I did, but that’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“’EEE!’ and then nothing, because, you know, exsanguination.”

“Ha, ha! Well, you said you weren’t going to kill me, and for some reason, I believe you.”

“Hungry?”

“Starved.”

“I know a good Chinese restaurant that stays open until two. Shall we exit the closet?”

“It is kind of cosy in here, but, yes.”

“Oh, and John?”

“Hmm?”

“A vampire’s kiss pales in comparison to a vampire’s fuck.”

“Does it now? Well, I still need the loo, and seeing as how well we perform together in tight spaces…give me two minutes and then…”

“Happy Halloween.”

Chapter Text

As the doors closed, John longed to be as invisible in body as she was in spirit. She took a deep breath, the precursor to a self-pitying sigh, then started violently.

Her mind was playing tricks on her.

Well, it was the day for it, wasn’t it?

She was mixing inputs from the pumpkins and witches and zombies that packed the tube car. It was a self-manufactured blend, not a pure note.

No one smelled that good.

The scent curled beneath John’s shields like smoke.

She had to get off the train.

She groaned. She had just suffered the embarrassment of gratefully accepting a seat beside an octogenarian. Now, she would have to burrow her way out of the throng of pre-party revelers.

Dark boots. Dark trousers. Dark wool.

John did not look up.

“It’s you.”

A soft voice answered.

“Yes. Next stop.”

John heard the buzz of the station name, then she followed the scent—and the dark wool coat—out of the car and onto the platform.

“You’re an Alpha.”

“You’re an Omega.”

John nodded, then shook her head.

“Not just Alpha. You’re a Sentinel.”

John heard, felt, sensed the faint gasp, even amidst the hubbub of the station.

“There are no Guides.”

John smiled and looked up into phantom-grey eyes.

“I’m John. Nickname.”

“I’m Sherlock. Not a nickname.”

John laughed. Sherlock extended her hand.

Their palms touched, and John’s world turned upside-down. Her knees buckled.

“Christ, I’m swooning.”

“Not with me. Run.”

“I can’t ru—.”

John chased the dark wool coat through the crowd.

“This way!”

John was yanked into a stone-walled corridor so narrow she had to pivot sideways to pass.

“Up!”

John climbed.

Where was her cane?

Fuck the cane, where was her limp?

John ran until she crashed into the dark wool coat.

Sherlock turned and reached for John. John jerked away.

“Listen, you need to know: I’m broken, as an Omega, as a Guide, as anything.”

“I’m unbearable, unbondable, a tit and a prick, with a pair of the former and one of the latter.”

John looked at Sherlock, frowning. “But you smell...”

“Perfect? So do you.”

“Maybe we’re wrong.”

“About ourselves? Quite possibly. But we may be right about each other.”

John grinned and sank to the ground atop a dark wool coat.

“Where are we?” she asked as Sherlock eased over her.

“Abandoned tube station.”

“Aren’t these haunted?”

“Mm-mmm. Thus no one will notice if we scream.”

“In that case, I’m going to lower my shields.”

“Fuck,” whispered Sherlock.

“Yeah, that, too,” said John as she buried her nose in Sherlock’s hair. “Christ, you smell good. Hey, I think I see a pair of ghosts on the ceiling.”

“Give them my regards.”


“Well done, Martha.”

“Thank you, Marie.”

“And on today of all days!”

“I do enjoy seeing my hard work bear fruit. Lifetime after lifetime, those two.”

“Bit noisy, though.”

“They always are. Another ‘green ghost,’ my dear?”

“Don’t mind if I do, after all, we are celebrating.”

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

 

Chapter Text

“Seb, what’s going on? Why aren’t you answering my texts?”

“Boss, have you ever tried candy corn?”

“Seb, rule one, never, ever, sample the merchandise, I don’t care what they’re calling it.”

“Nah, it’s this American sweet. Shaped like kernels of corn. Pure sugar, but so good. I can’t stop eating it!”

“Seb, are you telling me that my loose end is still dangling because you’re too busy stuffing your face? I sent you to New York because the job’s important and I needed my best man on it. So get on it!”

“I’m mailing a big box of this stuff back to the flat.”

“Shove it down the wanker’s throat until he chokes and get on a plane! I need you here.”

“Miss me already?”

“The Holmes brothers are being especially meddlesome. I need to plan something big and I plan big better when you’re here.”

“Heh, heh. Need my cock for reference?”

“Ugh!”

“You know, what I mean?”

“Yes, Seb.”

“Because it’s so big. My cock.”

“It and you are both very large knobs. Finish the job and come home!”


“Honey, I’m home!”

“Hello, tiger. Well done.”

“You look good enough to eat.”

“So what’s stopping you?”


“Fuck, that’s good.”

“Mmm?”

“Your arse. You figured out your plan yet?”

“The Virgin and the Ice Man are certain to attend a Halloween party this evening. You and I are also going. In disguise!”

“You mean, in costume?”

“Yes. And then we’ll nab them!”

“Heh, heh! That’s my favourite villain! Are you going to wear your twirlable moustache?”

“Naturally.”

“By the way, where’s my box of candy corn?”

“What box?”

“The one I sent from New York.”

“It never arrived.”

“I am going to murder Javier!”

“You’re going to murder our postman?”

“Yeah, he stole my candy corn! Bastard!”

“I don’t know, Seb. They’re just sweets.”

“They’re really good sweets. Hey, wait a minute, open your mouth!”

“No!”

“Open!”

“NO!”

“Come back here!”

“AAAARGH!”

“Orange! Yellow! White! In your molars. You fucker! You ate them!”

“Not all of them, Seb. I just wanted to make sure they weren’t poisoned!”

“Try again! Where are the rest of them? Oh, you miserable sod! You hid them in the mattress! You may be a criminal mastermind but you’re a shit thief, you know that?”

“I just wanted to try them, and then…”

“I know, boss. They’re good, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Sebby.”

“There are four bags left. When do we have to be at this party?”

“Not for another six hours.”

“Come on, let’s go back to bed. I’ll feed them to you while I pound that sweet Irish hole some more.”

“Eat ‘em off me, Sebby, too?”

“Sure, princess.”


BBBAAARRRFFF!

“Come on, boss. One more heave and I think that’s the lot of ‘em.”

“Not good, Sebby!”

“Yeah, you ate too many. And they aren’t so appealing when they’re—“

BBBBAAARRRFFF!

“—decorating the inside of a toilet. Don't suppose we're going to make that party, eh?”

“I hate candy corn!”

“Yeah, me, too.”

 

Chapter Text

“You were wrong. Admit it, Mycroft!”

“Our intel was good, Sherlock. Moriarty was to be at the party. Something must have happened.”

“Well, I had a nice time,” said John.

Mycroft and Sherlock glared out their respective windows. Then Mycroft pressed a button on the intercom. “Baker Street, please,” he said and leaned back against the leather seat.

“You look fabulous,” said John. He brushed Sherlock’s lips with his own.

“For an electric eel,” said Mycroft.

“I’m Puck!” snapped Sherlock over John’s shoulder.

“The glitter glows in the dark,” said John, with a smile. He ran his fingers over Sherlock’s bare torso.

“Wonderful,” said Mycroft. “I’ll be hoovering it out of the car until Christmas.”

“As if you’ve ever hoovered anything in your life!” retorted Sherlock.

“Oh, shut up!”

“Oh, except John’s cock!”

“Hey, don’t make me use my sword,” John touched his belt. “It may only be wood and foam, but this gladiator knows how to use it.”

He looked from one to the other and smiled again when two sets of eyes softened.

“Speaking of cocks,” said John. “Sherlock, those, uh, midsummer night’s fairy-pants leave very little to the imagination.”

“John.” Sherlock rubbed a flat palm between his legs.

John licked his lips. “Yeah, I’ve been wanting to suck you all night. Maybe Mycroft could…”

“Mycroft has to watch because he didn’t wear a costume!” cried Sherlock.

“No costume?! This is a double-breasted suit! Positively harlequinesque on a drop six frame like mine.”

“Drop six, my arse! Drop negative six, which is to say, plus twelve!”

“Hey,” said John, twisting, “What’s the point of wearing a toga if I can’t get, oh, yeah, a bit of a feel-up? Thank you. That’s very nice.”

“You’re welcome,” said Mycroft.

“Sherlock,” moaned John, bending forward.

Sherlock eased his pants down to the tops of his thighs. “John, suck.”

“That glitter’s non-toxic, no?” asked John as he licked the head of Sherlock’s cock. “Because when I swallow you down, I’m bound to ingest a fleck or two. Christ, Mycroft!” John looked over his shoulder. The fabric of his costume was now bunched at his waist. “You brought lube. Of course, you did. “Fuck me while I suck Sherlock?”

“My pleasure.”

John took half of Sherlock’s cock in his mouth and bobbed up and down as Sherlock’s petted his head and Mycroft’s fingers probed his rim.


When Mycroft’s cock was fully sheathed inside John, John pulled off Sherlock and licked, then bit, a glitter-painted thigh.

“The glitter’s not harmful,” said Sherlock, “but it is enhanced.”

John’s head jerked up. “Enhanced?! You mean ‘drugged’?!”

“For your pleasure, John.”

Just then, the car lurched sharply to the right. John and Mycroft fell against Sherlock.

Then the vehicle swerved to the left, and the three tumbled to the other side.

“What is the meaning of this?” said Mycroft into the intercom. He adjusted his trousers and lowered the partition.

The front seat was vacant.

“No one is driving!” cried John.

There was a menacing growl.

“MOO-HOO-HA-HA!”

Chapter Text

She held the speaker to her lips and growled,

MOO-HOO-HA-HA!

Then she released the button, listening to the faint shouts and stifling her giggles until a voice behind her said,

“You don’t have permission to be here.”

Shit.


“Oh God! That’s them?”

“Yup.”

They lay side-by-side on their stomachs atop a dark tarpaulin, peeking over the edge of the roof. Far below in an almost-vacant carpark, a lone car screeched forward, then backwards, then in circled in a daredevil loop.

“That’s for making me work on my day off, Spycroft Gnomes!”

“This’s worth every minute of the boring, useless, twelve-hour stakeout I just finished. You’re my hero.”

CREAK!

“DONOVAN!”

“Shit!” Sally grabbed the corner of the tarpaulin and drew it over the two of them.

Footsteps.

“Donovan, your shift is complete. When I return in five minutes, I do not want to find any sign of you or your associate. Enjoy what’s left of your Halloween.”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled Sally.

CREAK!

They giggled.

Sally released the tarpaulin. “Fun’s over,” she said with a pout. “What do you say to a drink to celebrate the best Halloween prank ever?”


“Orange juice and cognac. Not bad, but really…”

“It’s the garnish,” said Sally.

A round slice of orange floated on top of each glass with a tiny curl of lime peel jutting out from the centre.

“Jack O’Lantern. One of the best parts of Halloween is the crazy cocktails.”

“Another part is haunted houses.”

“You like those, too? What about scary films?”

Their eyes locked.

Sally glanced at her watch. “There’s a half hour left of Halloween. Your place or mine?”

“Mine definitely.”

“Why?”

“There’s another remote control I want to show you.”

Sally grinned.


“Oh, God. I’m going to come!”

“Not yet,” said Sally, tapping a button.

“This is police brutality!”

Sally raised the device in her hand. “So you like to give someone else control, that’s the reason for this?”

“Truth? It’s easier on my wrists. I’ve carpal tunnel syndrome.”

Sally giggled. “You’re gorgeous. And full of surprises. I had no idea we had so much in common. Films. Drinks.” Sally leaned down to mouth a pebbled nipple.

“Hmm. Like that. We both work for men who are very good at what they do.”

Sally shifted her attention to the other nipple. “And are sometimes infuriating. We work odd hours.”

“All hours. And we find Sherlock Holmes…”

Sally sat up and grimaced. “Tiresome,” she said.

“That’s generous. Try loathsome.”

“We’re both fond of your clit,” said Sally, dipping her head once more to pressing her lips a muff of damp, wiry hair. “So listen, beautiful, if you ever want to watch another horrible vampire film…”

“Or bitch about Sherlock…”

“Or your boss.” Sally tapped a button. “Or need some help with your carpal tunnel...”

“I’ll text you. Oh God, that’s good. You and it, please. And I’ll tell you a secret. My name. It is not Anthea, of course.”

Sally kissed down her body, grinning. “I never thought it was.”

Chapter Text

“Well, here’s your poltergeist.” Lestrade handed the device to Mycroft. “Suppose you know who’s responsible.”

“She’ll be on paid administrative leave for three days, then we’ll resume business as usual,” said Mycroft.

“OH GOD!”

“You drugged him,” said Lestrade, eyeing the car. “When will it wear off, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked away. “Four to six hours.”

A voice called from the building. “LESTRADE, GREGSON WANTS A WORD!”

Lestrade nodded and said, “Go.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft. “We’ll take him home. I’ll drive.”

Lestrade stopped. “By the way, Sherlock, what are you, Tinkerbell?”

Mycroft chuckled. Sherlock snarled.

“I’m Puck!”


“Oh God, Sherlock.” John sat in Sherlock’s lap with his costume bunched at his waist, grinding his bare arse into Sherlock’s glitter-and-pants-covered cock. Then he leaned back against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock licked his own fingertips and slipped his hands beneath John’s toga. As he teased John’s nipples, John began to rut anew.

“Fuck me, love,” whined John. “Need cock. My arse.”

“We’re going to take you home, John,” said Sherlock. “And take turns fucking you.”

“All night?” John pleaded.

“You won’t sit comfortably for days,” Sherlock reassured him. He eased his own pants down and rubbed his prick in the cleft of John’s arse. “Feel how hard I am. When I get like this, you know I’m insatiable, especially when you parade your sweet hole like a tart. No pants? Naughty John.”

“CAN’T WAIT!” John screamed and banged his fists on the open partition window. “Here! Outside!”


The car blocked most of the light from the street.

“I’m going to fuck you right here,” said Sherlock, shoving John against the closed rear passenger door. He began to probe John’s hole with a slicked finger. “No time to be careful.”

“Fuck careful!” cried John. His eyes were pinched shut; his lips were pressed against the top of the car window.

“You want to be fucked in a rubbish-filled alley like the whore that you are?” growled Sherlock.

“Yes!”

“Where anyone can watch you?”

“Want ‘em to see how good you fuck me, how much of a slut I am for you, but mostly I just want to feel you…oh, yeah…like that...make it burn.”

Sherlock pushed his cock into John’s hole. “Someone’s watching you, John.”

“Yeah?”

“Filming you on his phone.”

John pushed his arse back and bent lower, bracing himself against the car window. He drew the fabric of his costume up higher. “Give him a good show, Sherlock. Yeah, nice and rough. Let ‘em get a close-up shot of that gorgeous prick stretching my hole. Is he getting hard?”

“How could he not?” said Sherlock, thrusting deeper into John.

Suddenly, John jerked up, reached back, and grabbed Sherlock’s head by the hair at the scalp. Then he pressed the side of his face to Sherlock’s and forced them both to look toward the silhouette.

“I’ll leave you both to wank here and go sit on the first prick-shaped object I find, if you don’t eat this glitter, too.”

Chapter Text

John pushed his fingers between Sherlock and Mycroft’s lips. Their mouths sucked greedily as their hands tore at his costume. When fabric and flimsy props had fallen to the bedroom floor, John ordered,

“Strip.”

They kissed him, and John tasted grit on their tongues.

They licked at his ear and at his cheek as they disrobed, Sherlock shimmying out of his fairy-pants and Mycroft unbuttoning and unbuckling, divesting himself of a double-breasted suit and all its Saville Row accoutrement.

Sherlock’s tongue moved to John’s scar while Mycroft kissed along the left side of John’s neck. Sherlock rose, Mycroft sank, and then they were kissing each other.

“Yeah,” said John, watching them through half-lidded eyes. “Let’s all fuck.” He kissed their cheeks and eyelashes and nuzzled at their necks.

Mycroft broke away first. “You’re at the point of bursting, John,” he said, looking down. John’s cock was rosy, leaking, and even to the casual observer, painfully-engorged. “Let Sherlock suck you while I tongue-fuck your hole.”

John groaned and made for the bed at once, but Sherlock grabbed his arm.

“On our knees.”

John’s own knees buckled the instant he felt their mouths on him, but four hands steadied him as he jerked and shot his load down Sherlock’s throat. Mycroft continued to rim him through the aftershocks, only stopping to say,

“Share, Sherlock.”

Then Mycroft and Sherlock were kissing again, this time like mother bird to baby bird, Sherlock offering John’s come to a hungry, impatient Mycroft. Then Mycroft was kissing Sherlock’s bare torso, his mouth creating a wet trail through the iridescent glitter.

“Fuck him, My,” groaned John, unable to refrain from touching and kissing them both as they caressed each other.

And though it was too soon, John felt his body stir again as he watched Mycroft mount Sherlock and fuck him ruthlessly.


Sherlock sank his teeth into John’s thigh when Mycroft slammed into him for the last time.

“Your turn, Sherlock,” said John. His own prick was half-hard again. Mycroft began suckling it like a newborn, coaxing it slowly back to life, while Sherlock twisted one, then two, long fingers into his brother’s hole.

Mycroft mewled each time Sherlock brushed the sweet spot inside him, and Sherlock tested his brother’s limits, fingering him mercilessly and grinning wickedly at every plaintive noise.

“Stop,” said John when Sherlock’s body tensed in a tell-tale manner. “I want to be between you.”

In an instant, the tableau shifted. Mycroft was forced to awkwardly slot himself half-beneath John in order to suck his cock while Sherlock fucked his hole.

Sherlock came, first then John.

“You didn’t share, Mycroft,” said Sherlock.

“No, I didn’t,” replied Mycroft dryly.

Sherlock stared coldly on his brother. His hand formed a fist.

“Don’t appall me when I’m high,” warned Mycroft.

“Hey, no fighting,” said John. “But look here, Sherlock.”

WHAM!

Sherlock’s hands covered his face. When he lowered them, they were covered in blood.

“John?” he mumbled.

“That’s for drugging me.”

Sherlock grinned. “Splash of colour never hurts.”

Chapter Text

“Come in. Your first visit, I see. I’m Doctor Mesmer.”

“Really? That’s your name?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I suppose you couldn’t go into any other work, could you?”

Grey eyes blinked. “Sorry?”

“Never mind.”

“Have a seat, please.”

“Thanks. I’m John.”

“Yes, you are seeking relief for the tremor in your left hand and the psychosomatic limp in your right leg.”

“Wow. You got all that in one glance?”

Grey eyes smiled. “No. I read your file.”

“Oh. Never mind, again. Bit nervous. First time. Nothing else seems to be working.”

“Then let’s begin. I want you to relax, John. Keep your eyes on this.” A pocket watch on a chain appeared, then began to swing back and forth.

“You…are…getting…sleepy.”

John slowly closed his eyes.

“Now, John, when you wake, you will feel refreshed. You will have no pain, no tremor, only a strong desire to shag me senseless.”

“BLOODY HELL, YOU’RE NOT A HYPNOTIST!”

“No, but I am the world’s only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, and I am trying to catch a clever serial killer who has taken the lives of four hypnotists in the past month.”

“Why haven’t I read about this in the paper? Oh, there was a suicide.”

“Two suicides, an accidental drowning, and a drugs overdose. All, in fact, murders. There was a failed attempt on Doctor Walters’s life last night.”

“Doctor Walters?”

“Really, John, you aren’t very observant.” Sherlock gestured to the framed documents on the walls. “Yes, he ordered a Halloween Hypnotist at a drinking establishment. The blue glow stick that garnished the cocktail was tainted and cracked. He’s in hospital. I’m setting a trap for his killer. My theory is that he will return to finish the job; in fact, I believe him to be my 1:30.” He glanced at his watch.

“Is this how you make a living, trying to get yourself killed?”

“Yes. And solving puzzles and crimes.”

“Good. Because you’re a shit hypnotist.” John shook his head, then grinned. “What was that shagging bit about?”

“An experiment.”

“In?”

“The power of suggestion,” said Sherlock. “John, you were a soldier. You’ve seen a bit of trouble. Want to see some more?”

“What, you need an assistant? Or back-up?”               

Grey eyes widened like saucers.

“Yes! Perfect! You hide in the closet. I’ll provoke him into trying to kill me, then you jump out and we’ll nab him!”

“What about this?” John tapped his cane. “I’m hardly action hero material.”

“I think a bit of danger is just what the doctor ordered.”

They locked eyes for a long minute, then John said,

“All right. But for the record, I don’t fancy going back in the closet.”

“If it’s any consolation, no one will be more relieved to see you come out of it than I.”

“So we get him, and then what?”

“Perhaps a victory celebration,” said Sherlock glancing toward the corner of the room, “on Doctor Walters’ very Freudian-looking sofa.”

“Won’t this be a crime scene?”

“Even better.”

Chapter Text

John’s chin rose above the bar. “Nineteen,” he grunted.

“Do you always start your day like this, Captain? If we’re sharing quarters, we should know the worst about each other. I play the violin.”

“I know. I heard. Twenty.” John exhaled and dropped to the ground. He reached for a towel and began wiping the sweat from his face, neck, and chest. “And yes. I don’t want to lose my strength now that I’ve finally recovered it. And battling the undead means always being in peak form; you never know when you’ll be called up. By the way, I think I owe you a ‘thank you.’”

“For what? You survived Maiwand. You deserve a soft bunk and a bit of quiet.”

“When I first arrived, I was certain that I’d be sent to the labour camp. My guess is that you convinced someone to give me a chance here.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Holmes isn’t that common a name. Not anymore.”

Sherlock huffed and rolled towards the wall.

John smiled. “And this isn’t the first time you’ve watched me train.”

Sherlock shot John a quick look over his shoulder, then huffed and rolled away again.

John laughed and neared the bunk. “I know when eyes on me. Dead, undead, and gorgeously, enchantingly, extraordinarily alive.”

When Sherlock turned his head, John’s lips were a breath’s distance from his.

“Thank you,” whispered John.

“You’re welcome.”

“You saved my life.”

“You survived Maiwand. You saved all our lives.”

They held each other’s gaze for a moment, then John said,  

“I’m surprised you’re still sleeping. I thought you’d be at the lab, what with your discovery yesterday.”

“I will be,” said Sherlock. “I got distracted.”

John grinned, then his expression became solemn. “The few scientists I’ve met were working on weapons. You’re doing something good, vaccine, treatment.”

“Cure,” said Sherlock. “That agent that generates hemoglobin and nothing else is the first step.”

“Synthetic blood without the virus? Extraordinary.”

“First, clean blood, then, clean tissue, then….”

John licked his lips. “Like I said, ‘extraordinary.’”

Sherlock raked his eyes down John’s chest. “Like I said, ‘distracting,’ but if you’d like to show your gratitude, I can think of a way.”

“Yes?”

“Perhaps you’d like to go through your routine again. It would be motivating, bordering on inspirational.”

John chuckled. “Slowly? In the nude?”

Sherlock’s pupils blew black. “Commencing with the muscle that seems to be flexing of its own accord at this moment.”

“Oh, yeah, I’ll give that one a workout. Unless you’d prefer to…”

“Watch. The first set, at least.”

John nodded. He grabbed a chair and some slick, peeled off his pants, and sat with the legs spread wide.

“Join me, if it suits you.”

Sherlock nodded, and John threw the bottle of lube onto the bunk.

“Your body, the way it moves,” groaned Sherlock as he ran a slicked hand along his own cock.

“Your mind, the way it moves,” said John, mirroring Sherlock’s stroke and his groan. “And hurrah for science.”

Chapter Text

John charged the pack, bit the furry sack by the scruff of the neck and threw it on his back. Then he raced to the outermost edge of the preserve and was relieved to find the cave he desired unoccupied.

He tossed the lump on the floor of the cave, then growled at it.

With a whir, the top of the sack split, and a human head emerged.

“John, I can explain.”

John barked.

“My disguise—and the musk—weren’t convincing.”

You look like a cheap carpet. You smell like a were-whore—and there are no were-whores!

“I wanted to see a full moon gathering.”

John glared.

Watch a documentary like everyone else!

“Nothing beats first-hand observation.”

Try again.

“I am jealous. I want to be your mate, every day of the month, every stage of the moon.”

John padded towards Sherlock and licked his cheek.

“I want to mate with you.”

John whined.

No!

“I can! I’ve been preparing myself with larger and larger sized plugs.”

John tilted his head.

You’re mad.

“I estimated based on your human cock size and your stature as a wolf. I’m ready, John. Even the knot.”

Well that explains the lubricant I’ve been smelling around the flat. I was worried you’d turned into a wanking fiend.

“Please, John.” Sherlock sank his fingers into the fur around John’s neck and began to scratch. Then he leant forward and whispered in John’s ear. “I want you to fill me, stretch me, claim me. I’m begging, John.” Then Sherlock stepped out of the fur suit and slipped off his pants. He fell to the floor of the cave and turned with hindquarters raised in invitation.

John gave a half-growl, half-snort, then picked Sherlock up by the scruff of his neck and carried him farther into the cave.


The grotto was as beautiful as John remembered, the opening in the rocks above allowing silvery moonlight to dance across the surface of the water.

John barked.

My way.

And as ever, somehow Sherlock understood the message in the feral sound.

“Your way, John,” he agreed.

John pushed Sherlock to the ground, then scented him, nuzzling, licking, every nook and cranny of Sherlock’s body. Armpits. Ears. Backs of knees. Creases of thighs.

Sherlock scratched John’s ears, his neck, his belly, wherever his long fingers could reach. He moaned John’s name and rubbed himself against John’s fur.

John licked Sherlock’s perineum until Sherlock was whimpering, then he tongued at Sherlock’s rim until the whimpers turned to coalesced into one plea-chant.

“Fuck me, John. Fuck me.”

John licked Sherlock’s cock until they were both hard. Sherlock came; John licked him clean.

“FUCK ME!” cried Sherlock, still trembling.

John nosed Sherlock until he was on all fours again. Then he eyed Sherlock’s gaping hole with no little lust.

My mate, mine.

“Yours, John.”

And when John was finally fully sheathed inside Sherlock, he twisted his head and nipped gently at Sherlock’s neck.

Such a size queen.

Sherlock smiled and moaned. “I know.”

 

 

 

Chapter Text

Sherlock squinted at the near-faded words. “Abracadabra?”

POOF!

“Oh, thank the devil it’s you. I thought for a moment those three morons had finally mumbled the words in right order.”

Sherlock blinked at the puff of smoke, the talking puff of smoke. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes,” he said. “And you are…?”

“We don’t get names. We’re Legion. Always wanted a name, something crisp and sharp and evil. Like Maleficent or…”

“You’re a demon?” interrupted Sherlock.

The puff of smoke grew darker and, well, puffier. “Fuck, are you a moron, too?!”

“So this really is a book of spells and those three forgers really were a Satanic cult?”

“Wait a minute, those idiots aren’t ours! They got caught, didn’t they? And those clothes!”

“So what now? Are you going to possess me?”

“I’m not really the possessive type, but since you did conjure me, I am obliged to give you what you need.”

“Like a wish?”

“Do I look like a genie?! What you need, not what your idiot brain thinks you want.”

“Which is?”

“Let’s see.”

The smoke swirled into a cyclone and orbited about Sherlock.

“Interesting. You need not to be bored. Funny enough, that’s what I need, too. Oh, we’re going to pals! Love the Dolce & Gabbana, by the way! Guess what? I changed my mind. That’s my one flaw. I’m so changeable!”

“You aren’t going to give me what I need?”

“No, I am going to possess you. Come here, pretty Sherlock.”

“Mmfph!” Sherlock let out a strangled cry as he crumpled to the floor of the lab.

The buttons on his shirt popped.

“Oh God,” he groaned.

“Let’s not bring Him into it, shall we? Head in the game, Sherly.”

Sherlock’s belt unfastened and his trousers opened. He groaned again. His clothes and underclothes parted and his cock sprang free.

“Yeah, love that sinister bend to the left, Sherly. As human cocks go, this one’s swell—and swelling! Ha, ha! I crack myself up sometimes!”

Sherlock arched his back away from the tiles as his cock hardened, then began to leak. His eyes rolled back into his head; his head rolled back and forth on the floor. His jaw dropped, his tongue lolled, and he moaned.

“Actually, it’s quite nice as cocks go. Makes me wish I had studied incubus-ing or succubus-ing or, what’s the other one, oh yes, communications, in school.”

“W-w-what did you study?” stammered Sherlock.

“Evil. Consulting evil. Bo-ring.”

“OH!” Sherlock writhed and turned on his side as he spent himself, decorating the wall and floor with ribbons of come.

“Good. But I can do better.”

“AARGH!”

Sherlock’s body seized as if struck by lightning.

He came again. And again. Then suddenly, he fell completely still.

“Blew the fuse, eh? It happens. Well, it’s been a pleasure, Sherlock,” said the puff of smoke as it snaked towards, then through, the door. “Let’s see. To continue this little game of ours, I need a human host. Oh, look, that slob from IT. He’ll do.”

 

Chapter Text

Sherlock’s teeth make a delicious crunch as they slice through the candy apple, and he resembles nothing so much as the treat that he is enjoying.

The fruit-flesh exposed by his bite is as pale as the skin stretched across his back and shoulders.

His lips, now glossed with red candy lacquer, wiggle into and out of a gleeful smile as he chews.

He hums with undisguised delight.

The wet shine on his lips is that of the apple, but also that of his nails, bright crimson tips adorning the long, slender fingers currently wrapped around the dowel of the impaled fruit. He is kneeling on the seat of the sofa, facing the kitchen, both elbows resting on the arm. One foot is buried in the cushion, but the other is hanging over the edge and a sliver of scarlet flashes when he points his toes.

He takes another bite.

CRUNCH!

The apple is round, round like the pair of pretty buttocks on display. Sherlock licks the sweetness from his lips and red fades to pink, the faint pink that his bum still retains from the firm spanking of earlier.

Sherlock slurps and licks his finger. A drop of candied saliva falls from his lips, and like the first bead of pre-come that leaks from a hard cock, it leaves a dark wet stain on the fabric of sofa.

Sherlock holds the apple in front of him, twisting the dowel, examining the half-devoured fruit from all sides.

Then he grunts. It’s a noise of contradiction; like satisfaction at his stretched hole being finally, finally, breached by a well-lubed cockhead as well as greedy impatience for a full claiming. He attacks the remaining half of the apple with the same eagerness that he displays in pushing back against a half-sheathed prick.

The apple is decorated with sprinkles, tiny sugar-shards in a rainbow of colours. With Sherlock’s every bite, a few shake free of their moorings and catch the light as they fall. With Sherlock’s every move, three rhinestones also catch the light. They dangle on silken cords from the plug sunk deep inside him. The plug is a dark stem only glimpsed when Sherlock’s cheeks are spread wide. It keeps him open and ready and mindful.

And, thus, the kneeling.

More and more of the apple disappears until all that is left is the dowel and a tiny bit of core. Then like a vaudeville performer with his sword, Sherlock throws his head back, holds the stick up high, and swallows it. He pulls it back out through teeth that scrape it clean. Then he makes a lewd show of smacking his lips.

As he giggles at his own performance, the dowel slips from his fingers. It leaves an obscene smear on the slope of the sofa-arm before falling to the rug.

Sherlock twists abruptly. He drops his chin and purses his lips in a playful pout; then gazing up through dark, feathery eyelashes, asks sweetly,

“Daddy, may I have another?”

Chapter Text

“A hammock? Not a coffin?”

A grin spreads across Lestrade’s face as he sets the brown box tied with string on a chair.

“Why I suggested we use the guest room,” said Mycroft. “My own sleeping arrangements are unconventional for a vampire, for anyone, really.”

Lestrade walks around the hammock, studying it. “A cocoon?”

“It can be,” admits Mycroft. “I prefer to sleep,” he pauses, “suspended.”

“Like a bat!” cries Lestrade.

Mycroft blushes.

Still grinning, Lestrade closes the distance between them. “Room enough for two in there?”

“Yes,” breathes Mycroft, his gaze fixed on Lestrade’s lips.

“Good. But goblins, even halflings like me, generally prefer to keep at least one foot on the ground.”

“Kiss me,” whispers Mycroft.

The bedroom falls dark the moment that their lips meet. The kiss is soft, chaste, a brush of ‘hello’ with a touch of ‘Aren’t you lovely?’.

Lestrade wonders how a nightwalker can feel so warm. Mycroft wonders how flakes of buttery croissant will taste scraped off those lips.

“My,” groans Lestrade against Mycroft’s cheek. When their lips meet again, the kiss is the very opposite of chaste.

WHOOSH!

Lestrade laughs as candles—candles so well hidden they seemed conjured from thin air—light spontaneously. “You know how to set the mood, don’t you?”

“Goblins like fire, no?” teases Mycroft as he leans in for another kiss.

“And as humans go, I’m a hopeless romantic.”

This kiss is long and wet and wanting and when it breaks, Lestrade’s voice is thick with desire.

“My, I want to feel you.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft. It’s what he wants, too, what they’ve both been wanting, through the stop at the German bakery to tap at the glass case and snicker about how hungry they’ll be in the morning, through the journey to the Vampire Spire and the glass lift that rocketed them to this cave high above the city.

They are finally shirtless, eyes devouring what mouths will soon worship.

Dark hirsute chest meets smooth alabaster one, and last bits of restraint dissolve. Lestrade growls and rubs himself against Mycroft, who licks at Lestrade’s neck, teasing the fluttering pulse with the tip of his tongue.

“I want to rut all over you, My.”

“Guest room,” mutters Mycroft.

“Floor,” insists Lestrade, toeing off his shoes. When he begins to ease his trousers down, there is a gasp. Lestrade looks up and laughs.

“Seriously? You know everything, but not about goblin cock?”

“I don’t give credence to rumour.”

“Not rumor.” Lestrade stands, naked. “Why do think we’re so skilled at preparing unguents?”

Mycroft is speechless.

“I’ll not take you tonight, or ever if you don’t want it.”

“Wise, but tonight, rut all over me, come all over me, please,” pleads Mycroft.

“Yeah, I’d love to fuck you against that window, show the whole world this gorgeous bit of wantonness.”

Mycroft’s shudder is the first of many, but dawn finds him sated and curled against Lestrade, who keeps one foot on the ground, rocking them both to blissful slumber.

Chapter Text

The instant Sherlock’s arse hit the table, his legs sprang apart. John slotted his body between them and began to grind his crotch into Sherlock’s as they kissed, open-mouthed, sloppy, hungry.

“Goes without saying,” said John.

“Say it anyway,” said Sherlock.

“You’re fucking amazing.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. John kissed it.

“He was clever as fake mediums go,” said Sherlock. “If he’d chose another line of work, say, crime-solving, he’d have been successful. ‘Cold readings’ are all about observation and inference and research.”

“Not cheating old ladies out of their pearl necklaces? You were good with Mrs. Forrester, by the way. Gentle. Kind. And you being good always makes me,” John paused to kiss Sherlock’s lips, “want to be bad. Very bad.” He unfastened Sherlock’s trousers and slid his hands inside, cupping bare buttocks. “Christ, no pants,” he groaned, then licked a stripe up the side of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock grunted and raised his knees, clasping his thighs tighter around John’s rutting form.

John buried his face in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, nibbling and nipping the delicate skin as he kneaded the round mounds of flesh filling his palms. “And you did it all in those Hallowe’en heels. Fuck.”

“Ghoulish little beauties, aren’t they?” said Sherlock with a chuckle. He turned his head to admire gold swirls and, of course, the skulls. “A bit ‘Queen of the Damned’, I think.”

“Fuck, yeah,” said John, smiling. He curled a hand in Sherlock’s hair and met his dark gaze. “I’m your slave tonight.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, then his voice dropped to a low whisper. “Tonight you will serve your Queen with constant—and utterly depraved—displays of adoration.”

“Fuck, yes,” breathed John as he clumsily freed his erect cock from his trousers.

Sherlock held their cocks together with one hand; he put the other hand flat, palm up, before John’s chin.

“Spit,” he ordered. John did.


“Oh God.” John was so transfixed by Sherlock’s words and the sight of their cocks and hands, both dripping with his saliva and their collective pre-come, that his lower half slowed to a stand-still.

“You will debase yourself,” said Sherlock. “Indulge my every caprice. I may shackle you to my bed or saddle you and ride you like a beast of burden. Whip you. Latch you to a stand and breed you, over and over—“

"Fuck, yeah."

They began to rock together violently, so violently, that John opened his eyes and looked down at the round lacquered table.

“Uh, Sherlock? Is the table moving by itself? I thought you cleared this place of all the wires and strings and tricks.”

“I did,” said Sherlock hesitantly, following John’s gaze. “I’m not moving it.”

“Neither am I,” said John.

Sherlock shrugged. “Maybe real ghosts tire of being summoned by charlatans.”

John laughed. “And appreciate gorgeous footwear and gorgeous fucking?”

Sherlock grinned and nodded.

“Well, let’s not disappoint them, especially today,” said John as he leaned closer, kissed Sherlock, and gave their cocks a lustful squeeze.

Chapter Text

“…and see, that’s another thing that John doesn’t know about me! He’d never believe I even knew a joke about female genitalia!”

Sherlock slid the saucer of milk before the kitten, who was perched atop the kitchen stool, staring at him, angrily.

“Not funny, I know, but since you were, until moments ago, a wet pussy, I thought you might find it mildly amusing.”

The kitten stared. Angrily.

“Sorry. Won’t happen again. But that’s another thing that John doesn’t know about me! That I’d rescue a storm-drenched calico, dry it, feed it.” He reached into the cupboard. “Look, sardines!”

The kitten stared. Angrily.

 “John’s on a date tonight,” said Sherlock as he dumped the sardines in dish. “He’s got his wet pussy, I suppose, but I prefer mine.” He placed the sardines beside the milk. “Don’t know why John keeps these in the flat, I’ve never seen him eat them.”

The kitten meowed and bent its tiny head to nibble at the fish.

“John doesn’t know that I can make tea,” said Sherlock. “I’d prefer to keep that bit of knowledge a secret, if you don’t mind.”

The kitten looked up from the saucer of milk and stared. Angrily.

“Yes, that’s exactly how he’d look at me if he knew.” He sighed. “I knew he’d be out tonight. John doesn’t realise it, but his libido is like clockwork. Full moon, he always goes in search of somewhere to rest his head.” Sherlock shrugged. “We’re all creatures of habit, I suppose.”

“All done? Storm’s not letting up, so, you can stay the night, but in the morning, you’d best be off. Come, I’ll make a nice bed for you."


Sherlock stretched out atop his bed; after a few turns, the kitten settled in the centre of the beige wool nest beside him.

“That’s my favourite of John’s jumpers. It smells the most like him, even when he’s not wearing it.”

The kitten stared.

“I know, a bit Not Good. John’s not the most observant fellow, but even he must see what he means to me." Sherlock shook his head. “That he doesn’t reciprocate the sentiment, is fine, all fine. All. Fine. He’ll be furious about the cat hair. Even he won’t fail to notice the black and orange and tan…” 

Sherlock turned his head and smiled as John’s jumper began to purr. Then he closed his eyes and listened to rain against the window pane.


Sherlock opened his eyes.

John. In his bed. Naked. Well, half-naked. The upper half was covered in the beige wool jumper.

“John?”

John opened his eyes. “You can make tea, you sod!”

“You’re a kitten!” cried Sherlock. “An angry kitten!”

“You’re in love with me!”

“And you’re a kitten!”

“Well, I’m in love with you, too!”

Sherlock’s jaw dropped, then he whispered, “And you’re a kitten.”

“Yeah,” said John with a wicked grin. He uncurled and crawled toward Sherlock. “And now, if you’re amenable, this wet pussy’s going to come all over you.”

“Me-ow!” cried Sherlock. 

Chapter Text

“Detective Inspector.”

“Fuck! You do know how to appear out of nowhere, don’t you, Mister Holmes?”

“I come bearing gifts,” said Mycroft. He held a brown paper bag in one hand and a thermos flask in the other. “It’s the least that one can offer a civil servant who is about his public duty when the rest of the world is about merry-making.”

“All the senior officers have to do a shift walking the beat on Guy Fawkes Night,” said Lestrade. “This is my assignment, Parliament. Ghostly place at night, when there’s no one about. All the bombers are out there; half of the merry-makers, as you call them, don’t even know what they’re celebrating. Why are you here? Not just to deliver,” he took the bag and opened it. “Corned beef! Hello! God bless, you sir! What’s in the flask?”

“You aren’t supposed to drink on the job, Detective Inspector. It’s cider, only slightly fortified.”

Lestrade opened the flask and sniffed. “Smells fabulous. Care to join me? I know the perfect nook.” 


“This is the perfect nook,” said Mycroft.

Lestrade refilled the lid of the thermos between them; he finished the rest of the sandwich and wiped his hands with a paper napkin.

“Thank you,” said Mycroft.

“For?”

“Not pressing the question of why I am here.”

“I’m not as thick as your brother supposes. If you want to tell me, I’m listening, but if it’s,” he made a vague gesture with his hands, “then, that’s all right, too.”

“I was here earlier on official business, and I saw you at the beginning of your shift. That business is,” he waved his hands in imitation of Lestrade’s, “but my return visit is purely personal.”

Lestrade smiled. “I like you, too. A lot. And that’s not the—what’s this called?” he raised the flask lid.

“’Remember, Remember.’”

Lestrade snorted. “—the pretentiously-named, but deliciously-tasting beverage talking.”

“As one in possession of a pretentious name, I can only plead—“

Lestrade silenced Mycroft with a kiss was as warm and as sweet as the flavor on his lips.

“Mister Holmes.”

“Detective Inspector.”

They both smiled.

“Mycroft, please.”

“Greg.”

“Gregory?”

“For you, yeah.”

Lestrade brushed Mycroft’s bottom lip with his thumb, then trailed kisses down his neck, only stopping to whisper,

“I’m not in the habit of offering sexual favours in return for food and drink, but…”

Mycroft countered, “I’m not in the habit of accepting sexual favours under any circumstances, but…”

Lestrade settled on the floor between Mycroft’s legs. “Let’s see what I can do about some fireworks since you’ve been so noble in sacrificing your own viewing of them tonight.”

“A warning: like most spectacles, this one may be over before anyone wishes.”

Lestrade snorted. “There’s always tomorrow, too. I’ve the day off.”

“A car will be waiting at the end of your shift to take you wherever you wish to go, including your home or mine.”

Lestrade nodded. “Sounds good. For now, sit back close your eyes, and enjoy the show.” 

 

Chapter Text

When the door is finally closed and the curtains drawn, when clothing and the day’s worries are finally strewn about the floor, when skin finally, finally, meets skin, they sigh.

They sigh and exhale the last of the iron will that has kept their desire—not the hot-and-heavy-fuck-me kind, but the please-God-just-let-me-touch-him-just-let-him-touch-me kind—in check. They sigh and inhale each other’s breath, warm air that smells of spirit and ginger and lime and copper. They kiss mouths that taste of jokes, jokes about mules and bucks and jackasses.

They sigh and melt into each other, fitting angles and planes together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. They move together, nuzzling necks and armpits, brushing lips across temples and cheeks and chins. They rise and fall, like the tide, or perhaps, more like a curious seabird gliding upon a salty sun-soaked breeze.

They’ve done this before, you see.

They will fuck, eventually. They’ll slick and probe and breech and sink and sheath and thrust, with all the heady acoustical accompaniment and the twisted sheets and the sweat pooling between shoulder blades. There will be pleas and urgings and profane cries swallowed, bitten short.

But for now, they roll back and forth, trading parts of gentle surrender and benevolent conquest, of swelling and cresting and sinking. Soft, slow, as if they have all day and tomorrow and the next. As if they have infinite reserves of strength and stamina, of wit and wakefulness.

They can do this all night, just watch them.


The night has been too bitter. Too cold. Too sharp. Too bureaucratic. Too much wasted time and too little to show for it. Too old world, old school, old country. All the inefficiency, none of the charm.

Something is thrown against something. Something shatters.

And then there is a yielding, arms opened. And then a folding up, folding over, folding into one another and into a woolly embrace that caws, I’m here, I’m here. It keeps pecking at their thick, stubborn, tree-bark defenses until coat and jumper are discarded. Vests and shirts, too.

And the Devil himself would not dare put asunder when lips finally, finally, meet.

Fingers weave into hair. Hands still, then tilt heads that mouths might draw as if each was a source of life-giving water. And maybe they are.

Skin is wet with kisses and dried with endearments wrapped in puffs of air.

Gorgeous. Need you. Brilliant. Please. Extraordinary. Just you.

Two steps are less than nine.

Sofa.

Like strips of bacon in a pan, they lay. Nipples rub in whorish fashion; mouths exert free rein from clavicle to brow. Playful pups, they nip and tease until one of them laughs.

And the other is so enchanted, so charmed, so spellbound, that he stops and stares.

And they fall in love all over again. Then eyes close and one cheek is pressed to another so that whispers might have a shorter journey.

And the word is love.

Chapter Text

Here we come a-wassailing among the leaves so green,” sang a voice.

Here we come a-wand'ring so fair to be seen,” sang another.

Molly stopped and smiled. “Did you murder all the cabbies in London? I can’t find one.”

“Did you kill all the cabbies in London, Seb?”

“Nah, it’s Christmas.”

Jim shrugged. “You look lovely, my dear. Care to join us?”

“After the party I’ve just survived? Yes!”

Jim opened the rear car door while Seb set Molly’s shopping bags on the front seat.

Molly slid into the car. Jim followed, tapped the partition and said, “Home, Henri.”


“Don’t mess up her hair!”

“I’m not!”

“Stop bickering and you can take turns wearing this.” Molly plucked the sparkly flower from her hair and offered it to Seb, who grinned and tucked it behind his ear.

They resumed kissing. Molly sighed and leaned into Jim’s lips, which were worrying a tender spot on her nape, while Seb trailed tiny kisses along her jawline.

“Sir Prickness was extra odious tonight, wasn’t he, my dear?”

“Horrible. Every time. Always. Oh, don’t stop.” She reached back and curled her fingers in Jim’s hair.

“As if I would stop, especially when you’re getting delightfully warm and wet and panty. But, for the record, Sebbie, what do we think about men who shame women about the size of their breasts?”

Seb eased the straps off Molly’s shoulders. He bent low and kissed each of Molly’s nipples in turn, then said, “We think the prats deserve a bit of mammoplasty themselves—without anesthesia. Heh, heh.” He buried his face in Molly’s cleavage, nuzzling and licking.

“And what do we think about our Molly’s mouth?”

Molly tilted her head back to kiss Jim’s lips, then forward to kiss Seb’s.

“Perfect,” said Seb. He rubbed his coarse thumb over her bottom lip and kissed her again.

Jim slid a hand under Molly’s dress. “I found a shade of red that Baron Rudefishface missed.”

Molly whimpered.

“Our pet needs a thorough petting, Sebbie.”

Seb yanked Molly’s dress up to her waist. She straddled his thigh while Jim pulled at red ribbon ties of her knickers, then looked over her shoulder.

“You’ll bugger me while Seb fucks me?”

“Gladly. After your second orgasm, though, because—“

“It’s Christmas,” said Seb. “Here’s my gift.” He shoved the red silk knickers into Jim’s mouth. “Silent Night, heh, heh.”

Jim glare at Seb, but quickly turned his attention to Molly’s arse as she bounced.

“Oh, oh!” Molly grabbed Seb’s shoulders and slammed her hips into him.

BEEP!

“I’d kill them if they weren’t already dead,” grumbled Jim.

Molly lowered the partition. “Barts, Henri?”

“Oui, Mademoiselle.”

She reached into her bag, then handed him a box. “Pour vous.”

“What about us?!”

“Here,” Molly produced a thermos flask. “Mrs. Hudson’s famous wassail. Oh, Seb?”

“Toby’s antibiotics, six and twelve, got it.”


“Now what?”

Seb took a sip from the thermos. Then he wrapped a fist around Jim’s cock and sang,

Love and joy come to you…”

Chapter Text

John’s cock slid into Sherlock’s gaping hole as smooth as—

“Hot buttered rum.”

The rich flavour was still on warm on John’s tongue but it paled in comparison to the delicious delectability of Sherlock’s wet, hot sheath, which—impossibly or perhaps only highly improbably—was drawing John’s cock deeper and deeper inside him.

Sherlock’s core muscles were aided by those of his own fingers, digging into John’s thighs, urging John closer, and those of his lips when they whined,

“More, John, please.”

“Gagging for it, aren’t you, love?”

Sherlock’s reply was to spread his knees even wider, arch his back even rounder, and lift his arse even higher.

John massaged Sherlock’s buttocks in firm, circling strokes, admiring Sherlock’s wanton beauty, and cooing, “My gorgeous little slut, my filthy, cock-loving whore.”

This was the moment that they’d been anticipating since they’d left the Scotland Yard holiday party. By the time the taxi arrived in front of the Baker Street flat, Sherlock was squirming like a schoolboy in his seat, and the front door had barely closed before he was shoving his trousers down and throwing himself face-first into the wall.

“Here, John. Please, I can’t wait. Put it in me, please.”

As tempting as Sherlock’s panted plea and naked arse were, John was more desirous of keeping their landlady blissfully ignorant of what was exactly between his legs. And he could never resist letting Sherlock have a long, greedy look before he fucked him. First, because of the mingled awe and lust in Sherlock’s expression and second, because that first look seemed to reduce Sherlock to utter shamelessness.

John had hauled Sherlock up the stairs and down the hall to the bedroom. Then he had tossed him on the bed and stripped.

“Oh, God, John, yes, yes.”

In seconds, Sherlock was naked, on hands and knees on the bed and an anal plug was rolling across on the floor. Head buried the mattress, he reached behind himself and parted his buttocks.

“So ready, John. See? I need it. I’ll do anything, anything at all, to have that precious star fucking me.”

Star.

Never ‘prick’ or ‘cock,’ and in one unguarded moment, Sherlock had confessed he thought those words woefully inadequate for John’s member. Or members.

So star it was.

Or sea star when Sherlock was feeling unusually romantic, say, after a night of near-continuous fucking.

But really, as metaphors went, sea anemone was more appropriate, a dozen tentacles that could collapse together to enter Sherlock, as they just had, but once inside could—

“FUCK!”

“Hot buttered rum,” said John, licking his lips.

He began to thrust, but the gentle, steady exterior motion belied what was occuring out of sight. Inside Sherlock, tentacles were writhing, wriggling, twisting, caressing, teasing every nerve at once, and most importantly, wiping his supercomputer of a mind completely blank.

There would be no more words from Sherlock now, just needy grunts and whimpers, not even when John yanked his head back by the hair and whispered,

“Mine.”

Chapter Text

Mycroft knew that timing was everything, and unlike Sherlock, he knew how to wait for the right moment.

“Go!” said Sherlock.

Mycroft went.

Now was the moment, the one that Mycroft had been thinking of for a long time. His haste as he approached the hospital lift was both genuine and feigned.

The lift doors stopped.

“Going down?”

“Yes, thank you, Detective Inspector.”

The doors closed.

Mycroft smoothed a hand down the front of his suit, the suit that had been chosen from his entire wardrobe for this very moment.

“Glad to hear his Majesty will be discharged this afternoon,” said Lestrade. “I wouldn’t wish being in hospital on Christmas on anyone, but I don’t envy John for the next few days.”

“Indeed. I never envy Doctor Watson’s lot, but I am relieved as it halves mine. Might I offer you a ride, Detective Inspector?”

“You might if you could see to calling me ‘Greg’ one of these days.”

The smile, the teasing tone boded well, but Mycroft quickly squashed the flutter of hope in his chest.

Too soon.

“Gregory?”

“Why not? It’s Christmas.”


“What does the British Government keep in his thermos flask?”

“As you cleverly pointed out, it’s Christmas.” Mycroft unscrewed the lid. “Mulled wine?”

Mulled wine. Not cider, not eggnog, not cocoa, Mycroft had decided.

Lestrade sniffed. “Hello! Smells fabulous.”

Mycroft poured fragrant liquid in the flask lid.

“We can share if you don’t mind copper germs,” said Lestrade.

Mycroft made a dismissive noise. Lestrade sipped.

“Wow, that’s the smoothest version of this stuff I’ve ever tasted. Not too sweet, either. Where’d you get it?”

The base recipe had been selected from scores, then modified batch by batch over the course of a long weekend in the kitchen.

“I do know how to operate a stove, Gregory.”

Lestrade laughed. “You’re full of surprises, Mycroft Holmes.” He tilted the lid back, then offered the empty cup to Mycroft. “One for yourself?”

“Have you plans for Christmas?”

Greg sighed. “I’ve an invitation.”

Former sister-in-law. Family of six.

“Well, now you have two, should you wish to politely decline one.”

“With you and…?”

“A larger amount of this seasonal elixir.”

Lestrade laughed again. “Mycroft, I’ve been thinking, well, a lot and a long time. Well, I don’t know if you even…”

I do, Gregory.

“…we cross paths at crime scenes and Sherlock’s hospital rooms, but maybe you’d like to spend some time, with me, that is, somewhere else. Christmas Eve is kind of a big day to have a first date, but…”

“What about the day before Christmas Eve?”

Lestrade looked at his watch, then leaned closer. “There’s a couple more hours in it.”

Their lips met.

Relief and joy and a heavenly host of other emotions sang in Mycroft’s chest.

“Truthfully, I need a shower and a nap, Mycroft.”

“Both of which are plentiful at my flat.”

Too bold? No, Gregory was grinning.

“…but when I wake up, I’m going to show you everything else I’ve been thinking about.”

Chapter Text

“Get on with it, you useless bit of—“

“Hush, Mister Reindeer, or I’ll fit you with a bit and bridle to match your lovely antlers.”

Jim growled.

He was angry, but he was not angry.

Yes, he’d expected Seb to turn his challenge of eating the whole gingerbread house without puking into a bet.

No, he wasn’t surprised when the terms of bet included the loser wearing a pair of felt antlers and being strapped to a breeding stand.

But he wasn’t expecting to lose!

Seb had already had a full meal—and two pints! Bloody hell, the man was a machine! Jim knew that he was always underestimating Seb. And, for once, he was paying the price for it.

Well, sort of.

The antlers were humiliating, yes, but the breeding stand? Well, it wasn’t that bad, but damned if Jim was going to let his sniper-cum-lover know that. In truth, the stand made Sebby, well, extra-Sebby. Extra long, wet kisses that made Jim’s knees weak. Extra long, extra firm, oh, God, yes, petting from neck to back, then buttocks and thighs.

But the prep was also taking extra long.

“Just fuck me, you bastard!”

“Is that any way to talk to Santa?”

WHACK!

Jim roared in protest, but the slap to his buttock went straight to his groin. His half-hard cock sprang to full life.

“I didn’t want to have to do this, Mister Reindeer.”

Oh, fuck.

Sebby knew just how to torture him—Seb knew just how to torture other people, too, of course, but that wasn’t the point. Ball gag to silence Jim’s mouth meant other parts were going to get extra, extra special Sebby attention.

Christ, he was hard.

Jim made a show of straining against his restraints, but he would have cut off his arm—and someone else’s—before he’d fail to honour a bet with Seb. Jim was a psychopath, not an idiot. He knew that you didn’t cross a man who shared a bed with both you and a loaded gun. And a knife. And, sometimes, a crossbow. It was often crowded bed, to be sure.

“Now,” said Seb, fastening the gag. “Where was I?”

FUCK!

Seb’s tongue, his mouth, his lips, but Jesus-nailed-to-the-fucking-cross-with-their-bedfellow-the-crossbow, his tongue. And those hands! Kneading, massaging, working all the kinks, heh, heh, out of Jim’s…

Suddenly, there were lips at Jim’s neck.

“Gorgeous prick, how do I not fall in love all over again when you laugh your real, not-killing-people laugh?”

The gag came off.                                                                                                      

“Get on with it, you lazy, Yule-log-licking, son of a—!“

The gag went back on.

“All right, let’s get you hitched up to this sleigh good and proper, Mister Reindeer.”

Finally!

Seb’s fingers, quick, efficient. Then, his long, thick, ever-loving cock.

Jim didn’t believe in subspace or whatever the idiots called it, but damn, this was good.

He closed his eyes and considered other wagers he might lose while Seb began pounding his hole and humming a horrid tune about a bloody…

“...Re-in-de-er!”

Chapter Text

John stared at the candy cane.

Why did she have this?

Because it had seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Because she’d felt like she was in a film, one of those unamusing American Christmas comedies. And in such films, her character, the devoted sidekick, would most assuredly grab a candy cane off the store’s hideously over-decorated Christmas tree and say, ‘Ho, ho, ho, bitches!’ right before following the hero out the door but right after r said hero had brought the villains, in this case the store’s rogue St. Nick and two elves, to justice, of course, and showed off in front of the police.

Yes, it was the thing to do.

But now John had the candy cane.

How long had it been since she’d eaten one? She couldn’t remember. She tried to tear the plastic wrapper and eventually had to give up and rip it with her teeth.

After a tiny, ridiculous war, the tip of the candy cane was exposed. John studied it, then gave it a tentative lick.

It tasted just like she remembered. Sweet. Minty, and if there was anything wrong with it, some rogue contagion, surely Sherlock—seated beside John in the taxi, but thoroughly engrossed in her mobile—would’ve spoke up by now.

Then Sherlock did speak up. Well, she huffed and said,

“As if they would waste drugs on candy. It’s fine. Eat it.”

John ate it.

She sucked. She crunched. She fought the wrapping some more. She licked her sticky lips, then her sticky fingers.

Fun. A rare happy childhood memory revisited. And it tasted like Christmas.

Christmas.

Catching that band of crooks was the most Christmas-y thing that she and Sherlock had done and the holiday was, John counted, a week away.

Good Lord.

John paid the driver.

Did Sherlock Holmes even do Christmas?

Sherlock definitely did knowing looks, like the one she was giving John right now as John contemplated the Christmas-less state of the flat.

John had been on the receiving end of quite a few of Sherlock’s knowing looks lately and, in her more confident moments, thought they might lead to something romantic, but perhaps not.

Perhaps, like Santa, Sherlock simply knew when you’d been naughty and nice.

John smiled and unzipped her jacket.

Sherlock turned. “Going out,” she said as she clomped back down the stairs.

“Now? Where?”

“Out!”


By the time John heard Sherlock’s boots on the stairs once more, she had decided on the phrasing.

Casual. Conversational. Low expectations. Like that sidekick in the American film.

How about some Christmas about the flat?

But she wasn’t going to have to ask because what came up the stairs first was the top of a Norway spruce.

“Here.”

Suddenly, the tree was in John’s arms. Something hit the seat of John’s armchair.

John turned her head.

A box of candy canes.                                                                                

“Decorations,” said Sherlock.

“You like candy canes, too?”

“No.”

“So you like…?”

Sherlock returned John’s grin. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”

Chapter Text

“It’s hilarious, isn’t it, Sebby, the great Sherlock Holmes meeting his demise in so prosaic a fashion as a ball of ivy and mistletoe hanging from his own door? A little to the left, and don’t tear the hermetically sealed covering.”

“Boss, did you do a trial run with this?”

“No time. It was just delivered, but ACME’s never let me down before. All right. Masks on.”

A cloud of yellow smoke appeared, then disappeared.

“You said the pollen would kill everything, boss. That goldfish is still alive.”

“Hmm. You’re right. Give it a minute.”


“Still nothing.”

“Take your mask off, Seb.”

“You first!”

“Together?”

“Ok.”

“I feel odd, Sebby. Water!” Jim staggered into the kitchen. He leaned over the sink and twisted the tap. “I need,” he turned his head, chest heaving, "to suck your cock.”

“Yeah.” Seb unfastened his trousers.


 

“Harder, Sebby. More!”

“Good thing they stash lube like squirrels store acorns for winter. Christ, Boss, we’re going to get caught with our trousers around our knees, fucking like rabbits on the bloody tit’s kitchen table.”

“Fine, just don’t stop, you horse-hung god.”


“Thanks for meeting me, Mycroft. I, uh, left it here because I wanted it to be a surprise. Thought you might deduce it otherwise.”

“It?”

“Your Christmas gift.”

“My dear Detective Inspector—“

“What the fuck? That’s…”

“And…”

“Shagging on the rug! Where’s Sherlock and John? Should I make an arrest? Or two? Call for back-up? Oh, uh, by the way, here.”

“A goldfish. How delightful.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade looked up. “Sherlock said something about…”

“We’re standing beneath mistletoe, Detective Inspector. I’m going to set this colourful fellow over here and give you a thorough briefing on how I’d like my Christmas kiss.”

“Hope it’s up against the wall with my cock inside you,” breathed Lestrade.

“You read my mind.”


“Oh, look, mistletoe! Mrs. Hudson must’ve done some holiday sprucing while we were out.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

“John, are you armed?”

“No, why—ARGH! Moriarty!”

“He’ll kill you in just minute,” moaned Seb.

Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

John turned. “ARGH! Mycroft! Lestrade!”

 “Thanks, oh, God, for the idea of the goldfish, Christ, he, really, really, really likes it. Sweet Jesus.”

“Is this a hallucination? Are we high, Sherlock?”

“I suspect we’re becoming so, John. This isn’t mistletoe.”

“Yeah, it’s some kind of mutant sex plant!”

“No, with ivy, it’s a kissing ball.”

“What a great idea. You kiss mine, I’ll kiss yours.”

"Oh, God, John, yes!"


Knock, knock.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

The door opened.

“Ma’am, you can take your gas mask off. Funny you even have one of those.”

“Sherlock and John gave it to me last Christmas. Everyone okay up there?”

“Yes, the affected parties have been quarantined at Barts, and the Hazardous Materials Team has decontaminated the flat.”

“Oh, wonderful. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? It’s the least I can do for a tall, handsome, strong fireman such as yourself, and,” she tore off her mask, “I’ve just hung some mistletoe."

Chapter Text

Kate sipped her drink, then frowned.

“Yes,” said Irene, answering her expression. “That seems to be the consensus.”

What a bloody awful cocktail. They ought to be paying me to drink this. Ladies Night. It sounded so good, but they must’ve spent the budget on advertising. My one night unchained from Jabba the British Government’s side, I was hoping for so much more.

I’d rather be at the morgue.

If they play that bloody date rape Christmas carol one more time, I am going to arrest someone. Or murder someone.

JINGLE-JANGLE-JINGLE!

“It’s obvious, John, well, obvious to anyone who’s mind isn’t a vacant lot, that the killer must be—“

Fuck. When you thought it couldn’t get any worse.

Fuck. Fuckity, fuck, fuck.

Fuck. That’s it, I’m out of here. Good night.

“This calls for action,” said Irene. She tapped her mobile. “It’s the longest night of the year, not the most disappointing.”

LADIES NIGHT UNDERWHELMING? HOT TODDY PARTY! PRIZE FOR THE GUEST WHO HAS THE WORST ‘NO SHIT, SHERLOCK HOLMES’ STORY. WHEN? NOW! WHERE? ADDRESS TO FOLLOW.

Around the bar, eyes looked down, eyes looked up.

Hello, Miss Adler. I accept.

Why not? Might be fun. Accept.

I do need a real drink. A real hot, real strong drink. And winning a prize for putting up with Bollocks-Face is the best thing I’ve ever heard. Accept.


 “All right, ladies, it’s wonderful to see all of you here tonight. We’ve three hot toddy offerings: whiskey—“

“Woo-hoo!”

“—leave some for the rest of us, Sally—brandy and rum. Lemon, honey, of course. Cinnamon sticks are over there. Contest will start at the beginning of the second round. Don’t hesitate to ask me or Kate if you need anything. And I do mean anything.”


“I told you I’d win,” said Sally, grinning.

Irene bent low and bit Sally's lips. “How’s your prize?”

Sally glanced down at the ginger head between her legs. “Lovely.”

“Make a complete mess of her.”

“I intend to. You, too. You’re not the only one who appreciates handcuffs, Miss Adler.”

Irene’s eyes widened. “God, yes.” She looked over at the sofa. “Let me check on those naughty girls over there and I’ll be right back.”

Irene slid behind Molly and began kissing her neck. “How’s our sweet Molly?”

“She’s only come twice, poor lamb.”

Molly whimpered.

“Then it’s time to break out the toys, isn’t it?” said Irene. “After I have a taste, of course. Molly, open your legs for me, love. Let me suckle that pretty clit.”

“You’re in good hands, Molly. Excuse me while I go beg Sally to use excessive police force. Officer, I’ve been very bad.”

“Come have a seat, gorgeous, right here.” Sally blew her a kiss. “I’ll not be gentle at all.”


DING-DONG!

Kate drew on a dressing gown and went to the intercom. She frowned.

Irene rushed to the door.

“Here you go, my dear. And don’t fret, hot toddy parties, you always run out of lemons and vibrators.”

“Thank you, Martha!”

Chapter Text

Lestrade sniffs.

The bed is too soft. The room, too quiet, too dark. He’s too rested, too clean, too alive…

He rolls and the penny drops.

“Mycroft.”

This is a first, sleeping before fucking. They’d fumbled a bit in the car between the pub and the flat, but the case, the buggered-to-hell case had left Lestrade a walking corpse.

And Mycroft Holmes was no necrophiliac.

Lestrade had wanted a pint, but the knob barman had tried to foist some milky, sweet glass of snowy bollocks on them, so it had been a shot of whiskey and ‘Shall we?’ and a ‘Let’s.’

It was Christmas, or so the knob said.

So what if it was? A nice time for a nice fuck and Mycroft Holmes is, by far, the nicest fuck Greg Lestrade has ever had.

So he opens his arms. Mycroft slips between them.

And then they’re kissing.

There’s always a bit of kissing, of course. It isn’t all hand jobs and blow jobs, but Lestrade’s never usually this refreshed, relaxed—he’s got two days off, thank you very much—so he rolls atop Mycroft begins kissing him slowly, top lip and bottom and the tip of that hawk-like nose. Then he presses hard, telling the man beneath him, with every nip of teeth and swipe of tongue just how incredibly fuckable he is.

“Gregory.”

Lestrade smiles at the left corner of Mycroft’s mouth. He kisses it, covering it with his lips, teasing the twitching crease with the tip of his tongue. Then he pulls back and meets Mycroft’s gaze.

“Like a rabbit,” he mumbles. “Or a pheasant.”

Mycroft’s brow crinkles.

“Brown, like something with feathers or fur, soft, so soft, but untamed.”

Shit. This is a first. Spouting bloody nonsense in bed.

“Your eyes,” Lestrade adds, looking away.

Mycroft’s reply is to roll Lestrade onto his back and devour him.

“Yes,” groans Lestrade as he tilts his head back. “Please tell me you’ve got all night.”

Mycroft pauses his licking to say, “All morning and all day, it’s after four in the morning.”

Lestrade grins. “Breakfast.” If his cock wasn’t already throbbing, the sheer thought of sharing a cup of undoubtedly superior coffee with this man after a long, early morning fuck would have brought him to full mast. As it is, another thought surfaces.

“My.”

This is a first. Until six months ago, it was still Mister Holmes and Detective Inspector.

Mycroft’s eyes widen.

Lestrade turns onto his stomach, looks over his shoulder, and wriggles his arse.

“I mean, if it’s your division,” he teases. “How about a nice, long,” he turns, mumbles into the pillows, “Christmas fuck?”

Mycroft laughs. This is a first.

“Christmas fuck?”

“Yeah, you know…”

Mycroft’s mouth is moving against the side of his neck. “Take my time? Make you beg?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Only if afterwards I’m permitted to suck your gorgeous cock in the manner I so heartily desire.”

“Happy Christmas, love, oh, I mean…”

Mycroft nuzzles behind his ear. “Happy Christmas, Gregory.”

Chapter Text

John grinned.

“Lestrade wants to share that pink champagne that she won.”

She flashed her phone at Sherlock, who scowled.

“Lestrade requires no assistance in consuming the entire contents of that bottle.”

“Stop it, Sherlock. I don’t like pink champagne, but—“

“Sparkling wine, John. It cannot be called ‘champagne’ because—“

“Yeah, yeah. Do you want to come?”

“What, I don’t have anything better to do on New Year’s Eve than watch two sloppy drunks fornicate?”

“Well, do you?”

“My spores need tending.”

“Ouch.” John leaned over and pressed her lips to Sherlock’s temple. “Suit yourself. Invitation’s open.”


John heard the click, then laughed and kissed Lestrade’s collar bone. “Now look what your pussy dragged in.”

“Yours, too,” rumbled Lestrade. “Happy New Year, Sherlock.”

John looked over her shoulder at the silhouette in the doorway. “Drink?”

Sherlock shook her head. She stepped sideways until she came to the soft armchair. Then she sat.

John reached for the bottle. “I’ll pour you one for midnight.”

Lestrade made a noise. “My hand’s steadier than yours.”

“Who says?”

Lestrade held out her palm.

John mimicked her, defiant, but only for a moment. “Oh, fuck.”

Lestrade filled the third flute on the coffee table as John clung to her. “We’ve got an audience now, Watson. You’d better make it good,” she said, licking and biting up the side of John’s neck.

“You mean, you’d better make it good.” John lifted and squeezed Lestrade’s heavy breasts, thumbing the nipples, then bringing one to her mouth to suck. She released it, and Lestrade groaned. John sucked the other, then said, “Sherlock’s caught you quite a few killers this year. You should show some gratitude.”

“Oh, I’m grateful,” growled Lestrade, pushing John back against the arm of the sofa. John slotted her legs around Lestrade’s waist. “If she weren’t here, I’d never get your top off.”

John snorted and peeled her shirt off, then blushed as an appraising hand ran up and her down chest.

“Christ, what you get to wake up next to, Sherlock,” murmured Lestrade as she nuzzled John’s cleavage.

John put two fingers under Lestrade’s chin, lifting it, then kissing her lips hard.

Lestrade slid her hands to the centre of John’s back, pressing her closer.

“I could drown in you,” said John before turning her head to lick the ridge of Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade’s hand travelled down, around the side of John’s hip and under her knee. She hoisted John’s leg up and then began to caress her buttock.

John resumed her fondling of Lestrade’s breasts and bent her head to kiss Lestrade’s neck. “Christ, I want to come,” she whined.

They quickly unfolded and rearranged themselves, with John straddling Lestrade’s thigh. She began to rut, reaching forward to weave her fingers in Lestrade’s short, clipped hair and reaching back…

…to touch longer, softer tresses.

“Oh, God,” breathed John. “Sherlock.”

“Come for her, John,” urged Lestrade. “Then you both can fuck me with the vibrator ‘til I weep. Then…”

“Cuddle?”

“Gorgeous pink champagne cuddle.”

Chapter Text

“Fuck, we missed New Year’s. Bloody heat.”

Sherlock wet the flannel, then wrung it out. “We missed midnight, but it is the new year still.” He gently wiped between John’s legs.

John turned.

Sherlock resumed his ministrations to the lower half of John’s arse. Then he threw the flannel in the sink and dried John.

“You’re such a good Alpha,” said John, reveling in the feel of terrycloth against damp skin.

Sherlock leaned into John’s petting hand. “There’s champagne,” he purred before letting the towel fall.

John turned again.

Sherlock pressed his face to John’s belly.

“Really? Did I think of that?”

“Yes.”

“Smart me.”

Sherlock’s nuzzled, then licked.

“Christ, Sherlock, I’m hard and wet again.”

“Here?”

“Do you think we can make it to the kitchen to pour ourselves a toast?”

Sherlock shook his head.

John turned a third time and leaned against the sink and opened his legs. Sherlock’s breath tickled his quivering hole when he said,

“Here, then there.”


“You’re mad, Sherlock.”

“I’ve got you, John. Fortunately, heat pheromones endow me with preternatural strength.”

“And me with preternatural flexibility. Fuck.”

They were padding together as one down the hallway, with Sherlock’s cock lodged deep inside John. The spurts and orgasms had passed as had the thickest of the lust fog, but the knot had not deflated yet.

“You wanted a toast.” John was now propped against the kitchen counter. “And what my delicious Omega wants, he gets. Cheers.”

“That was dangerous,” breathed John, then he smiled. “Cheers.” He gulped down the effervescent liquid and heard Sherlock do the same. “Heat makes you so damn thirsty—FUCK!”

John dropped the flute on the counter. Violent, but pleasurable, spasms wracked his body. His muscles were uniformly tense, then they relaxed and tensed again, pulsing as if they were…

“FUCK!”

That was not John. That was Sherlock. And Sherlock never, ever swore, not even during heat.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock slammed into John, pushing him further upon the counter. John tightened his grip on Sherlock, legs and arms clinging.

“I’m milking you,” whispered John, wondering where the words were coming from, “milking that thick, gorgeous Alpha knot.”

“Is that—? Seems stronger than—fuck!”

Hot, hot, searing streams of come filled John. Startled, he cried out.

“John?”

“It okay, gorgeous actually. It’s just, uh, much, much warmer than usual. What’s going on, Sherlock? Is it the alcohol? We’ve drank before during heat.”

“Have we?”

John couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember anything but Sherlock’s scalding come and how much he craved more. He glanced at the flutes rolling on their sides on the counter, then let them crash to the floor and grabbed the bottle.


“FUCK! FUCK!”

The back of John’s head was hitting the cupboard door, his teeth were in danger of being shattered by the rim of the heavy bottle, and he was folded in two like a paper doll, but he didn’t care.

“I’m fucking you like a good Omega should, aren’t I?”

“Give me another swig, John. Happy New Year.”

Chapter Text

“You win. Curry it is.”

Still panting, Stella took the proffered hand and was instantly on her feet.

“That’s not what I want,” said Sally.

Stella raised an eyebrow.

“I want you to not give up, Stella.”

“Eighteen months, Sally, looking for a stupid marble. ‘Boring’ as a someone once said.”

“Some fuckface, you mean. You’ll find it. The leads are here, in London.”

“The leads have led nowhere!”

“You’re smart.”

“Fuckface is smarter. ‘Get another one,’ he said.” She rolled her eyes. “Why recover anything then, except submarine blueprints and sex tapes? Even Interpol isn’t returning my calls. Everyone’s moved on. And I’m still looking for a damn pearl.”

“And you’ll find it because you’re smart—and you’re the only one still looking for it.”

Stella smiled. “So, no dinner?”

“Shower, then dinner, my flat.”

“Dinner in? That’s almost romantic.”

“Shower in, too, if you want.”

Their eyes met.


Stella curled her fingers.

Sally threw her head back. “Fuck! You’re going to find that pearl because you’re a fucking genius at finding things. Like that.”

Stella looked up and smiled. “Patience. Persistence.” She bent to kiss Sally’s clit as her fingers continued to thrust, then curl and twist inside her cunt.

“Fuck!”

“It helps that you’re a work of art, even when you’re punching me.”                             

“Especially when I’m punching you!” cried Sally. “I just want to come. Fuck!”

“Here?”

Sally shook her head. “Bed.”

Stella withdrew her fingers to Sally’s whimper, then grabbed a towel, and pressed it to Sally’s back. She scooped Sally up in her arms. “Hang on.”

“Show off.”

Stella smirked and carried her into the bedroom.


“You, you,” mewled Sally.

Stella rose up and eased Sally onto her stomach. Sally grabbed a pillow and pushed it under her hips. Then Stella layered her body atop Sally and the pillow.

“Like that?” asked Sally.

Stella bit Sally’s neck and rolled her hips. “Like that.”

“Good for you and me.”

Stella began to rut. “The first time I met Fuckface, he said that he invented his own martial art.”

Sally snorted. “Of course, he did. Git. What did you say?”

“Show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

Sally looked over her shoulder. Stella grinned.

“You won?”

Stella nodded. “Until Mrs. Hudson broke it up. He solved my case. She gave me a sack of scones on my way out.”

Sally howled with laughter. “You’re a goddess. Fuck me into the mattress.”


“We said no phones!”

Sally’s hand snaked out from the duvet. “I want to show you something.” She tapped the screen with her thumb. “You like pretty things.”

“Very pretty. French lace. Detachable pearl net,” Stella squinted at the screen, “And fancy that, bra and knickers together, cost more than a month’s rent.”

“Yours. When you find the Borgia pearl.”

“Sally.”

“If you need another incentive to keep going.”

“Other than the satisfaction of a job well done?”

“And a plum point on your CV.”

Stella kissed her. “I’m going to find it. Then we’ll celebrate."

Chapter Text

It was still dark when Lestrade folded himself into the waiting car.

There was an exchange of perfunctory nods, then a long, heavy silence as they made their way through the city.

Finally, Mycroft said,

“I bake my own ginger nuts.”

Lestrade lifted his gaze from his own shoes.

“I find it soothing, baking,” Mycroft added, with a crooked smile, which Lestrade suspected was his genuine one. “And yes, I do wear an apron.”

Lestrade chuckled. “I’d like to see that.”

“You may.”

“What now?”

Mycroft shrugged.

Lestrade sighed, glanced out the window, then said, “Yeah, why the hell not?”


It was soothing, almost hypnotic, watching him.

Lestrade was perched on a stool, an untouched cup of tea in front of him.

Mycroft was in rolled shirt sleeves, moving about the kitchen slowly, but methodically. He prepped the oven and the baking sheets. He lined up the ingredients: syrup, sugar, flour, ginger. He melted and stirred and sifted and rolled the brown lumps between two hands.

The air was suddenly ripe with spice and heat and sweetness.

Lestrade didn’t attempt to make conversation, he simply watched. And step by step, his shoulders relaxed and the throbbing in his temples eased.

When the oven was closed, he took a sip of lukewarm tea. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, I assure you. Would you care to shower?”

Lestrade nodded. “But I doubt if there’s water hot enough in the world to burn this filth off me.”


Lestrade closed his eyes and leaned forward with arms outstretched. He passed through the water until the scalding spray was running down his back and his hands were flat to the steam-wet tiles.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“Gregory.”

“Mm? Too long?”

“Not at all. I thought you might appreciate a sugar scrub.”

“A what?”

The glass door slid and there was a hand with a jar.

“Scrub and,” the hand disappeared and reappeared in a cream-coloured mitt, “loofah. For exfoliation. I could, uh, give you a demonstration.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Why the hell not?”


Lestrade slipped between the sheets.

“My, that’s sugar shit is good. Feel like a baby animal. Lamb, chick, something.”

“I’m glad. I also, on occasion, find it restorative.”

“Aren’t you going to sleep?”

“No, but I'll keep you company if you desire it.”

“Cuddle. Now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lestrade tucked his head under Mycroft’s chin and exhaled. “Sorry about the ginger nuts.”

“They make a fine breakfast.”

“I bet they will.”

Breath by breath, they snuggled closer. Then Lestrade ran a hand down the front of Mycroft’s pyjama trousers. “I’m spent for anything but doing my best impression of a corpse, but if you wanted…”

“That’s unnecessary, Gregory. Given your state of fatigue, I would be loath to…”

Lestrade held a cupped hand between Mycroft’s legs, then squeezed gently. “It’d be my pleasure, truly.”

“Gregory.”

Lestrade looked up. “Stop?”

Mycroft looked down, his eyes darkened. He shook his head.

Lestrade grinned. “With all respect to your baking, these are my favourite kind of ging—“

“Oh, Gregory.”

Chapter Text

“You know I could arrest you,” said Lestrade.

“For what?” asked Mycroft in a breathy whisper. He brought his hand to his chest, an expanse of skin and hair flanked by plunging V lace neckline.

“For wearing a dress like that.” Letstrade waved hand at the cream-coloured silk.

“It’s not a dress.”

“True, it’s a crime.”

“No, I mean it’s a peignoir.” Mycroft lifted an arm; a long sleeve draped like a curtain. “A set. Robe and gown.”

“Whatever you say, sister.”

Platinum curls bounced as Mycroft shook his head. “I’m not your sister.”

Lestrade sank his hands in his pockets, rocked back on his heels and grinned. “No, that would be a crime. And a tragedy. And a nightmare.”

“Would you like me to take it off? The dress, I mean.”

Lestrade smirked. “Then I’d really have to press charges.”

Mycroft untied the sash; the robe fell open. His dark feathery eyelashes fluttered.

“Press away, Officer.”

Lestrade reached for the sweating glass on the dresser and sipped. “I don’t know. You’re a glass of champagne, and I’m more of a whiskey and soda on the rocks.”

“But isn’t that how they got started?”

“Who?”

“Adam and Eve.”

“Drinking? I don’t think so.”

Mycroft wiggled; the robe fell to the floor. “Now, what was all that about arresting me?

“Well, maybe not arresting you.”

“No?”

Lestrade leaned forward, openly ogling the silk bodice of the gown. “I could just keep you under close watch.”

“Very close?”

“Uh-huh.” Lestrade licked his lower lip.

“Shame. I was looking forward to putting myself into the hands of the authorities.”

“You were?”

“Fingerprinting. Being searched thoroughly.”

Lestrade produced a pair of handcuff and held them in the air.

“You aren’t going to be gentle at all, are you?” said Mycroft, not taking his eyes from the steel rings.

Lestrade shook his head. “Not with someone as dangerous as you are, sweetheart.” With a hard shove, he spun Mycroft and snapped the handcuffs on his wrists.

“Hey,” said Mycroft. He tossed his curls and looked over his shoulder with a pout. “Hey, hey.” He continued to protest as Lestrade walked him, hobbling, toward the bed and with a second shove, bent him forward.

“Don’t take me for a sucker, doll,” said Lestrade.

“You might take me for one. Later, of course.”

Lestrade bit back a laugh as he yanked the gown’s straps down and the gown’s skirt up and pushed his hands beneath silk knickers.

“You hiding something, princess?”

“Well, everybody’s got a secret, don’t they?”

Lestrade gently removed the plug and tossed it on the bed near Mycroft’s head.

Mycroft looked back as Lestrade unfastened his trousers.

“That’s an impressive service weapon, Officer.”

Lestrade shrugged and said, “It usually hits where I’m aiming.”

He nudged Mycroft’s legs apart and drew out a small bottle of lubricant from his pocket. Soon he was pushing silk aside and teasing Mycroft’s hole with the slicked head of his cock.

“You’ve got a right to remain silent, gorgeous…”

Chapter Text

“Gregory, welco—“

Mycroft stared.

“Speechless, eh?” said Lestrade with a wink. “Since this is our second proper date, I thought I’d clean up a bit.” He ran a hand down the front of his shirt, smoothing his tie. “Thank you for the invitation.”

Mycroft blinked, then said,

“You cut a truly magnificent figure, Gregory. Congratulations are in order, for I am rarely without words and you have, but momentarily, reduced my vocabulary to naught. Please come in, but one clarification: ‘second proper date’? My calculations have this as our fourth.”

“Three cups of coffee in two months? No, those don’t count. So sorry that our schedules haven’t been more accommodating.”

“As am I, but that would mean you consider—”

“The time you lured me to top secret military base under false pretenses, dressed up like an alien, strapped me to a table and shoved eggs up my arse to be the ‘Best First Date Ever’? Yes.” He grinned, then looked about. “So, dinner and a film? Is it as conventional as it sounds? Or is there something popping out to get me?”

Mycroft held up his hands in mock surrender. “Only onscreen theatrics.”

“Speaking of, what is tonight’s feature?”

“How about a clue?” Mycroft led Lestrade to the dining room. “I believe you are not averse to gin-based cocktails.”

“No, indeed.”

“One moment.” Mycroft returned with two glasses in hand. “Here.”

“Peapods frozen in ice, a cucumber slice with a human carved in it. Must be Invasion of the Body Snatchers! 1956 or 1978?”

“The 1956 version has noir elements that appeal.”

“Sound like the perfect non-egg-laying date.”


“Damn, Mycroft, when you said ‘home cinema,’ I wasn’t thinking something this elaborate. Amazing!”

“Have a seat. Shall we?”

“Absolutely.”

Mycroft dimmed the lights.


Lestrade yawned and stretched his arm across the back of Mycroft’s seat.

Mycroft turned and mouthed along with the onscreen heroine.

Is that an example of your bedside manner?

Lestrade smirked and answered back.

No, that comes later.

Then he cupped Mycroft’s jaw and leaned forward. Mycroft sighed into the kiss and when it finally broke, snuggled closer to Lestrade and smiled at the screen.

Lestrade smiled, too, and ruffled Mycroft’s hair. Later, he felt the brush of fingers on his hand. He glanced at Mycroft, who raised his eyebrows and mouthed.

Come in while I turn the lights on.

They began to whisper back and forth.

You’re a forward wench, dragging me into a dark hallway to be kissed.

I’m dragging you into a dark hallway because I’m scared of the dark tonight.

I’d better stay and tuck you in.

That way lies madness.

What’s wrong with madness?

Madness. Good night.

Mycroft reached down and, with a grin, raised the arm of the seat that separated them.

“Hello!” breathed Lestrade. He took Mycroft into his arms and kissed him soundly. Then he rested his forehead against Mycroft’s and said,

“Drinks, snogs, films, here, monsters, detectives, romance, don’t care.”

“Date night?”

“Whenever our bloody worlds allow. Kiss me.”

Chapter Text

Moriarty exhaled. “She certainly uses her time wisely.”

“This way,” said Mycroft, gesturing to an open door. “You’ll have to be searched before leaving Sherrinford.”

Moriarty peeked into the empty cell. “You’re conducting the search yourself.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes and huffed. “I do not have time for games, Mister Moriarty.”

Moriarty winked. “Fieldwork days that far behind you?”

Mycroft stiffened, then scowled. “As you wish,” he growled.

Moriarty nodded to his guards, then waved for Mycroft to enter the cell first.

“No,” said Mycroft firmly.

Moriarty tilted his head and said, “Sideways, then. Together.”

“Oh, for goodness sake!”

The cell door slammed.

“How do you want me?” asked Mycroft.

“It’s Christmas. On your knees.”

Mycroft dropped and began to nuzzle at the front of Moriarty’s trousers.

“Good boy, you want a treat? Oh, you do want a treat.” Moriarty freed his own erection, then with one hand on the back of Mycroft’s head and the other wrapped in a tight fist around his cock mid-shaft, he began to paint Mycroft lips with tip of his prick.

Mycroft took the head in his mouth and sucked.

“That’s all you get until you show me you’re a very good boy.”

With lips still suckling, Mycroft unfastened his own trousers.

“Do you really want this?” Moriarty pulled away. He spat on his palm and stroked his own shaft. “When I say ‘show,’ I mean ‘show’!”

Mycroft shoved his trousers and pants down as far as his bent legs permitted.

“Better,” said Moriarty. “Hands behind your back. Spread those knees. Eyes on me.”

Mycroft obliged, then looked up.

Then with a fist around his own cock once more, Moriarty pushed the head of his prick between Mycroft’s lips. “That’s it,” he said as he rocked into Mycroft’s mouth, a bit more of his shaft disappearing with each thrust. “Such a good, good boy. Relax that throat, yeah.” Then both hands were on Mycroft’s head. “Bob. Love that word ‘bob.’ Your ginger head bobs. Your leaking ginger prick bobs. Bob, bob, bob,” he sang as he thrust.

Then he reached a hand down and caressed Mycroft’s left cheek. “Open wide,” he crooned before his body jerked and he spent himself down Mycroft’s throat. He drew a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket with a flourish and wiped himself.

Mycroft stood.

“Have you been working out?” Moriarty asked with a chuckle. “For me? You shouldn’t have.”

Mycroft spun him by the shoulder and shoved. “Assume the position,” he menaced.

“Oh, it’s bad guy, bad cop! I like it,” said Moriarty, bending with his hands against the wall.

Mycroft nudged Moriarty’s legs apart.

“I’m a bit disappointed at the pants, though, Mycroft. Left mine in the helicopter.”

“It'd mar the line of the suit,” hissed Mycroft as he yanked Moriarty’s trousers down and removed the plug.

“Yeah, nice waistcoat, by the way. Your tailor is still—“

“Naturally,” said Mycroft as he sank his cock into Moriarty’s hole, threw his head back and groaned,

“Fuck, it’s Christmas."

 

Chapter Text

Sherlock keeps one eye on the steady rise and fall of John’s back. He keeps his ears tuned to John’s snores, half-muffled by the pillow.

John is tucked between them, as he should be. They are both watching over him, as is their habit, even when no danger threatens.

At some point during the night, Mycroft must’ve herded the three of them into the shower and changed the bedding because every trace of the drugged glitter is gone.

Good.

The night was interesting, fun, even, as they led each other gleefully into lust-fueled oblivion.

But the morning is different.

First, there’s the soft light that breaks into the room like a seasoned thief. It rolls across the floor. When it reaches them, Mycroft’s hair and skin glow, and Sherlock yearns to touch that warmth.

Second, it’s quiet, apart from John’s snores. Mycroft, of course, is silent as the grave. But Sherlock wants to hear him, so he draws down the bedsheet, exposing his own half-hard cock.

He smiles at his victory: a split-second gasp drowned in John’s sleepy gurgling.

He then wraps a dry hand around his shaft and imagines—or remembers, difficult to say—Mycroft making love to his prick, licking it like some sweet treat that, once upon a time, he was not good at resisting.

Now they have John as treat.

Without meeting Mycroft’s gaze, Sherlock releases his cock and extends his hand over John’s prone body. His cupped palm is soon filled with slick.

He closes his eyes and strokes his prick, letting tiny sighs escape when he thinks of Mycroft’s hand on him. He tries to match the rhythm of his fantasy. He’d love to slick a finger and tease his rim with the other hand, but his position on the bed, on his side, won’t allow for that, not without possibly disturbing John.

And that will not happen.

Not yet.

He imagines Mycroft launching himself over John or scurrying around the bed, that he might hide beneath the sheet and tongue-fuck Sherlock, unseen, unheard, until he comes. Until they both come, perhaps, if Mycroft’s hand is on himself as he rims Sherlock.

Sherlock allows himself a half-lidded glance towards Mycroft’s cock. It’s tenting the bedsheet and making a lovely, growing wet stain.

He wants to taste that pre-come so badly that he closes his eyes again and whimpers.

Immediately, one wet, sex-scented fingertip pushes between Sherlock’s lips. His stroking hand speeds up, keeping time with his greedy sucking.

He remembers John’s words—“Fuck him, My”—and thinks he can still feel the hand gripping his head by the hair, yanking it back…

…for a warm, soft, devastating kiss.

Sherlock pushes himself to his knees. About to topple forward onto John, he reaches an arm out. Something steadies him. The bedsheet’s been drawn away, and he’s free to decorate John’s arse with come like he wants.

Another set of streaks soon join his.

Sherlock stifles a cry, and Mycroft whispers mischievously,

“Let’s lick him awake.”

Chapter Text

Mycroft opened the door, and light from the hallway penetrated the pitch-dark bedroom. He stopped in the threshold and announced,

“Rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. It is most indecorous.”

A disheveled lump groaned, then spoke in a low, raspy voice.

“Lady Bracknell night. Love those.”

Mycroft strode into the room.

Sherlock came to life in a series of angry shouts as lights were switched on, one by one, then whined, “Greatly distressed. No cucumbers, not even for ready money.” Stretched along the length of the settee, he was still in his suit jacket and trousers, but his shirt was unbuttoned and untucked. He was mostly bare-foot, though one sock still dangled precariously from a big toe.

And he was rumpled.

Wholly, thoroughly rumpled.

He opened one eye and glanced at Mycroft. “Society dinner?” he asked with a sneer.

“Never speak disrespectfully of Society, Sherlock. Only people who can’t get into it do that.”

Sherlock stood, then made his way across the room, stumbling, and took up his original position Mycroft’s bed, sans sock.

Mycroft raked an eye up and down Sherlock’s body, then said, “I hope you’re behaving very well.” He removed his jacket and tie and waistcoat and returned them, neatly, to the closet.

“I’m feeling very well,” said Sherlock. He raised an eyebrow and ran a hand down the front of his trousers.

“That’s not quite the same thing. In fact the two things rarely go together,” said Mycroft.

He unbuttoned his shirt and stepped closer to the bed. When he was within arm’s length, Sherlock grabbed for his waist, pushed up his vest and began kissing his torso.

“Hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old,” said Mycroft as he stroked Sherlock’s hair. Then he unbuttoned his cuffs and let his shirt fall to the floor.

Sherlock rose onto his knees and pushed Mycroft’s vest up to his shoulders, exposing his chest. “You are not weak, I am not decayed, not yet, at any rate,” he muttered. He licked then scraped his teeth across each nipple.

Mycroft pulled the vest over his head and let it drop. He sighed and then slipped his hands beneath Sherlock’s shirt and jacket. Sherlock shrugged out of the garments, then tumbled to the floor.

Mycroft sniffed. “Do you smoke?”

Sherlock grinned and unbuckled Mycroft’s belt. “Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.”

“I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as it is.”

Sherlock hummed. “Hate those.” He nuzzled, then licked at the wet stain on the front of Mycroft’s pants.

Mycroft pet his head and said softly, “You seem to be displaying signs of triviality.”

Sherlock shook his head. “On the contrary, I’ve now realised for the first time in my life the vital Importance of Being Earnest.”

He yanked Mycroft’s pants down, put his mouth ‘round his cockhead and sucked.

Chapter Text

“This is war.”

Mycroft pushed away from his desk and stood and went to the far cabinet. A key, a lock, a twist and turn later and he was allowing the first draught of whiskey to warm his throat.

Damn Lady Smallwood! Elizabeth? Alicia? Oh, who cared?

He downed the remains of his glass and returned it to the cabinet, then punched the intercom.

“May I see you, please?”

The door opened.

“Please have a seat,” he said. “I shan't mince words: Lady Smallwood has made you an offer of employment. I'm not asking about the details but—“

Bing!

His phone beeped.

Not the phone on the desk, of course.

Nor his work mobile.

His other mobile.

The one in his inside jacket pocket.

“Excuse me.”

He checked his phone. His eyebrows rose.

“Those are the terms,” she said.

“Damn! Exceedingly generous.”

“Plus, no nights. Or weekends,” she added.

His heart sank.

“I was about to implore you to allow me to make a counter offer. The salary and benefits I could match but my schedule—” He shrugged, then he looked at her. “My dear, I will be lost without you, but I wish you the best. All of it. And if you require anything, anything at all, please don’t hesitate. The door will always be open—”

“It’s not open now,” she said as she stood and leaned over the desk. “The door to your office?”

He took a deep breath. “And to my heart, triflingly small that it is.”

“That’s the poorest estimation you’ve ever given,” she said as she brought her lips to his.

“Oh, my dear.”

She licked her lips. “You’ve been drinking whiskey. You only drink whiskey when you’re overwrought.”

“I am.”

She circled the desk.

“It’s you. It’s always been you,” she said.

They kissed again.

He pulled away.

“Sir?”

“Good Lord, no. Please, well, I suppose, if you must, but no, damn it!”

“Mycroft?”

He shook his head and looked away. “You cannot possibly feel as I do.”

“Why not?”

“You could have anyone.”

“You could have anyone murdered.”

“It’s not the sa—!”

She cut his protest off with a kiss.

He wrapped his arms around her and buried his nose in her hair. “You are so very lovely.”

She laughed and hopped up on the desk, unbuttoning her dress and pulling the sides apart.

Mycroft stared.

Her body was gorgeously swathed in silk undergarments of a cranberry-coloured that was…

…familiar.

“I’ve taken to matching my knickers to your tie,” she said.

“How do you—?”

She rolled her eyes and huffed.

He chuckled, then sighed. “My dear, you and I are civil servants, and the administrative handbook clearly states that a superior and—“

Bing!

“What’s that?”

“My resignation letter. I want it all: evenings, weekends, and you.”

He smiled, then kissed her. “You’re brilliant. We must toast to our new chapter, together and apart.”

She smoothed a hand down his tie and rolled her hips. “After?”

“After,” he agreed and pulled her to him.

Chapter Text

“I know Chinese place at the end of Baker Street, stays open until two.”

“Detective Inspector—“

“Greg.”

“Gregory, I could not possible abandon my work at the moment.”

“It’s almost midnight, Mycroft, and I usually save the handcuffs for the second date, but if you insist.”

Mycroft sighed and set his pen on the desk.

Lestrade grinned.

Mycroft frowned. “Date?”

Lestrade nodded. “With Sherlock’s blessing.”


Lestrade took a swig. “You were a kid, Mycroft. You were all kids.”

“Not anymore.” Mycroft shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll join you,” he said, nodding to Lestrade’s bottle.

“Really? Wouldn’t take you for a beer man.”

“I’m not, but it seems like the thing to do.”

“Following your heart?”

“Or my gut.”

Lestrade laughed. “Close enough.”


“Cheers.”

Their bottles clinked, then they ate and drank in silence for some time. Finally, Mycroft said,

“Come home with me?”

“Hell, yes.” Lestrade’s empty bottle hit the table with a thud.


They were kissing the moment the car door shut.

“That massive intellect—“

“I’ve been reliably informed that it’s quite limited.”

“—that’s bollocks—needs to rest every once in a while.”

Lestrade kissed and nuzzled at Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft loosened his tie and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt.

“If I sank right here, between your knees,” Lestrade cupped the front of Mycroft’s trousers, “and sucked you, slow and easy, do you think you could lie back, close your eyes, and just enjoy it?”

“Gregory, I don’t deserve such consideration.“

“Fuck ‘deserve,’ Mycroft. And ‘consideration’ for that matter. Would you enjoy it? Turn that brain off, or at least keep it idling?”

Mycroft kissed him, an achingly soft kiss. “I will endeavor to do so.”

“Fair enough.”


Gregory.”

Lestrade pulled off and licked the slit of Mycroft’s cock. “Good?”

“’Good’ is tragically inadequate descriptor, but perhaps we should resume our activities in more comfortable surroundings.”

“Think this old man’s back can’t hold out until you come?” teased Lestrade.

“I’m not casting aspersions on your flexibility or stamina, Gregory.”

Lestrade rose and kissed Mycroft’s temple and whispered, “I’m going make you come, right here, right now, Mycroft so that every time you slip into this car, to go to work, or to the airport, or to some cloak-and-dagger meeting, you’ll remember that someone wants you, adores you, would take you in his arms and hold you for as long as you’d let him.”

Mycroft blinked, then he cupped Lestrade’s cheek and brushed his thumb across his lips. He shook his head slowly, silently.

“Stop,” said Lestrade. “This is much more than ‘consideration.’”

“Gregory.”

Lestrade kissed his lips. “Still hard for me, are you?”

Mycroft nodded.

“Want my warm, wet mouth sucking that gorgeous prick?”

“Please.”

Lestrade bent his head, but stopped when Mycroft said,

“Then I would take you upstairs—”

“Upstairs?”

“We’ve been parked in my garage for half an hour, Gregory.”

“Some detective I am.”

“I’d like to take you upstairs, and," Lestrade looked up; Mycroft blushed, "show you all due consideration.”

“Nice. Now, close your eyes.”

Chapter Text

Mycroft read the headline that was, in a few hours, to grace the front page of the country’s leading newspaper.

“Good work,” he told himself. “Perhaps so good as to be deserving of a treat.”

He turned his work mobile off and left it on the desk. He turned his private mobile to vibrate and slipped it in his pocket en route from study to kitchen.

He opened the refrigerator, bent so as to be eye-level with his beloved, and purred,

“Hello, my dear.”


He dimmed the lights as the projector began to roll, then took his place.

Cup of coffee.

Slice of cake.

Doghouse Reilly.

He smiled, sunk into the seat and waited for the line, the first of his many favourites.

“How do you like your brandy, sir?”

“In a glass.”

Then he took the first bite.

Oh, rapture!

He slowly scraped his teeth against the spoon—not fork, fork left too much behind—and held it in his mouth until it melted.

The first bite was always the loveliest of the lovely.

Sweet, soft, rich. Cool and warm. Heavy and light.

Chocolate. Hazelnut. Vanilla. Cinnamon. Buttercream. Ganache. Cognac.

The elements were all there, flavours, strong and subtle, forming a divinely-inspired whole, much like a stained-glass window in a centuries-old church, and the comparison was apt, for much like many ecclesiastical matters, the ritual was almost as delicious as the adornment.

Almost.

He’d mouth a line, then smirk or scowl or shrug along with his black-and-white screen counterpart, then take a bite, then wait for the next line, again and again, until the sweetness of the palate overwhelmed, then he’d sip the coffee and start anew.

“Hmm.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, hmm.”

Bite.

“You’ve got a touch of class. But I don’t know how, how far you’ll go.”

“A lot depends on who’s in the saddle.”

Bite.

Mycroft looked at the cake, and whispered, “I liked that. I'd like more.” He took another bite, then sipped. The bitter brew was like a new broom that swept clean.

“Perfect,” he pronounced. Really, the trio had no rival: coffee, cake, and film.

Lovers came, went…

…well, he supposed they did…

…it’d been a while since…

…goodness, how long had it been?

Oh, what did it matter? There was cake!

Gorgeous cake!

Cake did not ask for anything, save to be savoured. Cake did not spoil, well, not if one took proper care, and Mycroft always took proper care. Cake did not begrudge the proportion, small, ample. Cake did not begrudge the hour, late or—Mycroft check his watch—damn o’ clock in morning, as Doctor Watson called it.

Cake waited.

Cake never, ever disappointed, and what’s more—Mycroft sighed—one ever disappointed cake, either.

One bite remained. Mycroft mouthed the final lines.

“You've forgotten one thing—me.”

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing you can't fix.”

The mobile in his pocket began to vibrate.

Yes, cake was far superior in every respect, for cake did not prefer to text.

Chapter Text

“Bad day, was it?”

Irene pushes past Molly. “Drink, then tie me up. No, tie me up, first.”


Whack!

“Harder, Molly!”

WHACK!

“HARDER!”

“No.”

“What? Oh, okay. Let’s have a drink, then we can have a second go.”

“No.”

“What? Molly, please, love! We can do some more later.”

“That’s not how this works, Irene, remember?” Molly holds up the riding crop. “I’ve still got this, unless you safeword, of course.” She tilts her head and smiles.

“Molly, no—“

WHACK!

“Hey! Wh—?”

WHACK!

“Jesus, Molly, I’m—“

“—the one tied up. I’m the one with the stick.” She giggles, then frowns. “I had a bad day, too, thanks for asking.”

Irene tugs on her restraints, then she twists her wrists and tugs again. “Uh, Molly—“

“Hmm? I fiddled with the cuffs a bit.”

“But now I can’t get out of them!”

“Of course, you can’t! An upgrade. Only the best for my girl!”

Toby leaps onto the dresser.

“Toby’s watching!”

“Toby’s a bit of perv, but you knew that. Bad Toby.”

Irene turns her head, sinks her cheek into the fluffy pink duvet.

“I’m yours to torture.”

Molly climbs on the bed, straddling Irene’s waist. “You’re mine to take care of in whatever way I see fit—until you safeword—then we cuddle! And drink! Get out of her bag, Toby, none of that for you!”

Mwar!

Irene deflates, then looks over her shoulder. “I did it again, did I?”

Molly unbraids Irene’s hair. “Yeah.”

“I told myself I wasn’t going to do it this time. In the car, I told myself—”

“That’s why—.”

“—it’s you. You’re amazing. Wait, you had a bad day? Sherlock?”

“Yeah, among other things.”

“I’m sorry, love. Can we start over? I’ll be a good girl, I promise.”

Molly bends to kiss Irene’s cheek. “We don’t need to start over. This is just the end of Act One.”


“Act Three.”

“Molly,” Irene whimpers.

“Such a good girl.” Molly curls around Irene and strokes her hair, then kisses her temple. “So very, very good for me.” Then she kisses Irene’s nose and lips and chin. Then she inches down Irene’s body, trailing kisses down Irene’s neck to her chest, pausing to nuzzle between Irene’s breasts.

Molly listens as they breathe together. “So warm.”

“For a dead woman, you mean.”

“Well, it is my point of reference.” Molly kisses down Irene’s belly to her mons. She brushes what little hair has been allowed to remain and kisses the cleft. “Hello, beautiful,” she coos.

“Molly.”

“Yeah, scoot up and bite down on footboard. Need help?” She carefully places her hands on Irene’s thighs, supporting them as Irene crawls up the bed.

“Just a bit. Drinks after?”

“Mm. Vespas.”

“Ooo. Is it Bond night?!”

“Yes! Toby’s got a new outfit!”

Irene spreads her legs. Molly settles beneath her and begins teasing Irene's clit with lips and tongue.

“Bit of fingering, too, Molly-love?”

SLAP!

A flat hand hits a round buttock.

“Ouch!” Irene looks down and bites her lip. “Sorry. Please?”

Chapter Text

“Excuse me, Martha Hudson—?“

“Is a saint,” said a dark-haired young man as he rushed past her.

A sandy-haired lad followed, echoing. “Absolute saint.”

She watched as the pair scurried down the street.

“Boys! This is going on your rent!”

“Martha?”

“Margaret!”

“Are those young men—?”

“Fleeing the scene of the crime? Yes, please notify the kettle-cide division.” She held up a malodorous specimen.

“Goodness!”

“Can’t offer you tea. Elderberry wine?”


They sipped and smiled at each other.

“Quite a surprise, Margaret.”

“I’m in town for a christening, Janie’s youngest, and I got lost, of course, and I saw you and thought, well, whatever I thought, I decided to follow you, like a common criminal.”

“Believe it or not, Margaret, common criminality is a refreshing change for me.” She shot a rueful look at the ceiling. “How was the christening?”

“Oh, um,” she looked at her watch, “I suppose it’s lovely.”

“Margaret!”

“I’d rather be here. I just couldn’t believe it was you.”

“If I’d known, I’d…”

“You look magnificent, Martha.”

“There’s a reception after the christening?”

Margaret nodded.

“Why don’t we go together? I can be your plus one, unless you’re spoken for?”

“Would you? Oh, Martha.”

“I could drive you home, too.”

“You’ve a car?”

She grinned. “Oh, yes.”


“MARTHA!”

“Whew! Want to take a turn?”

“Goodness, no! I don’t drive at all since the cataract surgery.”

“Do you want to go home, Margaret?”

“What’s the alternative?”

“Keep driving. Find a nice little place to spend the night. Keep driving.”

Margaret smiled. “Until?”

“I find a new kettle. The right one.”

“Oh, the right kettle!” She laughed. “Well, that might take days!”

“A week, at least. We could start the kettle shopping holiday right now if you want.”

Margaret glanced at the backseat. “Martha…”

“No, those days are over. I’ve got a hip, but…” She nodded toward the bonnet.

“Outside?!”

“It’s dark. We’ve not seen anyone for over an hour. Come on.”


“I’ve got something in my purse to help—oh, God.”

“I’m old-fashioned, Martha.”

“I know. It’s marvelous.”

Smiling lips kissed smiling lips

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, my dear girl. Here’s a suggestive indentation.”

“Well, aren’t you the detective?”

They giggled. Then she sighed. “A bit more, Marg, I’m so close.”

“Like that, love?”

She whimpered as two fingers thrust deep inside her while a thumb teased her clit; her thighs clamped down hard ‘round the hand as she came.

“Marg?! It’s my worst nightmare.”

“So sorry, love, it’s been a while—“

She kissed her soundly. “Not you. That.”

“Oh! OH!”

“My greatest fear of getting old was turning into a dithering pussy like Miss Marple. And here we are, drinking elderberry wine—“

“I don’t remember the one where Miss Marple fucked on the bonnet of an Aston Martin, Martha!”

“But there’s a bloody corpse in the bushes! I’ll have to call the boys. And a very handsome Detective Inspector from Scotland Yard.”

“Well,” Margaret grinned, “if you must. Such a pity that.”  

Chapter Text

Three crises averted deserved a reward.

Mycroft locked her office door, then retrieved a mobile, her mobile, not the British government’s. As promised, her soulmate had sent a video.

Fluffy soap suds framed the image of John’s fingers caressing the skin which bore Mycroft and Sherlock’s names. She was evidently making use of the bath attached to Mycroft’s guest room, the entire suite had been recently renovated to evoke the spirit of the island holiday that she, John, and Sherlock had shared. The previous night they had christened it with wanton carnality, but duty had called for Mycroft and Sherlock in the morning.

“I love the bubble bath. Thank you, Daddy.”

Mycroft checked. The clip was only three minutes and forty-six seconds long.

“Oh, you perfect tease,” she said.


“Come in.”

John was on the bed, covered in a fluffy bathrobe, with pillows scattered about her.

“Have you been naughty?” asked Mycroft, pointedly, nodding towards John’s mobile half-hidden in the bedding.

John nodded.

Mycroft opened a drawer and produced two thin, short, ribbon-trimmed nightgowns, one pink, one yellow, and held them up.

John reached for the pink one, then slipped out of the robe and into it while Mycroft scooped up her mobile and dropped it in the drawer, then slammed the drawer shut with a swing of her hip. Then she sat on edge of the bed and reached for John, who curled into her lap and kissed her sweetly on the lips.

“Thank you for my Valentine,” said Mycroft, inhaling the ripe scent of John’s pleasure mixed with the fragrance of the bubble bath. She licked her thumb and began teasing John’s nipples through the pink fabric. “Especially these, liked them so much that I rushed back to my girl.”

Her thumb moved to John’s chapped lips. “You haven’t eaten.”

“Not hungry.”

Mycroft eased John off her lap and stood. “At least drink something.”

“There’s a fridge?!”

Mycroft smiled. “Coconut water?”

“Yes!”

John gulped it down.

Then she was back in Mycroft’s lap, stroking the side of Mycroft’s head and saying softly, “You take such good care of me.”

Mycroft closed her eyes, trying not to purr. She leaned into the petting and it continued, along with the chanting, “Such, such good care of me, always.”

“You are so very precious to me, my dear.”

And then Mycroft was kissing John’s neck, but she didn’t want to play the game anymore, and neither did John, apparently, because she was shrugging out of the nightgown and straddling Mycroft.

And then their mouths met and Mycroft could taste the tropical sweetness on John’s lips and she wanted to kiss John and kiss John and keep kissing John through the fucking and the sleeping and the waking and—

Bloody hell, she was drunk.

John broke the kiss and groaned. “This room is like the island, My. I feel a bit mad. I want you inside me, everywhere, fuck—“

Suddenly, the door swung open. “Did I miss anything? No? Ooo, coconut water!”

Chapter Text

“You’re brilliant, my love,” mumbled Stella, kissing the side of Sally’s neck.

Sally hummed and brushed her lips across Stella’s temple, where damp hair met moist skin. “Losing’s worth the aftercare?”

“Definitely.”

“Drink.”

“Bellinis already?”

“Water, first.”

Stella opened her mouth to gulp from the offered bottle. Then she cracked one eye and looked down at their bodies tangled together above and below the water. “New tub’s grand.”

“Built for two,” said Sally with a proud smile.

“And you did all the renovations yourself. Brilliant.”

“You helped.”

“I was—“

“—gorgeously sweaty, warrior-strong—”

“—muscle.”

Sally squeezed a firm hand down Stella’s arm. “Hands?”

Stella nodded.

Sally eased away and twisted until they were face-to-face. Then she took one of Stella’s hands in both of hers and began to draw ribbons of massaging fingers from wrist to palm.

“The things you learn on Youtube,” groaned Stella.

When Sally had finished with the one hand, she released it into warm water. Stella sat up and offered her the other hand.

“My hands get so…”

“Yeah, I know, me, too.”

“And I don’t even notice until…”

“Yeah.”

Sally’s fingers continued working until Stella whimpered.

“Sally.”

Sally dropped Stella’s hand and drew her closer, wrapping one arm around her waist. One of Stella’s long legs stretched on one side of Sally, snug between her body and the porcelain while the other was bent at the knee. She was practically in Sally’s lap by the time Sally’s hand dropped back beneath the water to tease her cunt.

“Aftercare’s the best part of winning,” she said. She kissed Stella’s lips as her fingers traced her folds. “It’s the only time you beg.”

“A little fuck, Sally. Please?”

Sally pushed one, then two fingers deep inside Stella, and offered her palm for rutting as her fingers thrust. They leaned forward, then back, then to each side, until they found the rhythm of rocking that made Stella pant, open-mouthed.

The water rippled and sloshed.

“Right there. Don’t stop.”

“Why the fuck would I stop?”

Stella giggled. “Love it when you swear. Oh, God.” Stella threw her head back and exhaled in short, loud huffs.

Sally put her lips to Stella’s neck and grinned. “You come like a porn star.”

“You fuck like one.”

“Aren’t we a pair?”


They sat on either end of the tub.

“Cheers. To us.”

“Cheers. To your new spa—“

“Our spa,” said Sally.

“—and YouTube.”

Sally laughed and leaned forward until their flutes clinked.

Stella sipped, then quickly set the glass on the corner of the tub. She extended her leg, slotting her foot right between Sally’s legs.

“Hello!” said Sally, coughing. “Are you…?”

Stella fixed her with a stare. “Oh, yes.”

“Will it even wo—?”

Stella rubbed her foot against Sally’s cunt, flexing, then pointing, then wiggling her toes.

“Yeah, okay.” Sally took a long swig of the cocktail and guided Stella’s movements. “And the tub’s just the right size. I am brilliant. Where’d you learn—oh, fuck, don’t tell me.”

Stella shrugged. “YouTube?”

Chapter Text

Decent match on telly and cheap takeout.

There were better ways to spend a night off, but Lestrade had grown tired of checking his phone for a message that never appeared.

He’d promised Sherlock that he’d ‘take care of it,’ and over drinks in a quiet corner, Lestrade had been as good a friend to Mycroft Holmes as he knew how to be. Mycroft seemed to warm to his effort, confiding quite a bit of the Holmes family tragedy. Lestrade had hoped that they’d met again, but the weeks had passed.

He rummaged in the bottom of the paper bag and found what he sought.

Your dearest wish will come true.

“Really.” He rolled his eyes, then read the other side.

GINGER

“I guess it means you,” he said, addressing the bottle. “Not—“

Knock, knock!

Lestrade tensed. He made his way slowly to the door. His heart leapt, but then his mind caught up.

Damn, the last thing he wanted to do tonight was deal with bloody Sherlock!

He opened the door.

“Good evening, Gregory. I’ve caught you at an inopportune moment. I’m very sorry. I should have phoned—“

Lestrade sighed. “Where is he?”

“Sherlock’s at the Baker Street flat—with John. I’m, well, I’m here, just, well, you did say, but I should have phoned, terribly sorry, I’ll leave you to your evening.”

“Mycroft, wait! Please come in. I apologise for presuming you were here on business other than your own. You’d hardly pay a visit for one of Sherlock’s emergencies. I’ve enough food for two if you’d care to join me for dinner.”

Mycroft smiled a shy smile that made Lestrade’s heart leap once more.


“I apologise also for not contacting you sooner.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Work.”

“True, but—I prefer to be wholly frank with you, Gregory; I spend far too much of my waking hours doing otherwise—it was more fear.”

“You laid yourself quite bare last time we met, Mycroft. I’d be surprised if you weren’t a bit uncomfortable afterwards and wanted to distance yourself, but I admit I had given up hope of seeing you again, socially, that is.”

Mycroft’s face fell. He shook his head and frowned. “Forgive me, Gregory,” he muttered.

“Done,” said Lestrade, then he winked and took a swig from his bottle.

Mycroft stared at him, then said with unmasked awe. “Extraordinary.”

Lestrade took another swig, not missing Mycroft’s gaze fixed on his mouth as he did so.

Well, well.

Dearest wish?

Perhaps.

Ginger?

Oh, yes.

“Mycroft, I like you, quite a lot actually, and right now, I’d like nothing better than to bury my head in the front of those bespoke trousers and suck that gorgeous cock of yours.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened.

“Just my fortune talking,” added Lestrade quickly, holding up the tiny slip of paper, “if I’m rushing things—“

As Mycroft read both sides of the paper, his smile became a smirk.

“Good fortune for both of us,” he said as he unfastened his trousers and freed his prick.

Chapter Text

“What?!”

“John, your exact words were, ‘And if you ever once went out and bought the bloody milk, I’d fall down on the floor and worship you like the goddam bloody golden calf, you, lazy, bollock-headed tit!’”

Sherlock set the carton on the table.

“There.”

John stared at Sherlock, then at the milk. Then, after depositing the carton in the refrigerator, he slowly sank down to floor, hitting his knees then bending forward until his head rested on a cool spot of lino in front of Sherlock’s shoes.

He smiled and shook his head, then said,

“You are extraordinary, Sherlock. Amazing. Fantastic.”

Then he lifted his head and addressed Italian leather.

“Extraordinary. Amazing. Fantastic.”

Then he reached out and curled his hands around Sherlock’s ankles.

“Extraordinary. Amazing. Fantastic.”

John moved very slowly up Sherlock’s legs and with every repetition, the earnestness of his words increased, and by the time he reached Sherlock’s mid-thigh, his body was warm and his mind was astir.

Like a fanatic.

He felt a tremor in Sherlock’s leg muscle and threw his head back, looking up.

“John.”

Sherlock’s expression was pained. “It was a jest, a joke, a bluff,” he said in a weak voice, “but now…”

“It isn’t,” said John.

Sherlock shook his head.

“For me either. Now I want to worship you.”

“Please, John.” Sherlock palmed the front of his own trousers.

“Yeah,” said John, nuzzling, then kissing the bulge in the fabric.


“You’re extraordinary; you’re amazing; you’re fantastic, John,” chanted Sherlock between gulping breaths as he leaned forward and fed John more of his cock. John had already suckled the leaking head and licked up and down the hard shaft. Now he was softening the back of his throat and breathing deeply through his nose as his mouth filled.

“It was a shot in the dark, but an absolutely brilliant one,” breathed Sherlock. “Oh, God,” he moaned as John’s head began to bob.

One of Sherlock’s hands rested lightly on John’s head, petting him, stroking him, then he felt an urgent tap.

“John!”

John pulled off, and Sherlock decorated the front of a lower cabinet and floor with his come.

Then their eyes met.

“Up.”

But as soon as John stood, he was jerked around, his trousers were open, and Sherlock was rummaging through the overhead cabinets with one hand.

“Oil?” asked John.

“It’ll do. Can’t wait."

Sherlock coated his hands, spilling the oil all over the kitchen counter and floor in the process, then bent John forward and wrapped a slick fist around his cock.

“Devotion shouldn’t be its own reward,” he growled into John’s ear as he pumped.

John huffed, then licked his lips and tried to smile. “There’s also the milk. Oh, Christ.”

“Not quite, but I’m flattered. How about a bit of ecstasy for the faithful?”

“Fuck!” John drew the word out through four tight strokes of his very hard prick.

“No, I forgot those biscuits you like,” said Sherlock, biting the side of John’s neck. “But next time…”

Chapter Text

“D’you know the best remedy for insomnia, Sherlock?”

“Evening ramble. Midnight stroll. Never know what kind of well-dressed psychopath you might bump into behind a foul-smelling skip.”

“Flattery is needless, princess, when you’ve already got your fingers ‘round my prick.”

They stood, hunched and huddled, facing each other, each with a cock not his own in his tight, slicked fist, pumping fast and furiously, as if it were a competition of speed. Which, of course, it was.

The bin that shielded them from the street was a mountain of rubbish, piled high to spilling, its malodorous contents scattered all about them.

“Irish coffee,” said Moriarty.

Sherlock snorted. “I hate whiskey.”

“I mean, coffee, with a bit of my Irish in it,” said Moriarty, grinning and nodding at his own prick.

Sherlock snorted again, then twisted his hand over Moriarty’s prick-head before sliding his fist back down the shaft.

“Christ, you are a romantic, aren’t you, sweetheart?” breathed Moriarty. “All right, after our date, why don’t you come up for coffee?” He looked over his shoulder, pointing, if it were possible, which, of course it was, with his eyebrows.

Sherlock spied the balcony in the distance, so high in the moonlit sky that it seemed to be balanced on air and dusky clouds. “That’s not your flat,” he observed.

“It will be. What do you say?” Moriarty squeezed Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock bit back a groan. “The only way I’d drink your coffee was with my cock in your arse.”

Don’t throw bouquets at me,” crooned Moriarty. “People will say we’re in love!

“This is so much better…”

“…than suicide chips? Yeah, don’t kill yourself. That’s so three years ago. I have to say I’m a bit envious, Sherlock.”

“Being dead isn’t as much fun as you’d think.”

“Nah, that sinister bend to left in your prick.”

“Feels as good coming, and coming out as it does going in.”

“Naughty sociopath. Okay, Daddy’s had enough. This stench is going to be hell on the Westwood.”

“What do you think it’s doing to the Dolce & Gabbana?” moaned Sherlock.

They twisted. They jerked. They came. They sighed. They grimaced at the mess.

Two handkerchiefs unfurled. Two exclamations.

“Hey!”

“That’s mine!”

“I liked them so much that I got a monogrammed set myself, don’t you know?”

Handkerchiefs were exchanged with angry snatches.

“So?” asked Moriarty when the dabbing and mopping was finished.


“This is the most horrid coffee I’ve ever had!”

Moriarty cackled, then curled an arm back, grabbed the cup from Sherlock’s hand, and sent it and its contents hurtling into the night.

Sherlock pulled his cock out of Moriarty’s arse, only to sink it right back in, quick and slick and sure, until it was fully sheathed. The howling wind masked his roar and Moriarty’s cry.

“Fuck!”

Moriarty dropped his head to gaze at the ant-sized world below. “It does feel as good coming out as going in.”

Sherlock growled. “You’re going to sleep like a baby when I’m done with you, sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

“Ouch! Stop, please!”

Sherlock removed her hand at once and swore under her breath.

“I’m so sorry,” John muttered. “I thought I wanted it. Last time—“

“It was foolish of me even attempt it today, even upon request.”

John paused. “What do you mean ‘today’?”

“I mean—“

“Sherlock, whatever comes next had better be the truth.”

Sherlock sighed. “Your enjoyment of digital stimulation, indeed, vaginal penetration of any kind, John, correlates with ovulation.”

“WHAT?! You’re tracking my cycle? Of course, you are. And you know this? Of course, you do. Why don’t I know it? I’m a doctor!”

“You’re a very unobservant doctor whose last thought is for her own biology.”

“But wait, I ovulate every month, we don’t have sex like last time every month.”

“Last time, I was ovulating, too.”

“Ah.”

“And it was a full moon. There were additional factors contributing to the singularity.”

“The moon is a factor?!”

“Whether there’s enough milk for your morning tea is a stronger predictor than the lunar phase.”

John shook her head slowly. Then she kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “You’ve got an equation.”

“For things that matter most.”

John pressed her forehead to Sherlock’s temple. “We fucked like rabbits. All over the bloody flat. I could not get enough of you, Sherlock. It was madness. I wanted to…”

Sherlock’s lips twitched in a half-smile as she eased John into her lap. Then she nuzzled at the side of John’s face and wrapped her arms protectively around her.

“…cut myself open and draw you inside me.”

“The urgency was shared, John, and the nature of the fantasy quite complementary.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I wanted to crawl inside you. Touch, or rather rest inside, the core of you.”

“Fuck. And that was the moon? And milk in the fridge?!”

“And your body and mine and a good night’s sleep and nothing especially horrid in the news.”

“That’s rare, these days.”

“Indeed.”

John looked down and realised that her hips were rutting slowly against Sherlock’s bare thigh. “It seems at least part of me is reconsidering.” She curled a hand in Sherlock’s hair and kissed her soundly. “Christ, you’re gorgeous.”

When Sherlock pulled back, her eyelids drooped. “The way you fuck yourself on me. Your wetness. Your scent. The way your body moves.” She smiled and asked, “Do you mind?” Her hand dropped between her legs.

John’s hand joined Sherlock’s.

Two fingers thrust, two thumbs teased Sherlock’s clit as John rocked.

“Last time,” said John. “You said filthy things. You never say filthy things.”

“I deleted everything but your voice, begging me to fuck you, over and over.”

“You were so good at it, Sherlock. You fucked me so well.”

Sherlock chuckled. “More, John,” she urged before she bit the ridge of John’s shoulder. Four fingers curled inside Sherlock’s cunt. John’s rutting sped up.

“I said, ‘Inside, Sherlock. Come inside me, please.’”

“I said, ‘Let me in, John. Deeper. I want you, everywhere.”

They kissed as they came.

Then John sighed, “Who needs the moon?”

Chapter Text

Moriarty threw the post down with a grimace. “Bills, junk, doesn’t anybody write anymore?” He looked about the flat. “Seb, you home?”

“So’s that her,” said Seb as he waltzed into the sitting room in a towel.

“Who?”

“My mark. That old lady I saw you helping across the street earlier.”

“Nah, your mark’s a much nastier fellow who doesn’t pay his dues.”

“Then who was the old lady?”

“She was just an old lady!”

“Just an old lady?”

“Are you deaf? Yes. An old lady who couldn’t get across the street fast enough for those bloody cabbies. Oh, here’s the number of the cab that blew the horn at us,” he tapped his phone and Seb’s, hidden in the sofa, buzzed, “make certain he has a real lousy day tomorrow. What?”

“I don’t usually witness you being a good Samaritan. You, you know, blew that one old lady up, the blind one.”

“Hobgoblins of little minds, Seb? Do you have to blow up every old lady I see? That would put a crimp in the ol’ schedule, wouldn’t it? And that was Sherlock. What now?”

“I dunno. It’s kind of hot. You, you know, being nice.”

Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

And with one flick of an Irish psychopathic finger, Seb was on his knees and his mouth was full of cock.

“Getting hard, Sebby?”

Seb nodded as he bobbed and slurped.

Moriarty had two hands on the back of Seb’s head, not fucking his mouth, not yet, but Seb knew it was only a matter of time.

“You’re going be putting that stallion prick in me, aren’t you? You’d better be. Christ, I should’ve worn the plug. The prep’s going to take too long. Fuck. Sebby, Sebby, Sebby.”

No sooner was Seb swallowing a mouthful of bitter seed than he was being yanked to his feet by a man half his size and at least two weight classes below him.

“Seb!”

“Christ, you’re still in your coat, Boss.”

It was a ridiculous tableau: Seb, naked and still dripping from the shower, his lover-employer-tormentor bent over the arm of the sofa, with bespoke trousers ‘round his ankles and a Quasimodo hump of coat, jacket, shirt on his back.

But when Seb’s cock slid into the hilt, they both groaned.

“I’m going to join the Girl Scouts.”

“You mean the Boy Scouts?” grunted Seb as he thrust.

“Christ, you are going deaf! Did I say ‘Boy Scouts’? Fuck the Boy Scouts. I want to be a Girl Scout. Do a good turn. Every day. Well, not every day, but at least once a week. Nice suck, nice pound from my hired gun.”

“And the uniform. Heh, heh.”

“And the uniform! And the badges! Fuck, yeah! I’ve got to find a troop. Maybe they’ll make a Colonel. Right there, Seb, right there.”

Seb knew it was ‘right there’ because he felt the trembling. “You’re going to be the naughtiest Girl Scout in the land, boss,” he groaned just before he spent himself.

Chapter Text

Lestrade woke with a grunt. “What’s that?”

Mycroft looked down at the billowing layers of tulle stiffly cascading over rings.

“Petticoat.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow.

“It’s pink princess day, Gregory.”

“Is there a ballgown to match?”

“Outer garments hold little appeal.”

Lestrade nodded. “How ‘bout a waltz?”

Mycroft smiled and stood. The petticoat settled about him, then curtsied and tapped his mobile.

A song filled the air.

Lestrade stood and took Mycroft in his arms and led him about the bedroom, humming along with the fairytale tune. When the song ended, he kissed Mycroft chastely on the lips.

“In a hurry?”

“I’ve time,” said Mycroft coyly. He twisted in Lestrade’s arms and reached a hand back, feeling Lestrade’s half-hard prick tenting his pyjama trousers.

“Later or,” Lestrade pressed his lips to Mycroft’s shoulder, “Now.”

“Now,” breathed Mycroft, diving onto the bed. Part of the petticoat sprang awkwardly up in the air and part bunched awkwardly around him. “This princess wants to be mounted and fucked.”

Lestrade grinned. “As you wish.”


Lestrade was still grinning on the way back from lunch when he saw the car.

“I haven’t much time, your Rosy Highness,“ he said as he slipped across the leather seat.

Mycroft opened his trousers.

“Oh, God,” groaned Lestrade. “I’ve got time for that.” He buried his face in Mycroft’s crotch, sniffing and nuzzling. “Pink silk,” he mumbled. “Pink lace. Little pearls. Come on, let me suck you, precious. I’m gagged for it now.”

Without a word, Mycroft yanked down the front of his knickers. His cock sprang free and Lestrade gobbled it down as his hands explored.

“Gregory,” Mycroft warned.

Lestrade hummed and swallowed.

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t show you all the features of interest,” said Mycroft. He turned and Lestrade read ‘princess’ in curled dark pink lettering across the back of the knickers.

“Oh, love, can I eat your arse for a bit?”

Mycroft whimpered and spread his cheeks with two hands.


Mycroft was still whimpering much later that day.

“Please, Gregory.”

“Just a little more. You’re not pink enough, princess. I want your pretty skin the colour of that pretty new corset I got you.”

Mycroft, nude save for the corset in question, was tied to the bed, hands and feet spread wide.

Lestrade had been crawling about him for the better part of an hour, licking and sucking and rubbing, but keeping him wanting, never giving him the full friction he needed to find release.

Mycroft sweated. He panted. His skin turned a beautiful shade of the desired colour.

He begged.

“Is this how you treat royalty?” he cried petulantly.

“It’s how I treat you, princess.”

Then Lestrade glanced at the clock.

“One minute after midnight. Your carriage’s just turned into a pumpkin, love.”

And with that, Lestrade turned away, straddled Mycroft, and sank down, impaling himself on Mycroft’s prick.

“Mycroft, tell me the truth. Did you invent Pink Princess Day?”

He looked over his shoulder, but Mycroft was too busy coming to answer.

Chapter Text

John smiled when he heard Sherlock’s bedroom door squeak and bare feet on the hall floorboards.

“Good morning, John.”

“It’s two in the afternoon, Sherlock.”

Sherlock yawned. He wore a white bedsheet wrapped around him, more cocoon than toga, and nothing else.

“Interesting choice of sleepwear.”

“It’s hot,” said Sherlock.

“Well, it is almost July. I’ve made some fortified lemonade,” said John, opening the refrigerator and revealing a glass pitcher full of ice and a bright pink beverage.

“What, no tea?”

“And I’ve a surprise,” continued John, ignoring the gripe, but when Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, his face fell and he swore.

“Damn it, Sherlock! You deduced it!”

At the end of Sherlock’s gorgeous legs were a pair of gorgeous, freshly—very freshly—manicured feet. The nails had been painted a shimmery pearl colour and each big toe was decorated with a trio of tiny glittery pink seashells.

Sherlock shrugged. “Does it help that I only narrowed it down to three possibilities?”

John huffed. “I am not convinced that ‘pink princess day’ is even real, Sherlock, but—“

“Mycroft invented it,” said Sherlock, coming alive at the sight of the shoe box John drew out from the back of the tea cupboard.

“Really?”

“Well, he and that ruthless Dame Julie Andrews.” Sherlock grabbed the box and threw off the lid.

“Wedges!” he squealed. “Ballet pink nappa leather with a crisscross strap.”

“Well, it is almost July. May I?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly.

John took the box and knelt.

“They’re beautiful, John. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said John. “There. Now, how would you like to spend what’s left of your day, princess?”

Sherlock sashayed to centre the sitting room. Then he pivoted and let the sheet fall to the floor.

“Obvious, John. Drinking your ridiculous cocktail and having copious amounts of sex in these shoes.”


“Christ, Sherlock,” moaned John, reaching for his mobile and cracking one eye. “One minute to midnight. Thank God. I don’t think I can survive anymore of ‘pink princess day.’”

“Indeed.” Without opening his eyes, Sherlock licked his lips. “Thirsty.”

“Water. We need water.” John tumbled out of the bed. “God, those shoes,” he said as he spotted them in the corner.

“Thank you for the shoes, John.”

John stopped at the door. “Yeah, you said that.”

“Did I?”

John chuckled. “Yeah, right after I took you from behind in the middle of the sitting room.”

“And over the arm of the sofa,” said Sherlock, with a smirk.

“And when I sucked you off in your armchair.”

“And in your armchair.”

John nodded. “And when I fucked you on the desk in front of the window.”

“And when you made me paint the window with my come.”

“Twice.”

“Twice. And when I finally took the shoes off and you sucked my toes.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock.” John stumbled back toward the bed. “And when you brought me off with just your feet.”

Sherlock threw off the sheet.

John dove.

“I hate to say it, but…”

“Mycroft’s a bloody genius.”

Chapter Text

Irene sat up and squinted, then shielded her eyes with her hand.


“You’re late.”

“How?”


“I wanted you here ages ago.”


“Then maybe you should stop being dead so much.”


“You’d think that’d bring us together, corpse, morgue staff, but no.”


“Nice top.“


“What’s the point of a secluded Italian villa if one doesn’t sunbathe topless?” said Irene with a smirk.


“Skin cancer.”


“I’ve been dead twice. I’ll take my chances. Join me?”


“You’re dead, not stupid,” said Molly, reaching behind her back to unhook her pink bikini top and letting it fall. Then she reached for the bottle of sunscreen beneath Irene’s chair. “But I’m betting you need a fresh coat.”


“God, yes,” said Irene. “Please.”


Molly straddled Irene, then began to rubbed the sunscreen into Irene’s breasts with firm, kneading strokes.


“He knew you by ‘not-your-face,’” said Molly.


“Don’t be cross. So do you. Better. But I see why you like him.”


“Don’t be cross. I like you. Better.”


Irene’s hips began to roll. Molly’s, too, as she smoothed more sunscreen onto Irene’s shoulders and stomach.


“Take them off,” begged Irene.


Molly stood and peeled her pink bikini bottom off, then she hooked her finger in Irene’s and tugged them off as well. Then she straddled Irene once more.


They both groaned.


“Nothing like two pussies rubbing together, is there? Especially when one of them is yours,” said Irene. She pressed the bottle of sunscreen into Molly’s hand. “Do yourself.”


“You love to watch, don’t you?”


Irene’s lips twitched.

Molly rubbed the sunscreen on her own chest and shoulders and neck while Irene bit her lip and let one hand slip to her own mons. At once, her body tensed, and she came with a series of short pants.

Molly gripped Irene’s wrist tight. “My turn.”

Irene twisted her hand and teased Molly’s clit with one finger.

Molly closed her eyes and pressed her lips together.

“Give us a show, sexy,” said Irene.

Molly threw her head back and arched her back. She drew her hands up her chest and squeezed her own breasts as Irene toyed with her clit and the damp folds of her cunt.

“Fuck!” she exhaled as she came. Then she looked down at Irene through half-lidded eyes. “Give us a clean-up, yeah?”

Irene nodded.

They both sprang to their feet. Irene resettled upside down on the lounge chair. Molly turned and carefully straddled Irene’s face, looking down toward her nude body.

“Not-your-face is so lovely, but your lips and your tongue, oh, God. Can I—?”

Irene hummed.

Molly leaned forward as Irene spread her legs and lifted her hips. They took turns lapping and licking until they had both come again.

Molly bit the inside of Irene’s thigh, then rolled off her and settled on the adjacent lounge chair.


“What’s the plan?” she asked.


“Three days. Fucking. Swimming,” Irene gestured to the pool, “fucking.”


“I’m supposed to be at pathology conference in Rome,” said Molly with a groan.


“I’m dead, doesn’t that count?”

Chapter Text

“…so twelve dozen crates—“

“Gross,” said John without looking up from his notepad.

“Excuse me?” said Lestrade.

“Twelve dozen,” said John, “is a gross.”

“Oh, yes. Twelve dozen crates of rare squid stolen in glaring violation of the prohibition of the sale of endangered species—“

“Gross,” said John.

Lestrade stared.

“Gross violation.”

“Uh, yes. In the broadest terms, the street value, before any deductions, would be well over—“

“The gross gross?” asked John.

Lestrade frowned.

“Solved it!” cried Sherlock, rounding the corner. “They were transferred to these crates, the ones lacking the gross riot of barnacles, and smuggled off the boat. Note the gross, that is, visible to the naked eye, trail of secretions.”

“But why?” asked John.

“In gross terms, John, the squid are cows. They’re being milked for their ink, much coveted on the black market for its use in a cocktail purported to cure male impotency known as a ‘Kraken Ink bomb.’” Sherlock flashed his mobile at John and Mycroft. “There’s your culprit, Lestrade. I’m certain your officers will catch him, uh, black-handed. Come on, John.”

Sherlock and John hurried off the boat.

“Four,” said John.

“Damn it! I only got three,” said Sherlock. “Next time, I am going to pick the word of the day.”

BEEP!

“Huh,” said John, looking down at his phone. “Mary, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson have taken Rosie to Brighton for the weekend.”

“And you know what’s the opposite of gross, John? She says, ‘Dive in. The water’s fine.’”


Sherlock dove in. The water was fine, and beautiful in the moonlight, but he’d only managed two strokes before he felt arms reaching for him.

“What took you so long?” asked Mary.

“Cecaelia Cove isn’t the easiest place to find, Mary,” said John as he peeled off his pants, “and we can’t exactly ask for directions. ‘Oh, have you see a lovely lady who seems to not have her hands full at all?”

He leapt into the water. “Everyone’s sleeping soundly at the cottage,” he said when he surfaced.

“Yes, bless ‘em. We’ve had a wonderful day. How ‘bout a wonderful night?” She gave John and Sherlock each a chaste kiss on the lips, but below the water, arms coiled ‘round their waists and hardening cocks and the tips to more arms teased tender rims and pebbling nipples. “Like last time? You fill me and I’ll fill you?”

They groaned and curled their bodies ‘round hers.

The three bobbed together, Mary keeping them afloat as Sherlock and John clung to her. With every breath, cocks and tentacle arms sank deeper into bodies until they were a well-knotted trio, shuddering through the first of the night’s many pleasures.


“More toast, Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes, Molly. Sea air, you know.”

“Everyone’s still sleeping.”

“Yes, bless ‘em. Um, Molly, yesterday at Cecaelia Cove, did you, uh, notice a strange fish?”

“You, too? When Rosie was napping. It, uh, tickled me. A lot.”

“Perhaps we should go back there today. Explore a bit.”

“I’ll pack the picnic hamper.”

Chapter Text

“Sacré bleu!” exclaimed Sherlock upon entering the kitchen just in time to witness John tipping the contents of his mug into a glass of ice.

“Good morning, Poirot,” said John with a sigh. “Sacrilege, yes, this, and the weather. Barely nine o’ clock in the morning and hot as hell. Long Island Iced Tea?”

Sherlock peered into John’s glass. “That’s not a Long Island Iced Tea.”

“I know. It was a joke.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“I know. Nothing’s funny. It’s too hot. Tea?”

“I want a Long Island Iced Tea, John.”

John snorted. “Yeah? Well, I want your dressing gown, Sherlock. Silk’s got to be cooler than this flannel one.”

“Deal.”

Their eyes met.

John moved slowly towards Sherlock, letting his eyes roam from Sherlock’s mouth to the bare V of his chest and back. Then he reached a hand up and flicked open the cabinet.

“Coming up,” he said.


“Christ,” slurred John. “Long Island Iced Tea’s not like Tippy Assam.”

“Nope,” said Sherlock, his head lolling against the armchair.

“Your gown’s nice, though.” John rubbed the blue silk against his cheek.

“Yup. S’why I have two.”

John drained his glass and smiled at Sherlock, who was fussing with the lapel of his own dressing gown, which was, indeed, identical to the one John wore, save for a thin vertical stripe.

“Christ, Sherlock, maybe it’s the heat, but I want to…”

“Me, too. But it’s too hot.”

“I want to…”

Sherlock untied the sash and pulled the sides of the dressing gown apart. Then he palmed his half-hard cock. “Ride me?”

“Yeah, but—and don’t be offended, it’s just the heat—without actually touching you. Might not work.”

“S’worth a try. Lube.”


They groaned, both from the strain of maintaining their odd tableau and the pleasure of the act.

Legs were spread. Legs were tucked.

John bent forward. Sherlock thrust up.

Sherlock came. John tipped forward onto the rug.

“John?”

“Sorry, Sherlock. As utterly fuckable as you are and as much as I want to fuck you, this was a bad idea. It’s too hot.”

Sherlock gazed at John’s leaking arsehole and frowned. Then he said, “I’ve got an idea, John, but you’d better pour yourself another glass.”


“Where are we, Sherlock? It’s so dark I can’t see a thing.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right. It’s fucking cool. Come here, gorgeous.”

John heard clothes rustling and then a sloshing.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Flask. Long Island Iced Tea.”

“Christ, I’ve created a monster!” said John with a chuckle. “Drink up, then, while I prep this sweet arse.”


“Oh, fuck!”

“John!”

“Oh, God, Sherlock, so good.”

“Deeper, John.”

“I’m going to, gorgeous, just give me a minute. I want to savour it. Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock. You’re taking my cock so well. I’m going to—“

The door swung open. Light flooded in.

“SHERLOCK!”

John blinked. “Molly? Are we in the fucking morgue, Sherlock?! Are we fucking in the bloody body freezer?!”

Sherlock raised the flask in offering. “Long Island Iced Tea, Molly?”

Chapter Text

“Sorry, Molly.”

“Sorry, Molly.”

“Keep apologising.”

Sherlock held her. John knelt before her.

The icy air of the freezer made Molly’s skin break out in gooseflesh, but the heat of John’s breath on her bush and the heat of Sherlock’s breath in her ear made her sweat.

“Sorry.”

“Sorry.”

Molly unfastened the clasp of her bra. Sherlock’s hands pushed under the fabric and cupped her breasts. He kneaded them, rubbing the nipples with his thumbs as John ate her out.

“God, he’s good,” moaned Molly, throwing her head back against Sherlock’s shoulders. She opened her eyes and read the longing in Sherlock’s gaze.

“You don’t know?” she murmured.

“Not yet,” admitted Sherlock.

Molly twisted her head, and Sherlock kissed her lips softly.

“Let him—oh, God—put his tongue inside you, Sherlock. He’s very good.”

John sat back on his heels, gasping, the lower half of his face wet. “I think the situation calls for a bit more leverage, don’t you?”

Sherlock fell to his knees, helping John strip Molly from the waist down. Then he stood and John took hold of Molly’s calves.

“Oh!” she cried in surprise when her legs were hooked ‘round John’s shoulders and her arms twined ‘round Sherlock’s arms. Then Sherlock’s hands slipped back beneath her jumper and resumed their fondling.

It was awkward, to be certain, but John’s mouth made her forget all of that, including the circus acrobatics required by the tight space and the fact she really needed to go back to yoga.

“Fuck,” she breathed. “’Three Continents has got to be an underestimate.”

A chuckling growl from John and Sherlock’s teeth sinking into the side of her neck pushed her over the edge.

They held her as she writhed through her climax. Then John set her feet gently on the floor.

They helped her dress.

No, they did not help her dress. They completely impeded the dressing process with their kisses and their caresses. Molly had to stop and let Sherlock’s fingers coax her through a second, smaller, but sweeter, orgasm.

“Christ, I’m parched,” she said when she was finally set to rights. “Give me a sip.”

Sherlock hesitated.

“Come on, Sherlock,” said John.

Molly stared at him.

John stared at him.

Sherlock looked sheepish and handed the Molly the flask.

The metal rim touched her lips. She drank.

And all became clear.

It was cold and wet but…

“This isn’t Long Island Iced Tea. It’s tonic water.”

“What?!” cried John.

“You don’t honestly think, John, as drunk as I was, that I could get us into Barts morgue freezer without being caught, well,” Sherlock shot a look at Molly, “I mean, almost without being caught. I had to sober up. Tonic water’s all bite, no bark.”

“I’ll show you biting and barking,” growled John.

“Show him somewhere else. I’ve got work.” Molly took a long swig and handed the flask back to Sherlock. “Thank you so much for everything. Now get out of here or I’ll call Mycroft, then security.”

Chapter Text

“Where do you want ‘im, ma'am?”

Molly tapped her clipboard.

“Over there, please. Thank you very much. Paperwork in order? Yes? Wonderful. All right, who do we have here? Oh, Mister Matthews. Let’s see what happened to you.”

Knock, knock.

“Oh god, what now? Wait a minute, who knocks on the door of a morgue? Come in!”

“Molly, my dear.”

“Jim!”

“Surprised?”

“Always. What are you doing here?”

“Can’t one hard-working friend stop by and see another hard-working friend in her workplace and bring her an Iced Cascara Coconutmilk Latte?” He produced the beverage from behind his back.

“Wow! Thanks!” She took the drink from him and had a long draw from the green straw. “Nice. I’ve been wanting to try these. Uh, I’m afraid I’m a bit busy. I had an unexpected delay earlier and I’m behind.”

“Not as behind as you think you are. Here let me take that from you. Wouldn’t want to spill,” he said.

Molly frowned and handed him the drink.

“SUPRISE!”

The body on the table sprang to like and threw off the blue drape.

“AARGH!” screamed Molly.

Seb grinned. “Sorry, Molls. I’ve always wanted to do that!”

“Some days it’s a bit difficult to believe that you two are a ruthless pair of criminals,” said Molly, panting.

“You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen Matthews yet,” said Jim with a shrug.

“Yup,” said Seb.

“Where’s Matthews?” asked Molly.

Seb put a finger to his lips. “It’s a secret.”

Molly glared. “All right. Let’s try something straightforward. Seb, where are your clothes?”

“Also, a secret.”

Molly rolled her eyes and huffed. “Always a pleasure. So, are you just here to fuck with me?!”

“I hope so and yes,” said Jim, running a hand down the front of his bespoke suit. “We understand you had a visit earlier that left you wholly unsatisfied. We’re here to remedy that.”

Seb hopped off the table and stood behind Jim, smiling. “Think about it, Molls. Did they bring you an Iced Cascara Coconutmilk Latte?” He took the plastic cup from Jim’s hand and raised it.

“No,” said Molly, frowning. “Sherlock had some tonic water in a flask.”

Jim grimaced. Seb made a gagging noise.

Molly took the latte from Seb and sipped. Then she gave a quick nod toward the freezer.

“Twenty minutes.”


Molly slammed her lower half into Jim, then sighed.

Jim chuckled. “You have to admit, Molls, we’re better.”

Molly hummed, and fell back into Seb’s arms.

Jim cupped her jaw and they continued to kiss while Seb lifted her hair and mouthed along the nape of her neck.

“Can I have a cock?” asked Molly.

“Mine? Seb’s?”

“Yes,” said Molly.


“That’s my Molls,” growled Seb, thrusting up with such force that Molly bounced. “Making the Boss go the good kind of mad. Oh, and I got a new Might-T-Mouse squeaker for Toby.”

Molly’s eyes flew open and she grinned. “You know, I have to admit—”

Seb smirked, then looked at Jim. “Told you so.”

Chapter Text

“Hold that lift! Thanks. Oh, Mister Holmes.”

“Detective Inspector. Are you, in fact, morgue-bound as well?”

“Yes, are we on the same mission?”

“Perhaps.”

“I was right! Matthews wasn’t a dentist, was he?”

“No, but he did knock out my brother’s left incisor in a waiting room in Charing Cross.”

“Interesting. After you.”

“Miss Hoop—“

“OH, NO! I’VE GOT WORK TO DO! FIND SOMEPLACE COOL—OTHER THAN MY FREEZER—AND SOD YOURSELVES. OUT!”

“That was a bit unexpected.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll come back a bit later.”

“Capital plan, Detective Inspector. I shall follow your lead. Perhaps, if you’ve no pressing engagement, we might enjoy a cooling beverage. Together.”

“A drink? Christ, yes. It’s a sauna out there, and not the good kind.”


“That’s good. Herb?”

“Tarragon.”

“Right. Chicken. But gin, too, apparently.”

“Little Dragon, from the French estragon.”

“Speaking of blowing smoke and fire, do you think Molly’s cooled down? Maybe we should—?”

“Wait until the end of her shift and deal with her successor?”

“Good idea. Well, thank you for the drink. I’ve got to be getting back.”

BEEP!

“Wow. I’m not expected back at the office for the rest of the day.”

“Congratulations, Detective Inspector.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with this, did you?”

“How flattering that you believe that a minor civil servant capable of bending the Metropolitan Police Department to his will from a café.”

“Right. Sorry, but, copper’s instinct. It’s almost too good to be true. A sudden night off.”

“I too, find myself surprisingly unoccupied. Another round of dragons?”


“And here they be! Again! Tell me this, Mister Holmes.”

“Mycroft.”

“Ah, call me Greg.”

“Gregory?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Okay, but the question is: how do you stay so bloody cool on a day like today when the rest of us mere mortals are puddles of sweat and stink?”

“Would you believe mind over matter?”

“Maybe.”

“Genetics?”

“Perhaps. Sherlock’s got a bit of it, but not like you. Do you get extra cold in the winter?”

“I’m always cold, Gregory.”

“Well, I suppose the grass is always greener, but today I’d take being cold over sweating through my back-up, back-up shirt and Donovan choosing to stand down-wind from me—rather than the corpse—at a crime scene!”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perspiration, in some cases, does convey a certain vigour.”

“Does it, now? Interesting. You, uh, never sweat?”

“It’s been ages.”

“Hmm.”

“Gregory, might I be a bit forward?”

“Christ, yes.”

“Miss Hooper’s words to us, though spoken out of anger, might, in a prescriptive light, be worth taking into consideration.”

“She told us to find someplace cool and sod ourselves.”

“You’ve an excellent memory.”

“Someplace cool? Well, my hovel is the temperature of a lit tinder box right now, but I’m betting yours—”

“Has a host of modern amenities, including exquisite climate control and a showering suite that you might find quite pleasant.”

“Get the car. And I will tell you just how I am going to make you melt, Mycroft Holmes." 

Chapter Text

At the beep of the front door, Mycroft woke.

He noted the weight of the book on his slipper.

And listened.

Steps. Shuffling. Sigh.

Cabinet door. A glass. Bottles shifting.

Back of the cabinet?

Rye.

Mycroft smiled.

Oh, happy day! Or night, rather.

Rye meant ‘case closed.’

It’d been wise, given the initial incident report and officer assignment, in judging the case to be one Gregory would enjoy handling solo. It’d been wise to ask Sherlock to make himself unavailable for police consultation and even wiser to extend incentive sufficient for his brother to not deny his request out of spite.

“Don’t tell me I woke you, love?”

Oh, endearments already!

“No,” Mycroft lied.

“What a pretty little liar you are.”

A brush of Mycroft’s cheek. A glass set on the table beside the armchair. A book retrieved and laid beside the glass.

A warm gaze. An impish twist of lips.

Oh, God, it was wonderful to be so wise.

Without a word, Mycroft parted the sides of the dressing gown, then inched forward in the chair and widened the V of his legs in invitation.

“Hello, you gorgeous prick.”

Mycroft’s body stirred in reply.

A firm hand wrapped ‘round his shaft.

“Oh, Gregory.”

Mycroft’s prick-head was being licked like…something sweet.

Lolly. Ice cream cone.

Warm, wet, wide, and soft.

A second hand fondling his sacs.

Mycroft whimpered and lifted his hips.

Then his entire prick-head was being suckled. Then the tip of a tongue teased his slit.

Rough handling of his bollocks. Squeezing of his shaft.

He mewled in protest when the sensations vanished.

“Oh.”

Licking up and down the shaft. Nuzzling at the base of his prick and the creases of his legs.

Licking, nosing, grunting which grew louder and more demanding until…

WHAM!

Mycroft’s prick was being swallowed. And sucked. Hard.

He gripped the arms of the chair.

And proceeded to fuck the most beautiful face in the world.

A swipe of a mouth on a sleeve and Mycroft was being yanked from the chair. He had sense to pluck the small bottle of lubricant from his dressing gown pocket, but dropped it when he was shoved onto the bed, face first.

He left the dressing gown in the chair, of course.

A hard, possessive hand ran down his spine, between his cheeks, and found the plug.

“Oh, baby.”

Unzipping. Squirting.

Gregory wasn’t even going to undress. Yet.

Oh, God, a long night.

Plug became cock.

Mycroft moaned and arched into the burn.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Two hands slapped the sides of Mycroft’s buttocks, then gripped them as a prick sank into him, stretched him, over and over. “If I didn’t think it’d cause World War III, I’d tie you to bed and fuck you ‘til tomorrow.”

“My first appointment’s at noon.”

“Oh, princess.”

Cock filled Mycroft. Teeth sank into his shoulder. Thumb and finger pinched, then rolled his nipple.

“Every wicked way? ‘Til dawn?”

“Yes, please,” Mycroft pleaded and turned his head for a rye-flavoured kiss.

Chapter Text

“Ugh.”

“Wakey-wakey-eggs-and-bakey,” sang Molly.

“Seb taught you that.”

“Yup.”

“You drugged my drink. Oldest trick in the book.”

“You ought to know. You wrote the book.”

“A chapter or two. It was a good drink, too. One of those Brazilian jobs that go down smooth.” He tugged on his bonds. “Nice knots.”

“You taught me that, too.”

“What can I say? I’m a giver. Plant a seed. Uh, Molls? I run a criminal enterprise. I can’t just take a break.”

“It’s okay. Seb’s in charge.”

“Seb?! Seb’s great if you need to kill someone with a cheese grater, but he’s not management material.”

“Don’t worry. Toby’s helping.”

“Seb and a cat!”

“He’s a clever cat.” She tapped the shaft of the riding crop against her palm. “He figured you out, didn’t he?”

“True. Well, what’s the occasion, m’lady?”

“Naughty Jim stole my knickers.”

He chuckled. Then he looked down. He was nude save for a tiny swathe of chartreuse-coloured silk.

She reached down and ran a flat hand from his cock over his stomach to his chest, then turned her hand and slid it up, curling it around his neck until she could sink her fingers into his hair. Then, she gripped him hard by the roots at his scalp, pulling his head back, and pressed her lips to his in a rough, biting kiss.

“Sherlock’s crop,” said Jim, nodding to the instrument in her hand.

“He’s always leaving his things behind.”

“Careless, that,” he replied in a husky whisper. He studied her through half-lidded eyes, his lips pursing quickly, involuntarily in anticipation of another kiss.

“Very,” she breathed and gave him what he wanted.

When she finally pulled back, her own lips were wet and swollen.

“You’re gorgeous, Molls.”

“You’re naughty, Jim.”

She drew lines on his chest with the keeper of the crop, circling his nipples and outlining his cock as it hardened and strained against the chartreuse silk. Then she swatted his thighs playfully.

“Oh, oh!” he cried in mock dismay. “Not the crop!”

She giggled. Then she leaned forward and kissed his lips. “Why do you keep stealing my knickers, Jim?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Maybe it’s because they go so well with the Westwood.” They kissed again. “Maybe it’s because I like getting caught.”

She stepped away from him and stripped from the waist down. Then she straddled him backwards and, yanking the chartreuse silk out of the way, guided his cock inside her.

“Fuck, Molls,” he breathed. The knickers were tight ‘round his bollocks, uncomfortably so. “Maybe you could take ‘em off…”

“Not when they go so well with the Westwood.”

He leaned forward and watched her hands playing with her clit and toying with her nipples as she bounced, fucking herself on his cock.

Then she leaned back, smiling.

“My turn?” asked Jim.

“Seb said he’d take care of that. I got to go. Sorry. Thanks!”

And with a peck on his cheek and a snap, she and the knickers were gone.

Chapter Text

“Sebby, get me out of here.”

“Tied up, Boss?”

“Funny.”

“Molly’s getting better with her knots.”

“Yeah, yeah. Have a laugh and get me out.”

“Not yet. She said she was going to leave you with a problem for me to solve. ‘Sebby, will you fix it for me?’”

“That was twenty minutes ago. You’re tardy to the party, bastard.”

“My parents were, in fact, married Jim.”

“Well, hurrah for life-long commitment in institutions!”

“Let’s see what I can do about your problem.”

Seb nuzzled at Jim’s crotch.

“C’mon, you mangy cur, I don’t have time for—”

“What’s the point of being the boss, then?”

Seb licked Jim’s cockhead and inner thighs.

“Fuck, Sebby!”

“Just getting started, Boss,” said Seb before he took the now-fully erect cock in his mouth and sucked.

“Yeah, tongue in the slit. Then, yeah, like that. I’ve got a problem now, your gorgeous brute of man. ‘Oh, Sebby, fix it for me?’”

Seb’s grinned around Jim’s cock, then resumed sucking.

Jim was thrusting up into Seb’s mouth when Seb quickly pulled off and sat back.

“Something I need to tell you, Boss.”

“I love you, too, you pitbull on Jacob Marley’s chain! Now finish sucking my cock!”

“You love me?”

“It was a figure of speech.”

Seb frowned.

“Oh, all right, yes. Yes, I love you. Satisfied?”

Seb grinned. “Not by half.” He began sucking Jim’s cock again.

“So fucking good, Sebby.”

Seb pulled off again.

“Now what?!”

“What did that bit about Jacob Marley’s chain mean?”

“I don’t know. I made it up, out of frustration at the fact that you were no longer sucking my cock—like now!”

“I love you, too, Boss.”

“Wonderful. Love my cock.”

“And your bollocks.”

Jim shrugged, then said shyly, “Yeah.”

Seb dipped his head to suckle at Jim’s sacs.

“Now deep-throat that prick like a week’s worth of Sundays.”

Seb pulled off.

“What does that mean? ‘a week’s worth of Sundays.’”

“I don’t know. I heard it on telly. We’re not all Yeats, you know!”

“You’re not even the bloke on the Lucky Charms box.”

“Your penchant for American breakfast cereal is embarrassing, Seb. And offensive.”

“I’m not the one tied up.”

“ARGH! Sebastian Moran, may I please shoot my load down your handsome throat?”

“Well, when you ask so nicely…but, uh, you really love me?”

“Yeah. You?”

Seb nodded.

“And thus, ’a terrible beauty is born,’” said Jim.

“Aw, Boss.”

Seb sucked while fondling Jim’s sacs and teasing Jim’s rim with a single spit-wet fingertip. He swallowed Jim down as he came, then said.

“Uh, Boss?”

“What, Sebby?”

“You’re going to need a new garrotter.”

“What happened to Vlad?”

“He died.”

“How?”

“I sent him a cake for his birthday.”

“So?”

“An ice cream cake.”

“Oh, he’s lactose intolerant. But it killed him?”

“Nah, he got mad about it and came at me with a lead pipe. Had to take ‘im down. Sorry. Guess, I’m not management material.”

“Rookie mistake, Seb. Could’ve happened to anybody.”

Chapter Text

“Hello, Mycroft? How was China?”

“Sherlock! What are you doing here? What’s all this?”

“It’s called ‘science,’ Brother Mine, specifically ‘chemistry.’ Perhaps you’re unfamiliar.”

“My sitting room is not your laboratory. Take your chemistry home!”

“Um…no.”

“Yes!”

“John forbids this particular work in the flat.”

“Well, so do I!”

“But I'm almost finished, Mycroft.”

“I don't care, Sherlock. I want all of this, and you, out of here.”

“But it’s a commission, Mycroft.”

“Commission? Someone’s paying you to do…whatever this is.”

“I knew it! You are unfamiliar. And semi-illiterate. But, to your credit, that is the definition of ‘commission.’”

“Is it a police matter?”

“Yes and no.”

“How edifying. So what exactly is this thing you’re making?”

“It’s a potion.”

“A potion? Oh, that’s funny, given the time of year. Where is your broomstick? And your bubbling cauldron?”

“Very funny, seeing as how a horny toad has just appeared. The first eight trials were failures, lamentably, but this one is going to be a success. There! Corked and ready to go.”

BEEP!

“Oh, too bad. Scotland Yard calls. Good-bye, Mycroft.”

“Wait, Sherlock! No, don’t leave all this here.”

“I have to go, Mycroft, but whatever you do, don’t open that little bottle. Don’t uncork it, don’t smell it, don’t drink it. Just don’t."

“Sherlock Holmes, you do not order me about in my own home!”

“As curious as you are and as inviting as that little bottle appears, don’t. Remember what happened to Alice. Laterz!”

SLAM!

“’Just don’t.’ In my own home! I’m the smart one! I know science! I know chemistry. ‘Remember what happened to Alice!’ How absurd! It does not look dangerous. Quite the contrary. Careful. Hmm. Doesn’t smell dangerous. In fact, it smells like…delicious, delicious cake.”


“Sherlock! Are you okay?”

“Yes, Lestrade, I’m fine.”

“You said it was an emergency! I left a crime scene, you bastard!”

“It is a dire situation. Mycroft. He’s inside. Go!”

“Okay. I’ll call for back-up.”

“No time for that! Just go!”


“Wow. That was some kiss,” said Lestrade.

“I am dreadfully sorry, Detective Inspector. I am not certain what came over me. I am not myself at the moment. It’s probably jet lag. I just returned from Beijing. But may I ask what brings you here so handsomely, uh, that is to say, so suddenly ‘cross my humble threshold?”

“Sherlock said there was emergency.”

“Sherlock? But he just left to—”

“Oh, look, he finally finished my potion! I’ve been waiting. He said the first eight were duds. I suppose this is number nine.”

“Your potion?”

“Yeah, and made me pay for it, the sod! Sorry. I know he’s your brother.”

“No, quite right. What kind of potion is it?”

“Well, uh, the truth is I’ve been having a bit of trouble in the romance division.”

“You, Detective Inspector?”

“And I’m thinking I’ll place another order with Sherlock. Given Love Potion No. 9 just got me a spectacular first kiss, I wonder what'll happen with Love Potion No. 10?”

Chapter Text

“What’s the trouble, Sherlock?”

“Money, Stamford. For damages to the Montague Street flat. Got my eye on a new place in central London, too.”

“Mycroft?”

Sherlock huffed. “I’m still cut off.”

“Pawn the coat?”

Sherlock wailed.

“Back to the Farm, then?”

Sherlock nodded. “Tell all your wealthy, generous non-bonded Omega friends that ‘The Fucking Machine’ is once more in swinging his nine-iron at St. Bartholomew’s Centre for Secondary Sex Studies.”

“I’ve got a friend, in fact; his heat starts tomorrow.”

“Good tipper? I want to be out of the Montague flat by yesterday.”

Stamford winced. “It’d be a favour.”

“No! I don’t do favours, Stamford, even for you. I do cash. Or credit. Or cursed gems.”

“I’m going to lunch with him. We’ll stop by the lab. You can meet him.”

“Oh, you must have me confused with an ordinary, boring Alpha, the kind that takes one whiff of an Omega pre-heat and drops his trousers. Need I remind you that ‘the Machine’ at the height of his popularity was servicing no fewer than three Omegas at a time. Not once was I even tempted to bite a neck.”

“Where’d all that money go, Sherlock?”

Sherlock huffed. “The violin, lab stuff, old books, bit of art.” Then he sighed. “Elsewhere. But I’m clean now. I don’t even smoke.”

“Say hello. That’s all I’m asking. For old times’ sake.”

“Very well.”


John stared, then stammered. “H-h-how did you know?”

Sherlock glanced at Stamford.

Stamford drew a white card from his pocket and gave it and a pen to Sherlock.

Sherlock scribbled on the back of the card, then handed it to John.

“Come to the Farm tomorrow night at seven. Give the front desk this number. They might call me ‘The Machine’ or ‘The Fucking Machine,’ but my name is Sherlock Holmes.”


“Uh, hello. Stamford said you liked Pellegrino.”

John set the two cases of green bottles on the floor.

“Thank you. That was thoughtful. First time at a centre?”

“No, but I’m used to military ones.”

Sherlock winced. “No kennels here. This will be private. And comfortable.”

He let the sides of his robe part.

“Wow,” said John.

“That’s what most Omegas say. Right before ‘Will it fit?’”

“Oh, trust me, it’ll fit nicely.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smiled. “You smell so good.”

“That’s what most Alphas say. Right before ‘Assume the position.’”

“I abhor assumptions, John. It’s a capital mistake to theorise before you have all the evidence. And we will position ourselves for your pleasure alone.”

“A gentleman Alpha? How old-fashioned. By the way, I looked you up on the internet last night. Lots of porn and testimonials about ‘The Machine’ but about Sherlock Holmes, only your website.”

“And?”

“You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”

“Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“How?”

“I’ll explain while we fuck.”

Chapter Text

“That feels like the lot,” said John as Sherlock pulled out. “The heat-fog lifts as quickly as it settles.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock’s voice sounded as wistful as John’s. He disappeared into the toilet and returned with a pair of wet flannels.

“Thank you,” said John as Sherlock cleaned him. “And I must say, without the pheromone muddle, that this was the best heat I’ve ever had. You’re extraordinary. Almost makes me sorry that I signed that waiver—the one that says Omega clients should have no contact with their Alpha studs outside of the Centre.”

“I’m almost sorry I forced the Centre to include that clause in all my contracts.” Sherlock frowned as he cleaned himself. Then he looked up at John. “Ask for something. Snack. Beverage. Something out of the ordinary. Difficult to obtain.”

“Why?”

“I’ll buy us more time. Centre staff pride themselves on catering to Omegas’ unusual cravings.”

“Do they?”

Sherlock shrugged. “They will.”

“More time’s bending the rules.”

“Yes, it is. Quite irregular. So?”

“Uh, how about kahwah?”

“Perfect,” said Sherlock, reaching for his mobile and tapping the screen. “War hero wants Afghan tea to end his heat. That’ll give us twenty-eight minutes. How do you feel about lying close and embracing as a sign of affection?”

John stared, then smiled. “I like cuddling, but I’m the ‘big spoon.’”


“A bit of a role reversal, this,” said Sherlock as he snuggled against John beneath the covers.

John nuzzled the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Quite irregular. You smell so good, Sherlock. That isn’t the heat.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “You do, too, John.” Sherlock gaze fell, then he turned quickly back to face the wall.

“Sherlock, I’m not the most observant man in the room, but I think you like looking at my prick.”

Sherlock’s reply was cool and quick. “John, considering we’ve just spent the last three days wearing nothing but each other, observation of genitals is inevitable.”

John nipped Sherlock’s skin between his teeth, then he asked, “How much time do we have?”

“Seventeen minutes.”

“Then don’t waste it by lying.”

“It’s quite large for an Omega. Beta-size, really. Thick.”

John reached for the lube and slicked himself.

“Would you like to feel it inside you?” he asked as he slotted it between Sherlock’s buttocks, with the prickhead at the top of Sherlock’s cleft. “No lies.”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Prep you? Mount you? Fuck you?” asked John softly as he thrust between Sherlock’s cheeks.

Sherlock nodded.

“Every ounce of care you’ve shown me over the last three days would be revisited upon you, Sherlock. You’d know what it feels like to be an Omega, at least an Omega with you. Cherished. Wanted. And fucked senseless

“John.”

John reached around and stroked Sherlock’s prick.

They came together, Sherlock soiling the sheets and John splashing across Sherlock’s lower back.

BEEP!

“Two-minute warning,” said Sherlock, crawling out of the bed.

“Good bye, Sherlock.”

Sherlock lunged back for a rough kiss.

“I’ll find you,” he promised. “Enjoy your tea.” 

Chapter Text

Sometimes it was good to be a machine. And an Alpha with a nine-inch cock. Sherlock let his body service the Omega beneath him while his thoughts drifted.

To John.

This Omega’s left shoulder was disappointingly unscarred.

John’s had initially born a skin-coloured bandage.

“It’s still healing?” Sherlock asked as he cleaned John, then himself after the first coupling.

“No, it’s as healed as it will ever be. I’ve no interest in cosmetic surgery, but I thought an Alpha might be put off by the scar.”

Sherlock tossed the flannels down the laundry chute and tried to ignore the foul aroma of fear and shame rolling off John, so unlike the warm, rich fragrance that he had come, quite quickly, it was true, to associate with him.

“I’m not put off, John.”

John smiled. And the stench lifted.

And then it was the most natural thing in the world for John to reach for Sherlock and draw Sherlock to him on the bed.

“I know,” whispered John. “Your curiosity smells like fizzy drink. Grape-flavoured.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to smile. “How charming.”

“I think so. You can remove the bandage if you like.”

Sherlock wasn’t a fool; it was an invitation to a far greater intimacy than what they’d just shared. He readily accepted.

“May I touch it?” he asked

John nodded. “I won’t feel it. Nerve damage.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and let his fingers map the scar as his nose and lips nuzzled along the ridge of John’s shoulder to his neck. John smiled then imitated the gesture on the other side of Sherlock’s neck. John’s head rolled back. Sherlock’s rolled under. They hummed.

Then of course, John needed Sherlock’s cock just as badly, if Sherlock were honest with himself, as he needed John.

“Oh, oh, oh, yeah! Oh, Alpha, fuck me, fuck me…”

Sherlock obliged.

Three more of these, he calculated—two if they were extra generous—and he’d have paid his debts at the Montague Street place and would be a position to consider the flat in central London.

Then he’d find John.

The Baker Street place might tempt John. Location. Nice sitting room. Kitchen. Upstairs bedroom when John wanted privacy, though he’d be more than welcome in Sherlock’s bedroom.

Anytime he damn well pleased.

“OH, GOD!” screamed the Omega. “MORE.”

Wet flannels were batted away, but Sherlock persisted before turning the Omega over and sheathing his cock once more.

As he pumped, he dreamt.

Waking up next to John. Breathing in John’s scent. Stealing John’s warmth. John waking just enough to raise a knee in invitation. Sherlock would be hard, of course, he would, and slicked. He’d slide inside and fuck John slowly, slip a hand ‘round to toy with John’s nipple, the right, of course, far more sensitive than the left.

Fucking John awake.

Then rolling like logs so that John might return the favour.

And the last thing Sherlock thought before he let the Machine take over:

Mustn’t forget the grape fizzy drink.

Chapter Text

Flying.

Looping.

“GOTCHA!”

“Oh, John,” sighed Sherlock, slowing his flight as John filled him.

“My gorgeous Queen,” buzzed John.

“My handsome drone,” replied Sherlock.

“There. Now—ARGH!”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at the bloody gash where John’s cock used to be. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug as John plummeted.

Flying.

Looping.

“Brother Mine.”

“Oh, Mycroft,” sighed Sherlock, wiggling as Mycroft filled him. “Well, it’s obvious that you’ve never done this before.”

“Was it as good for you?” buzzed Mycroft.

“Better,” hummed Sherlock.

“ARGH! Where’s my—?”

“Good-bye, Brother Mine.”

Flying.

Looping.

“Stop! Or I’ll say ‘Stop’ again!” buzzed Lestrade.

“Quite arresting, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock hummed. “Fill me, my drone!”

“With pleasure.”

“Your last moments should be pleasing. I’m a munificent Queen.”

“With one so bewitching, I’ll be up for another go in no time!”

“Not without a cock and related internal organs.”

“What? ARGH!”

“Pity. I liked him.”

Flying.

Looping.

“Hello, my Queen.”

“Irene! What are you doing here?”

“What everybody else is. Oh, fly a little higher. The view is better.”

“Bit irregular, this.”

“Oh, look at the Queen invoking convention! And didn’t Shakespeare say ‘a drone with any kind of prick will fuck as sweet’?”

“I’m quite certain he said nothing of the—Oh! That’s good!”

“Of course. You’re being fucked by the perfect cock and filled with the perfect seed. Mate flight with the perfect drone.”

“Wait! I’m not being filled with seed! It’s poison!”

“Oh, my mistake!”

“No matter. We’re both history. Good-bye, Irene.” Sherlock looked over his shoulder. “Misbehaving has its price. As does treason.”

“Does it?” Irene flicked two snaps at her waist. “I wonder.”

“What?!” cried Sherlock as he watched a harness and a cock plummet to the ground while Irene herself remained aloft, flying alongside him.

“You’ll rot from within and I am the new Queen! Ha, ha, ha!” cackled Irene.

“NO!” screamed Sherlock, looking down to see his lower half turn a shade of drab green.

“Always beware of the square peg in the round hole, Sherlock Holmes.”

“IRENE!”


“IRENE!”

“Well, that’s a bit unexpected,” said John.

He, Lestrade, and Mycroft stood side-by-side, with arms crossed and brows furrowed; the three stared down at Sherlock’s twitching form on the sofa.

“How long has he been like this?” asked Lestrade.

“Three hours,” said John.

“And the outfit?”

“Costume for the Yard’s Hallowe’en Ball tomorrow night.”

“Ah. He’s a,” Lestrade frowned, “sexy insect? Bee?”

“Queen bee,” said John and Mycroft.

“He tried on the costume at the fancy dress shop,” said John, nodding to a jar on the coffee table. “I didn’t realise he’d kept the hallucinogenic body glitter from last year. He was also drinking a,” John cringed, “bee pollen smoothie. He’s own concoction. Bee pollen plus drugged glitter equals this!”

Mycroft and Lestrade grimaced. Then Lestrade asked,

“Hospital?”

“If needed, but he’ll probably sleep it off.”

Sherlock groaned. One eye fluttered open.

“He's waking up sooner than expected,” said John.

“Oh, you’ve all still go your cocks,” slurred Sherlock. “Perfect.”

Chapter Text

Three voices yelled.

“SHERLOCK, NO!”

The coffee table crashed.

“What?”

“You threw drugged glitter on all us!”

“You’re sparkly, John!”

“Donovan, listen.” Lestrade covered his phone with his hand. “John, this stuff lasts?”

“Four to six hours.”

“Oh, God,” murmured Mycroft. Then he spoke into his mobile. “My dear, I’ll be indisposed for the next—”

John put a hand on his wrist. “Ask her to put a case of bottled water and a case of Lucozade at the door. I’ll see Mrs. Hudson stays at her sister’s tonight. I’ll find the lube. All of it. And flannels.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened.

“It’s a party! Hurrah for the Queen!” cried Sherlock, flapping his golden wings.


Sherlock hummed. “First drone’s always the most eager.”

John’s head was hidden by the short yellow-and-black skirt. He was nuzzling and licking the pair of tiny black knickers stretched across Sherlock’s erection.

Sherlock sat on the sofa with John on his knees before him. Mycroft and Lestrade stood on either side of him, facing him, each with his own prick in hand.

“Your Queen requires royal jelly,” said Sherlock, licking his lips.

Lestrade toed out of his shoes and climbed on the sofa. Sherlock turned his head and took Lestrade’s prickhead in his mouth. And sucked.

“Aw, fuck, queenie, yeah.” Then Lestrade stepped carefully in front of Sherlock, straddling him, and fed him more.

Sherlock swallowed him down greedily.

“Oh, God,” moaned Mycroft, speeding up his stroking and stepping over the pair of knickers that John had just ripped from Sherlock to get a better view. He rolled down Sherlock’s bodice and pinched a glittery nipple.

Lestrade growled, “You wanna be next, Mycroft?”

“I want to be now,” Mycroft replied and inserted himself, licking the seam where lips spread ‘round shaft.

Sherlock pulled off and said petulantly, “My royal jelly! I’m queen!” His crown shook, and his golden antenna bobbed.

“Very well,” said Mycroft. He yanked Lestrade’s trousers and pants down as far as fabrics allowed, then circled behind him. He straddling John, then buried his face in the cleft of Lestrade’s arse.

“Oh, I’m gonna fuck your face, Your Majesty, while the British Government tongue-fucks my hole.”

“I want my jelly. Now. I’d much prefer three cocks to the three fingers in my arse.”

“Fuck!” exclaimed Lestrade as he spread Sherlock’s lips once more—and came.

But as soon as he was spent, Sherlock pushed him and Mycroft off and fell to the rug offering John his arse.

John fucked him and watched Mycroft come down Lestrade’s throat.

“Don’t swallow!” ordered Sherlock. “My jelly.”

On one end of Sherlock, John spent himself, and on the other, Lestrade kissed Sherlock’s mouth and fed him Mycroft’s come.

“My jelly,” repeated Sherlock. “Lick John’s out of me. Feed it to me.”

Lestrade smiled. “Gladly.”

“No, that’s my job,” said John.

“Mine,” said Mycroft.

Sherlock quickly stroked himself to release and smeared his come on three chests.

Then he buzzed contentedly, “My lazy drones,” as three tongues cleaned his hole.

Chapter Text

“You are mad.”

“Sebbie, I’m disappointed. Your pillow talk is usually much better.”

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t noticed, there ain’t no pillows around, Boss! There’s a hundred CCTV cameras—”

“Disabled.”

“Bombproof glass.”

“Also disabled.”

“Twenty-two guards. Thirty-eight Yeomen.”

“I’m repeating myself. And you’re not sucking.”

Seb swallowed Jim’s cock until he almost—almost—choked. Then he pulled off to lick Jim’s bullocks and drag his tongue up the underside of Jim’s cock to the head, which Seb then teased and suckled. He tongued Jim’s slit until Jim pressed down on the arms of the throne, lifted his hips, greedy for more.

Jim collapsed back with a groan when Seb swallowed him anew.

“Yes,” he cooed, looking down at Seb with adoring eyes. “Let me. Push you. To the limit. Of respiration.” He forced more of himself down Seb’s throat. “Good, Sebbie, so good.” Jim petted Seb’s head and moaned softly until Seb finally pulled off with a wet pop.

“We’re going to be killed because you want to be fucked in a crown!” Seb exclaimed.

“Not a crown. The crown.” Jim gestured to the jewel-encrusted item currently perched on his noggin. “If Sherlock Holmes is going to be a queen bee for Hallowe’en, well, then Jim Moriarty must be a queen!”

“Oh, fuck, Jim! Are you telling me that this crazy plan is all is about one-upping that bastard! You’re going to get us killed because—mmph!”

“Suck! And Sherlock Holmes may be getting fucked tonight but he is not getting fucked in a 105-carat diamond, is he? No! He is not. Oh, Sebbie, yes, use the tongue, too. You know it drives me mad when you swirl the tongue like that. Can you do that thing with the glans? You know. Yes. Oh, my ferocious Tiger, so good.”

Seb pulled off with a slurp and nuzzled at Jim’s bollocks. Then he moved away, resting back on his heels and studying the tiny specks on his fingers. “Boss, what is this? Glitter?”

“Probably from that ordinary detective’s common insect costume. I bumped into him at the fancy dress shop today.”

Seb spit and spit again on the floor.

“Seb, uh, that’s gross. And Introduction to Assassination and Villainy? Lesson 1: Don’t leave DNA!”

“I’m not in any database.”

“You weren’t. Until now.”

“Let me worry about that. We’ve got bigger problems. Boss, that glitter is drugged. I bet you accidentally ingested some of it. That is why you’re like this. Mad!”

“I’m brilliant. And evil. That’s why I’m like this.”

“We break into the Tower of London so that you can get a blowjob? That’s mad? You’re high, Boss.”

“Call it a Royal Flush. Now do get on with it.”

Their eyes locked, and in that moment, risk and danger and lust and power were all spread like playing cards. Each did the best with the hand he was dealt.

But there was only one winner.

Seb grinned and bent his head and said,

“As you wish, your Majesty.”

Chapter Text

“…Hallowe’en is an inversion holiday, John, a pathetic excuse to put the norms of society aside and—”

“I’ll RSVP ‘no’ to the Wanton ‘n’ Wicked Fancy Dress Ball, then?”

Sherlock snatched the invitation from John’s hand.

“No, Cinders!” he exclaimed. “You shall go!”


“How am I supposed to be a tough soldier when I’m holding your handbag?” grumbled John, frowning at the bundle of twigs hanging from his wrist.

“Birds have nests. I’m a peacock.”

“Yes, you are.”

“And you are a tough soldier. No costume required.”

Sherlock noted the looks as they entered the hall. Some eyed his plume-festooned headdress and blue rhinestone loincloth. Others, like Sherlock, expressed silent appreciation for John in a tight sleeveless vest and polished boots.

“That glitter—”

“For the hundredth time, no, it isn’t drugged!” snapped Sherlock.

Sherlock’s feathered tail and two iridescent-dusted buttocks swayed as he led John through the crowd.

“Where’d you get the costume, Sherlock?”

“A tailor who works on Carnival parades in the Caribbean owed me a favour.”

“Really?”

“No, John! It’s called the internet and a lot of money!”

“Don’t screech, my peacock. You’ll moult. Drink?”

“Why not?”


“This Witches’ Brew is quite good.” Sherlock slurped the last of the cocktail and set the glass on a passing tray. He began to shimmy.

“Feeling better?” asked John.

Sherlock nodded.

“Come on, then.”

“Sorry I stuck you with my nest, John.”

“That’s okay. I’m dancing with the sexiest bird in this place.”

Sherlock grinned, then looked up through sparkly eyelashes and said, “Oh, no, my glitter sweat’s dripping on your costume.”

“Suppose I’ll have to take it off then,” said John as he ripped his vest over his head. The garment quickly disappeared into the mass of writhing, perspiring flesh that surrounded them on the dancefloor.

“You two! Up!”

John followed the man’s pointing to one of the tall platforms.

“Oh, John! Come on!”


“Such a show-off,” said John with a smirk as Sherlock twirled ‘round him.

“That’s what I do!” Sherlock slotted his legs between John’s and rolled his body. “I like showing you off, too, John.” He ran a hand down the centre of John’s sweaty chest.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock bounced lower and lower. He flipped his tail smooth down the side of the platform, then with some, but certainly not all, of his head hidden behind a spray of plumes, nuzzled John’s crotch.

“Christ, Sherlock.”

“No one’s watching, John.”

John scanned the crowd. “Are you joking? Everyone’s watching!”

“It’s Halloween. A pathetic excuse to put the norms of society—”

“You want a prick? Here you go.”

John ignored the smattering of cheers that weren’t drowned by the blaring music.

Sherlock shimmied and sucked to the beat and very soon John was coming down his throat.

Sherlock stood and smiled at the crowd, twirling ‘round John once more.

“There he is, John.”

“Who?”

“Huret, the Boulevard Assassin.”

“What, here?”

“Let’s go, John.”

“No, Sherlock. He’s too dangerous.”

“That’s why I put your gun in my nest. Come on!”

Chapter Text

What candle could ever burn brighter than your gaze the moment our eyes first met? What hearth could ever bestow more heat than that come-hither stare with which you branded my skin, my spirit, my soul so long ago?

That scar’s my favourite, by the way.

What secrets kept in glass bottles, in clay jars, corked and sealed and standing shoulder-to-shoulder on a shelf, an army of botanical warriors ever ready for battle at mortar and pestle, what do they compare to the mysteries hidden in the crook of your neck and the wave of your soft hair and the dark tint of your lips?

You ground. You measured. You mixed.

I watched. I listened. I learned.

And step by step, we divested ourselves of past. Of fear. Of pretense.

And clothing.

For what we knew of the earth and the body; for what we did with the candles and the fire; for what we knew….

Of their words, our nature.

For what we did…

With our bodies.

They would have burnt us at the stake.

They still may. If they catch us. Which they won’t.

The moon waxes and wanes but not my desire. To pull you. To push you. Like the tide.

Spell-binding? Yes. Please. The spells and the binding.

The proper words. The proper herbs. The proper order of things. The proper flick of a proper whip to a tender spot. The proper flick of a proper tip of a tongue to the back of knee.


How I adore you, laid out like this for pleasure! Never was there more beautiful a wick set to flame by the dripping of a crimson taper, never so lovely a needy, whimpering, arching, writhing canvas pleading to be painted red.

With blood. With wax. With surprise.

With you.

‘Price above rubies?’ Ha! As if gems were not worthless pebbles next to the scarlet beads on your skin drawn by my blade.

Now, who’s doing the branding? The scarring?

You are treasure. Price above mountains of dusty books, the ones you study ‘til your eyes weep of their own accord, volume upon volume of incantations and recipes and myths and observations. Words, words, words that no one living knows with certainty how to pronounce.

I know!

Liar.

No book opens as prettily as your legs. No pages want for fingering as your folds. No rustling of ancient texts or scribbling of quill on parchment or scrape of palimpsest rival your sweet sighs of surrender.

Your price is above talisman, above trinket, above any stone or metal deemed precious by its scarcity and its beauty and its place upon a sovereign’s forelock.

You are not gold. Or lead. You are the very formula by which the mundane, my existence, is made to dazzle.

You are alchemy.

Bringing me to my knees even as you lie supine on the floor.

Never underestimate the power of prayer.

Or a wet cunt.

Yours or mine?

Both is good.

You are poppy juice.

Pain-killing,

bliss-bringing

poetry.

Chapter Text

Mycroft stared at the lift buttons.

Should he?

Certainly nothing would be untoward in making a slight detour to wish a fellow civil servant the compliments of the season, would it? And it was official business, well, official, unofficial business, that had brought Mycroft to Scotland Yard, and with that business concluded, he was free to take advantage of a gap in his schedule.

Yes, he decided, perfectly acceptable. He pressed the button, then as the door closed, smoothed a fastidious hand down the front of his coat.

A warm smile and a beckoning wave through the glass office wall dispelled Mycroft’s mounting fears.

“Happy Christmas, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft with a nod of the head, which made him feel a bit player in a Dickens drama, but then he supposed that there was more truth than fiction to the notion.

“Happy Christmas, Mister Holmes!” cried Lestrade. He was the most handsome example of a human being that Mycroft had ever seen clad in a red-and-white, reindeer-and-Christmas tree-jumper that Mycroft would have paid a sum as hideous as the jumper to remove from his person and burn.

“The party is about to start. Care to stay for a drink? This will melt even the Ice Man.” Lestrade patted a large jug of red liquid.

Mycroft read. “Cinnamon Schnapps. I wasn’t aware that such a spirit was sold in such volume.”

“I know,” said Lestrade, reaching beneath his desk and producing two more jugs. “I wish they sold it by the barrel. Every year, it’s the hit of the party.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose.

“Certain you won’t stay?” Lestrade gave Mycroft a Look.

Mycroft’s heart fluttered but Ice prevailed. “No, my own workplace is holding its own Yuletide festivities.”

“Fair enough.”

“No.”

Mycroft blinked at the security camera. Then he ran a smoothing hand down his tie and waistcoat.

In a few minutes, he was greeted by a slightly slurred voice.

“Mister Holmes. You’re working awful late on Christmas Eve. You aren’t a Scrooge, are you?”

“Far from it, Detective Inspector. I trust you enjoyed yourself.”

Lestrade grunted and held up a jug, empty save for tiny amount of red liquid. “I saved you a taste.”

“How thoughtful.”

As Lestrade reached to set the jug down on the corner of Mycroft’s desk, his coat gaped.

“Oh,” breathed Mycroft when he caught a glimpse of bare chest.

“Yeah, a Santa Swap, sort of gift barter. The rules got fuzzy as the night progressed. Your brother took my jumper.”

“In return for what?!”

“This.”

Lestrade produced a red-and-white striped band and set it across his head from ear to ear. Affixed to the band was an arch that extended forward with sprig of green with white berries hung from the tip.

Lestrade winked. The mistletoe bobbed.

“That was Sherlock’s gift?” asked Mycroft as he stood.

Lestrade nodded. “He said it’d work better than cinnamon schnapps. Right before he took my jumper.”

“Correct on both counts,” said Mycroft as he leaned in for a kiss.

Chapter Text

“How’d you find me?”

“Detective, remember?”

Sherlock slid onto the barstool beside John and motioned for the barman to bring him a pint like the one in front of John.

“I’m sorry that I just disappeared,” said John. "I thought it would be fun, but it was too much. Too loud. Too many people. My second Christmas since Afghanistan, but I’m still not ready to be drinking Mince Pie Martinis.”

“You’re forgiven on all counts, John, especially the last.” Sherlock grimaced. “I don’t think anyone is ready for those.”

“Did you try one?”

“Let’s just say I had one thrust upon me.”

John chuckled, then glanced at his watch. “I’m shocked you stayed at the party as long as you did.”

“I wanted to participate in the gift exchange.”

John laughed loudly. “What?! What did you get?”

“This.” Sherlock held up a red jumper. “Happy Christmas, John,” he said as he laid it on the bar beside John’s pint.

“For me? Wait, Sherlock, is that Greg’s jumper? The one he was wearing? The one I said was bloody perfect?”

“It was a fair trade, John.”

John snorted. “What’s he wearing now?”

Sherlock eyed the clock on the wall. “Perhaps my brother.”

“Oh, God.” John frowned. “I think I’d rather contemplate Mince Pie Martinis.”

“Quite.”

“Thank you, Sherlock. I know you think the jumper’s hideous—”

“It is hideous, John.”

“But I like it. A lot.” John sipped his beer. “What did you exchange for it?”

“A mistletoe hat.” Sherlock shot a hand forward in an arch from his forehead, then made a fist.

John laughed, then shook his head. “Wow.”

“Yes, it seemed to amuse everyone.”

Sherlock’s pint appeared, and they drank in silence for a few minutes. Then John said,

“What did you bring originally?”

“The identity of Jack the Ripper.”

John’s jaw dropped. “No!”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. But I did manage to track down a key piece of evidence that has been missing from police archives for more than one hundred years.”

“Christ, I don’t know which seems more impossible: you, solving the Jack the Ripper case or you, wearing a mistletoe hat.”

“Both are only highly improbable, John.”

John smiled into his glass.

“How do you feel about mince pies?” asked Sherlock after a long pause.

John nodded. “I’m in favour, as long as they stay firmly in the food arena and don’t migrate to the cocktail world. Why do you ask?”

“Mrs. Hudson left one for us.”

John hummed. “A quiet night-in with dessert by the fire sounds lovely. Maybe I can persuade you to play a carol on your violin.”

“Maybe,” said Sherlock, draining his glass.

John gave him a thoughtful look. “I might be out of line here, Sherlock, but as much as I like my jumper I think it’s a shame you lost the mistletoe hat.”

“It served its purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“That,” said Sherlock, turning to catch John’s gaze lingering on his lips. “Home, John, and let’s not spare the horses.”

Chapter Text

“Happy birthday. On the house,” said the barman.

“That looks utterly ridiculous,” said Sherlock, eyeing the martini glass of white frothy liquor with disdain.

“Perhaps, but, it’s magic. One sip and your night will go the way you want.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Sorry I’m late,” said John. “Did you order that?”

“No.”

“Lestrade’s on his way. Ah, there he is.”

“Sorry, lads. Party’s over before it’s begun. Case, and one you might like Sherlock. Oh, that’s a birthday martini! Did you take a sip and make a wish?”

“No!” said Sherlock.

“Should have. You wouldn’t believe what happened to me on my birthday.”

“Case?” asked Sherlock.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

A few moments later, Sherlock cried, “My scarf!” He wove his way back to the bar and took a quick sip.

“Good lad,” said the barman with a wink.


“…and, thus,” Sherlock raised his arm with a magician’s flair, “ptomaine poisoning!”

“He’s right!”

All the Yarders looked from Sherlock to the voice. A few clapped while a few intervened before the hands of the lunging confessor found their way to Sherlock’s throat.

“You just solved a locked-room, body-in-the-library murder, Sherlock,” whispered John as they watched the fracas, “without breaking a sweat.”

The lust and admiration in John’s gaze made Sherlock bold, bolder than he’d ever been.

“Would you like to see me break a sweat, John?” he said softly.

John grinned. “I’d like to try.”


“Oh, God, John.”

The back of Sherlock’s head thudded against the loo mirror.

John pulled off Sherlock’s prick and looked up. “No sweat yet.”

Sherlock looked down and said hoarsely, “Not a reflection on your skill, John. These old houses are notoriously draughty.”

“I’ll just have to try harder.”

“Oh, fuck. I don’t think I can get much harder.”

But for once that night, Sherlock was wrong.

“You know, sucking your gorgeous prick wasn’t the birthday gift I’d planned,” remarked John as they set themselves to rights. He tapped his phone and flashed the screen at Sherlock. “This was your surprise, but the case—.”

“But you hate classical music.”

“Mendelssohn’s nice.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand. “We can just make the second half if we hurry.”


When they exited the concert hall, Sherlock looked up at the starry sky. “It’s beautiful.”

“I thought you didn’t—”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it.” Sherlock pointed. “And that star isn’t in our solar system. It’s a fixed point in a changing age—just like you are for me, John.”

John smiled. “Fancy a walk home?”

Sherlock hummed as they walked.

“And you can play it on your violin?” said John.

“Of course, I can,” said Sherlock.

“I’d like to hear it.”

Their eyes met.

“Maybe tomorrow morning,” said Sherlock.

“In bed?”

Sherlock nodded.


The next afternoon, John strode into the pub. “Worth every bit,” he said as he slammed several notes on the bar. Then he strode out.

The barman picked up the money and counted.

Not as much as the posh git gave me, but nevertheless a deal’s a deal.

Chapter Text

Mycroft politely declined the cocktail.

He didn’t drink rum, regardless of the occasion.

He was ushered in the first chamber.

Did he require assistance?

No, thank you. He could take care of himself, which he proceeded to do as soon as the door was closed.

When he was hard, he stepped up on the platform.

Three low stalls in a row. Three sets of bare soles, of bare thighs, of bare buttocks on display.

But that was all.

Mycroft freed his erection and sheathed his prick in a condom. He leaned forward, bracing himself on the padded counter, and angled his prickhead just-so.

He pushed in.

Oh, no, no, no.

Too shallow. Too small.

Too tight. Yes, such a thing was possible.

Mycroft gave a couple of thrust to confirm his initial assessment and then pulled out. He discarded the condom, donned a new one, then stepped to the left.

And pushed in.

Oh, no, no, no.

Too big. Too roomy.

Too loose.

He didn’t judge, but he didn’t enjoy it, either.

He pulled out.

Condom off, condom on. Step to the left.

Oh, God, yes.

Perfect.

Tight, but not too tight. Deep, beautifully deep. Welcoming, clenching.

Yes, yes, and yes.

Just right.

Mycroft leaned forward and availed himself of the handles attached to the counter, leveraging himself for a series of sharp thrusts. He spent himself, then cleaned himself, then left the chamber, taking the coin from the top of the third stall, no. 23, and slipping it in his pocket.

He found a nice, comfortable chair and an old fashioned paper-and-ink newspaper and sat by the fire, reading for half an hour. Then he folded his paper, unfolded himself, and proceeded to a second chamber, passing the coin to the attendant as he entered.

Three stalls on either side of the platform.

None appeared to be occupied.

Mycroft paused between the middle stalls. He unfastened his trousers, dropped them and his pants, turned and leaned over the opposite counter.

He exhaled as a pair of hands spread his buttocks and a pair of lips began to work, expertly teasing, kissing his rim. The lips toyed with him a long time, or so it seemed to Mycroft, coquettishly denying him more. He gripped the handles, then his grip tightened.

Finally, the tongue.

He groaned aloud.

The licking was glorious, of course, but what he really wanted, yes, there it was.

He pressed back against it, as if he might impale himself on that slight, wet, wriggling protuberance.

And groaned again.

It was an eternity. It was too short.

The tongue-fucking.

Mycroft would’ve liked to spend himself down a throat, but, no.

Not today.

As soon as he turned, the arse was there.

And he claimed it at once.

Perfect.


“January 14. The Feast of Asses. Not intended to the observed this way, but…” Mycroft turned his head.

“…what one man can invent, two can corrupt,” said Sherlock, smiling and watching the dark streets pass by beyond the car window.

Chapter Text

“I cannot believe I am doing this,” muttered John.

“The leitmotif of the day,” said Sherlock as they entered the ballroom.

“It’s one thing to dress up as a Love Monster to make a bunch of children happy; it is quite another to attend a—”

“Cupids & Devils Ball,” supplied Sherlock. “I promised Mrs. Hudson that I would treat you to dinner and dancing as recompense for all you’ve tolerated the past couple of days.”

“Dinner was lovely, but I wish that the dancing didn’t require me to be decked out like a fool.” He stroked his beard and checked again that his horns were still in place and that a long, pointed tail was still attached at the rear of his red harem trousers.

“You look wonderful. You know it does something to me, and my eight friends, when you strut about shirtless.”

“You’re the wonder, Sherlock. You’re the one strutting, too.”

Sherlock wore large, white feather wings and not much else. Deftly affixed to his head was a laurel crown, and gold glitter covered much of his exposed skin. There were gold pants and gold heeled shoes, and Sherlock’s eight appendages were the veins of the wings, flapping slowly and then folding behind Sherlock when the crowd was thick.

“Would you like a Chocolate Cherry Cha Cha?” asked Sherlock, eyeing a tray of drinks.

“You’re joking, right?”

“Yes.”

Someone in an official-lettered vest made a motion to Sherlock.

“Is this really for a case, Sherlock?” asked John when they were perched on a platform that towered over the dancing throng. “We’ve got a good view.”

“No, it’s for this.”

Sherlock stepped behind John and flapped his wings, then two of his tentacles slipped out of their moorings and wound their way through the drape of John’s trousers.

“Fuck, Sherlock!”

John kept dancing. Or tried to.

“No one can see anything,” Sherlock assured him. “My hands are visible to all. We’re just grinding like two costumed blokes who fornicate on a regular basis. These trousers were selected with this act in mind.”

“I’m getting that,” breated John as one tentacle wrapped around his cock and another tickled his rim. “You’re going to fuck me right here.”

“Yes,” whispered Sherlock. His wings fluttered. His hips shimmied. “You’ve been so, so good to us.”

“Sherlock, I’m already hard.”

The tentacles withdrew like tape measures into Sherlock’s body, then Sherlock stepped in front of John.

“Grind on me hard, John. Make it look like I’m the one getting royally sodded.”

“Not a problem. Consider it a preview.”

Sherlock’s two base tentacles curled backwards, slipped between the loose folds of John’s trousers.

“Fuck, I’m getting the big daddies,” said John. “I don’t know if I can take—”

“Oh, yes, you can. The tips are getting slick right now. One will stretch you and slide right in and find that sweet spot while the other coils like a python ‘round your—”

“Fuck me,” gasped John. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sherlock! And God bless us, every one!”

Chapter Text

Mycroft drew out the length of pale pink ribbon from his suitcase, fingering the satin with one hand while he held his mobile in the other.

The ribbon might have been a medieval token, a maiden’s favour bestowed upon a knight for fortune in battle.

Might have been, but wasn’t.

Pink Princess Day.

How ludicrous that Mycroft Holmes should remember Pink Princess Day, but how impossible to forget.


Mycroft had, in fact, just been in the neighbourhood, planning to spend an hour in a favourite bookshop, but when he came upon the crowd and police car in front of the teashop across the street, he stopped. In addition to the unusual onlookers, there were passels of young girls and their mothers, aunts, and grandmothers, all bedecked in tiaras and fancy dresses and feather boas.

Pink ladies.

“Too late, Mycroft,” said a familiarly odious voice. “Case solved. Suppose this one’s for blog, John.”

“The Pink Princesses and the Pea-shooter?” mused John.

Sherlock groaned. “And to be paid in fairy cakes!”

“Yes!” cried John with delight as he held up a white cake box tied with pink ribbon. “Come on, Sherlock, let’s celebrate.”

“Happy Pink Princess Day, Mister Holmes,” said a voice.

“And to you, Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft turned to find the most handsome man in the world grinning and holding a white cake box. He fought the urge to swoon.

“Peace and order restored, Detective Inspector?”

“Yes, happily ever after, too.”

“Wonderful.”

Lestrade opened the box. “Can I interest you in one?”

Mycroft exhaled at the sight. “Beautiful, but, uh—”

“Well, later, if you’ve time—”

“I’ve an hour,” Mycroft blurted. He took a deep breath then and said, “Mine? Five-minute walk.”

The reply was reassuringly quick. “Lovely.”

“Oh, God.” Mycroft licked his lips, still tasting sugar and strawberry. “May I call you—?”

Lestrade pulled off Mycroft’s prick and looked up. “Greg.”

“Gregory?”

“Sure. Gorgeous cock, by the way. Been trying to figure a way into your bespoke trousers for ages. God bless the pink princesses.”

“I never dreamed, Gregory, that—”

“Yeah, well, I never dreamed you were so well hung. I’m going to have to work on my gag reflex.” He swallowed Mycroft down, sucked, then pulled off again. “An hour?”

“As long as we’d like,” groaned Mycroft.

“Then this,” said Lestrade plucking the long pink curl of satin from where it lay strewn on the table, “is mine for the rest of the day.”

Mycroft watched, mesmerised, as Lestrade gently circled the ribbon ‘round and ‘round Mycroft’s erect prick.

“There, perfectly wrapped.”

What followed was ecstasy. Mycroft stripped and licked from shaft to rim, rimmed and prepped and mounted and fucked, man-handled, that is, handled by the man of his dreams, used like a toy and adored like a god.


Mycroft pressed ‘send,’ but he’d no sooner deleted the photo of his ribbon-wrapped prick when a reply came.

Just a photo of a pink-iced fairy cake resting on a bare hirsute chest and a stiff pink prick jutting out beyond.

Chapter Text

“Looks like the Landladies Society’s Midsummer Night’s Ball was a success after all,” said John.

“Thanks to you, my dear boys. The board has voted: you’re all invited to play the role of fairies next year, especially the Detective Inspector.”

“Well if you continue to extend membership to those who murder their tenants to collect their pensions, we shall have to,” said Sherlock.

Lestrade approached. “That’s it, lads. Let’s get out of our fairy kit and bid farewell to this enchanted forest.”

Lestrade’s face, chest, and arms were painted with swirls of bronze, black, and gold, and his wings were those of an owl butterfly, brown with eye-like spots. John’s torso was decorated in swirls of yellow, white, and black; he wore the wings of a swallowtail butterfly. Sherlock’s wings were largest, those of a blue morpho butterfly; his chest was covered in blue and silver glitter. They all wore tight dark pants beneath dark tulle drape.

“For you, with gratitude,” said Mrs. Hudson as she handed a bottle and a trio of glasses to Lestrade. Then she said goodbye and boarded the departing bus.

Lestrade eyed the bottle. “Love-in-Idleness?” He uncorked it and sniffed. “A toast before we call it a night?”

“No,” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John.

“Oh, all right,” said Sherlock.

“To fools, mortals, and midsummer nights,” said Lestrade when their glasses were filled and raised.

“Cheers,” replied Sherlock and John, and each drained his flute.

Lestrade licked his lips. “Good stuff. Say, do either of you feel like—?”

“Frolicking in the woods?” suggested John.

They looked at Sherlock, who added, “Beneath the moon.”


“It is a magical night,” murmured John between kisses as he and Lestrade held each other’s head in their hands.

Letrade hummed. “The moonlight through the break in trees is gorgeous.”

They caressed each other’s neck and shoulders and chest, but looking down, they could barely see Sherlock for the enormous blue wings.

“Don’t want to come yet,” said Lestrade, his voice strained.

“Then it’s my turn,” said John with a wicked grin. He and Lestrade exchanged places, so that John might stand before Sherlock, who was on his knees, sucking each prick as it presented itself.

“What a beautiful fairy he is,” said John, petting Sherlock’s curls and spreading Sherlock’s lips with his shaft.

“So are you,” said Lestrade as he bent to lick John’s nipples.

Snap!

Three bodies froze. Sherlock quickly pulled off John’s prick, and three heads turned toward the sound.

The light of a torch momentarily blinded them. A cool voice spoke,

“When a senior member of Scotland Yard, my brother, and his closest associate disappear dressed as butterflies—”

“Fairies,” corrected the three in unison.

“—into the woods, I make it my business to find out why.”

When the torch was extinguished, they could make out a figure, which turned, revealing a pair of orange and black wings.

“Oh, of course,” said Sherlock. “You would be a monarch.”

“Yes, Brother Mine, and I come bearing lubricant. Masters, spread yourselves.”

Chapter Text

It was a little-known fact that lust brought out the poet in Mycroft Holmes, and though Mycroft wasn’t ashamed of the little-known fact, per se, he would’ve endured any amount of Spanish Inquisition-style torture before he would’ve confessed the simile that was consuming his thoughts at the moment.

He was thinking that his cock was like a shot. Or a shooter.

Not a bullet from a gun, or someone firing it, but rather one of those overly-sweet, ridiculously-flavoured, rudely-named cocktails served in tiny glasses at drinking venues that Mycroft wouldn’t have deigned to visit even if he was of the appropriate demographic to do so.

But back to the simile.

The base of Mycroft’s prick was like the liquor at the bottom of the glass, the spirit that provided the strongest inebriant sensation.

It was the part of his prick that brushed against spread lips only at their widest as mouth and throat purposefully relaxed to take every bit of Mycroft’s considerable girth and width.

Like now.

Mycroft slid a hand down and squeezed the base of his shaft, savouring the wave of pleasure that resulted. He moaned softly and wanted to do it again.

But as much as Mycroft craved having his cock fully-sheathed, enveloped in that tight, wet heat, he couldn’t remain still.

He withdrew halfway and contemplated his shaft, comparing it to the liquor that was layered on top of the first, the one that gave the drink its flavour.

His cock was thick and long and hard as fuck, to use a vulgar phrase.

He began to thrust slowly and gently, reveling in a tongue’s playful teasing.

“So good,” he murmured.

But those little drinks were not good. They were too sweet in Mycroft’s opinion.

Looking down, he dismissed the thought at once, being vividly and passionately reminded that there was nothing sweeter than an open mouth, swallowing his monstrous cock over and over and nothing more delectable than lips straining and spreading at his breeching.

Disappearing and re-appearing.

It was like magic.

Fucking magic.

Mycroft didn’t realise he’d spoken the last aloud until a hummed reply sent a delicious shock of vibration through his body. The head was bobbing now, meeting his thrusting, drawing his cock a deeper with every push.  

It wouldn’t be long now.

No, it wouldn’t be long until Mycroft shot a massive load down that throat.

Another vulgar thought. He appeared to be full of them tonight.

He suddenly pictured the silly bit of whipped cream on the top of the drink. Cream could be put to so much better uses.

Mycroft’s hands paused in their petting to give a warning tap. His body stiffened, then jerked and he gave a soft, half-stifled groan as he spent himself.

He withdrew his cock completely and bent low. His thumbs wiped half-tears from eyes, then his palms brushed cheeks. His fingers curled under to massage a jaw that might be a bit sore tomorrow.

“Perfect.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Chapter Text

“Oh, hello, Molly. Molly, Irene. Irene, Molly. Irene was just leaving. Molly was just…”

“…bringing you the crop you left in the mortuary,” said Molly.

“Hello. Excuse me,” said a soft voice; she threw her arm across her own chest, resting her hand on the ridge of her shoulder and passed by.

Molly thought it an odd gesture unless you were a character in a period drama who’d just got a chill or distressing news from the front. It wasn’t until she was headed downstairs herself that she realised.

The fingernails.

They’d been polished dark grey and decorated with tiny pale-green keyhole-looking skulls.

Oh.

It was seventeen steps. By the time Molly reached the last, she had a white-knuckle grip on the railing.


The absinthe masked ball.

Molly had won the ticket as one of two prizes in a blindfolded absinthe taste-test. The other prize, of course, had been a bottle of the good stuff, a bottle which Molly hadn’t yet had occasion to open.

Where absinthe was concerned Molly had a discriminating palate, though she still preferred it with sugar.    

The ball, though, had been a wonder.

Guests wore ‘Green Fairy’ masks adorned with feathers and sequins and ribbons.

And, of course, the absinthe flowed freely and cleverly

Molly had sipped and watched from the edge of the dance floor.

Then there had been a tap on her shoulder and a hand outstretched in invitation.

The fingernails.

Dark grey. Keyhole-skulls. With, Molly had noticed as their bodies had moved closer and their hands intertwined, one eye open and one eye winking.

They’d danced and danced.

And then the lights had gone out.

The dancefloor had become a sea of half-faces. The masks had glowed.

The tiny skulls on the fingernails had glowed, too.

Instinctively, Molly had pressed her body to her partner’s. An arm had gone ‘round her and held her tight.

Then Molly had been led and then turned.

Oh.

The hand had snaked ‘round her waist.

Waiting.

Molly had taken the hand in hers and guided it down the front of her skirt.

And then there had been two hands, one inside, one outside.

Neither Molly’s. Hers had reached behind her, curling up, curling back.

The fingers inside Molly’s knickers had rubbed her bush; the tiny skulls atop Molly’s black skirt imitated the gesture.

Molly had been mesmerised by pleasure and the dancing skulls, but after a while, she’d stepped her feet apart, the message clear.

More.

Then the fingers had begun teasing her clit in earnest.

Molly had turned her head. She’d expected lips on hers but got the rim of a glass.

She’s drank the sweet absinthe down while the dancing skulls fingered her clit and pussy.

She’d coughed as she came, and the tip of a tongue had licked the droplets from the corner of her mouth.


Spilling onto Baker Street, Molly turned and returned the smile that greeted her.

“A little Green Fairy told me I owe you an orgasm.”

“And a drink.”

Chapter Text

“…so, Kent business is running amok.”

“Yeah.”

“Mayfair job?”

“I’m making some noise.”

“Good. This piña colada is to die for, Sebbie. You certain you don’t want a sip?”

“Nope.”

“All right, quiz time. True or false: My hair is perfect.”

“Well…”

“Seb! Do I or do I not have the best hair of any werewolf in London? What are you looking at? Grrr! Sherlock fucking Holmes! And his mangy pet!”

“You can’t deny, Boss, his hair…”

“All right. Put Mayfair on ice. New priority: find out what product that flea-bitten hearth rug uses in his hair.”

“You’re serious?”

“Deadly.”


“I didn’t say I wanted a description of their knot-o-rama sex life, I just want to know what the Sheep in Buggered Wolf’s Clothing puts in his hair!”

“Then, listen! He strips Watson and ties him to a frame.”

“Right.”

“Gives it to him good.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, good, until Watson’s crying, tears rolling down his were-puppy face. And Holmes is just walking around with this big, honking prick you could bend a poker ‘round. I mean, he’s getting off on this weeping willow act.”

“Cut out the poetry, Sebbie.”

“Fine. Holmes gets this funny-looking bottle, and he collects Watson’s tears in it.”

“No!”

“And then…”

Seb rubbed his scalp.

“NO!”

“That’s all it is. Tears. He doesn’t do a damn thing else. I watched him for a week.”

“You think it’s just John’s tears? Because there’s about a dozen motherfuckers I wouldn’t mind giving the ol’ onion to.”

“I went to the library, did some research.”

“Seb!”

“Oh, sod off. It’s mate’s tears.”

“Sebbie…”

“Nope.”

“You’re gonna get it, Seb. Tonight, I’m going to scourge you like Jesus Lupin Christ himself.”

“You ain’t hearing me, Boss. D’you know what Holmes used on Watson?”

“Riding crop, I imagine. Tosser.”

“Nah. He said things like ‘You’re my fixed point in a changing age’ and ‘I’d be lost without you’ and ‘You’re the whetstone of my mind.’”

Jim gasped. “Do you mean…?”

“They were tears of joy.”

Jim was speechless, then finally he exclaimed,

“Fuck that!”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.”

“Second best hair in London?”

“Without a doubt.”


“On the count of three,” said Seb. “One…”

“Seven,” said John.

Two scraps of paper were passed in opposite directions on the bar.

Seb read. “Ah-ha! So that’s it.”

“Yup. And this is the address of Jim’s tailor?”

“Yeah, and the spell you need to change him from a big plate of beef chow mein into a tailor.”

“Thanks. Sherlock was livid when he saw Jim’s suit. He fancies himself the most well-dressed werewolf in London and when I praised the Westwood, it got ugly. I swear, if geniuses weren’t so difficult to shop for…”

Seb nodded. “And if Christmas wasn’t right around the corner…”

“Hey, what did you tell Jim to throw him off the scent?”

“I can’t say. It’d make you cry. By the way, does yours like piña coladas?”

“Yeah,” said John gloomily. “And getting caught in the rain.”

Chapter Text

“Whatever it is, it’s here, Musgrave,” said Sherlock. He took his scarf and looped it through the rusted iron ring in the centre of the heavy flagstone. “C’mon, help. You may be a dandy, but you’re still a nightwalker.”

“Oh, Sherlock, do you think it’s wise?”

“Yes! I just solved a four-hundred-year-old riddle. There may be honest-to-Lucifer buried treasure underneath your mausoleum of a house! I don’t care if Beelzebub and his mistress are down there, I’m going to open it. Now pull!”

There was treasure but also, as it turned out, Beelzebub and his mistress.


Sherlock exhaled a ragged breath. “That. Was. Foul,” he panted. He looked down. “Mustn’t do this too often. It’s detrimental to the wardrobe. My scarf’s in tatters! Musgrave?”

Musgrave was in tatters, too, and like the scarf, unsalvageable.

“One less for the reunion, I suppose,” said a voice.

“Mycroft! Were you watching the whole time?!”

“Of course! What’s not to love? A riddle. History. Treasure hunt. And then a vigorous squabble between two most unpleasant specimens of the undead and Brother Mine.”

“We aren’t brothers, Mycroft.”

“We were sired by the same vampire, and you haven’t paid rent for two hundred years, Sherlock!”

“Why didn’t you help?!”

Mycroft grimaced. “Legwork.” He reached out a hand, and Sherlock took it and got to his feet.

“Allow me.” Mycroft circled Sherlock tearing off what little remained of Sherlock’s shirt. He kept circling, his hand still on Sherlock’s chest, caressing nipples, arms, shoulder blades, then back to nipples.

“To the victor go the spoils,” whispered Mycroft. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and ran the tip of his tongue along his own incisor.

“And you are rotten,” retorted Sherlock before he hurled Mycroft to the floor.

As soon as Mycroft hit the stones, he muttered an oath, and in an instant, his trousers magically yanked themselves down. In another instant, Sherlock’s erection was freed, and his hard prick was breeching Mycroft’s hole.

“You’ve been keeping yourself for me, Brother Mine,” said Sherlock, noting the delicious tightness as he thrust.

Mycroft hummed and wiggled his arse, which only made Sherlock want to pound him harder, which he did while singing,

“’Dead I am the one, exterminating son. Slipping through the trees, strangling the breeze…conquering the worm.’ You love it, don’t you, Mycroft? Being conquered by my worm.”

“Yes,” gasped Mycroft. “Watching you with the demon. Twitching for it.”

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft’s hips for more leverage.

“’Dig through the ditches. And burn through the witches I slam in the back of my Dragula!’ This is why I don’t pay rent, Mycroft, because I give it to you up the ass so beautifully. More?”

“Please!”

Sherlock leaned forward and hissed in Mycroft’s ear. “I’m going to piss my come up in you, Brother Mine, but only if you beg.”

“Please, please, pretty please!”


The gold coins clinked as Sherlock dropped them.

“What are you going to do with your treasure, Sherlock?”

“Pay off my tailors and buy a new scarf.”

Chapter Text

John woke to pinching.

“Wha—?!”

With much discomfort and more pinching, he hauled himself to sitting.

He was cold.

He was cold because he was nude!

And so was Sherlock!

And they were both sprawled on the sitting room rug!

John looked down and gasped, discovering the source of the infernal pinching and its cousin, the itching, which had set in now that John was half-awake: an unmistakable dried mess decorated his stomach.

“Sherlock!”

“Mmph?”

“What in the hell happened last night?”


John turned off the taps.

“John?”

“Yeah, give us a minute. D'you remember anything, Sherlock?”

“The case.”

“Yeah.”

“We returned to Baker Street. Tea.”

“Right. Then what?”

“My memory’s blank.”

“Mine, too. But can’t you deduce?!”

“Don’t need to. We filmed ourselves.”


John covered his open mouth with his hand as he stared at the screen. He looked at Sherlock whose face was a very embarrassed pink and very shocked pale.

The Sherlock and John on the screen were grinning.

‘Hullo, hullo, hullo!’

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the world’s sexiest consulting detective! Hold still, so I can…there we go…gorgeous…are you sensitive? Yeah, you are.’

John’s eyebrows reached his hairline as he watched himself licking Sherlock’s nipples.

‘John. May I burn you jumper?’

‘No!’

‘May I throw it carelessly on the floor?’

‘For a price.’

‘Name it.’

‘Give us a kiss, gorgeous.’

John stared at the two figures, bared to the waist, arms ‘round each other, locked in a long, passionate kiss.

“Sherlock, do you remember—?”

“No!” snapped Sherlock. “There must’ve been something in the tea.”

The screen kiss finally broke.

‘Your mouth, Sherlock, made for kissing.’

‘It’s pretty good at sucking cock, too.’

“Holy Mary!” breathed John. He glanced at Sherlock, whose face was buried in his hands.

The on-screen Sherlock unfastened on-screen John’s jeans and pushed the denim down, revealing a pair of bright red pants with white trim.

‘Sherlock, don’t leave me like this!’

‘Come here.’

The John that neared the screen was clad only in red pants.

‘Right there. Want a close shot.’

Sherlock smiled wickedly at the camera, then bit the waistband of the pants and yanked them down. He held the stretched fabric in place as he licked then bit the exposed buttock.

John exhaled the breath he’d been holding.

What followed on-screen was an exquisite blowjob.


‘Sherlock, I’m so close, no!’

‘I want us to come together. I’m so hard, John. Won’t take much.’

‘Yeah, come here, gorgeous. I’ve got you.’


“Looks like we both passed out,” said John. “Finally.”

“There’s another two minutes,” said Sherlock.

Sherlock’s forehead filled the screen.

‘Matthew 7:7’

Then was gone.

‘Yoo-hoo, boys! D’you have my Red Pants tea? I think I got your Earl Grey. Oh! Yes, well. I’ll just make the switch. Bye, dears!’


 

“Well, that’s one mystery solved,” said John. “But I wonder what’s with the Bible verse.”

Sherlock strode to the bookshelf, selected a large volume, and opened it. Its hollowed interior was filled with…

“My red pants!” cried John.

Chapter Text

“Thanks for the ride, Mister Holmes. Would you like to come up for a cuppa?”

In the instant between the question and the reply, Mycroft’s supercomputer of a brain went into overdrive.

Was the Detective Inspector asking him up for tea? It was five o’clock in the afternoon, a perfectly suitable hour for tea.

Or was he asking Mycroft up for sex? It was a rather bold suggestion, but then Detective Inspector Lestrade was not a timid creature. He was a fabulous creature, noble…

The instant between question and reply was an instant too long. The Detective Inspector was rescinding his offer, with a slight pinking of his otherwise unmarred countenance.

“Another time. You’re busy.”

“I’d love to,” blurted Mycroft in a manner so adolescent it made his cheeks warm, but the Detective Inspector’s eyes lit, and he waggled his eyebrows in a suggestive manner and spoke in an even more suggestive manner,

“Great! Have you ever had…Earl Greg?”

Sex, Mycroft decided. It was sex.


WHAM!

Mycroft had wasted no time in pressing the Detective Inspector’s back to the door and pressing his own lips against the Detective Inspector’s. He did not want give the impression that he was a hesitant lover.

Finally, the kiss broke.

“Oh, yeah?”

A heart-melting, loin-igniting grin.

“Yeah,” answered Mycroft sounding like a bloke from the type of film he’d most assuredly never watched.

A delicious, rumbly chuckle.

“I might crease your bespoke.”

“You already are.”

A hand, not Mycroft’s own, rubbed the front of Mycroft’s trousers.

“Well, whaddaya know? Christ, you feel…”

“Big.”

“Fuck yeah and getting bigger by the minute.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“Mine.” A wink. “All mine.” A head spun ‘round, taking in the room. “How about on the sofa? A bit of the ol’ ‘you show me yours, etcetera’?”

“Capital. But, be advised, if you show me yours, I might be tempted to put it in my mouth.”

Mycroft had no idea from which drains of his mind this piquant dialogue was issuing, but his companion was still smiling, still laughing, still leading him to the afore mentioned furnishing.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Soon Mycroft’s mouth was full of cock and there were heels digging into his back and his name, his Christian name, was being shouted in conjunction with an imaginative range of vulgarities and a superior human form, nude, save for an unbuttoned dress shirt, was tensing beneath him.


 

Mycroft dabbed his mouth with his handkerchief.

“What’s your preference?”

“Something simple.”

And then Mycroft’s cock was being praised as strongly as it was being stroked and Mycroft’s handkerchief caught much less of his emission than he would’ve wished.

“Don’t go yet.” The Detective Inspector leapt toward the kitchen, open a cupboard, and plopped a box on the counter.

“Earl Greg?” Mycroft read with no little astonishment.

“My own blend! I’ve got some biscuits, too.”

“Oh, oh, I thought…”

“I know, but I wasn’t about to stop my fantasy coming true. Tea?”

Mycroft smiled and said, “Yes, please.”

 

Chapter Text

Moriarty shot a glance at Sherlock. Then he looked about the flat and mused,

“You are very comfortably fixed here, aren’t you? As I get on in life the little comforts appeal to me more and more.”

“Oh, beg my pardon, won’t you sit down?” replied Sherlock. He spread his knees and drew the sides of his shirt tails aside, revealing long, lean, leaking, very pink prick which bore a slight bend to the left when it was fully erect, as it was in that moment, jutting out from the wiry patch of dark hair.

“Thank you,” said Moriarty. He stepped between Sherlock’s parted legs, with his back to Sherlock, and very slowly and very carefully impaled himself on Sherlock’s prick.

Sherlock leaned forward and exhaled into the back of a lilac dress shirt. “And now Professor Moriarty, what can I do for you?”

“Everything I have to say to you has already crossed your mind,” murmured Moriarty as he wrapped his hand ‘round his own prick.

Sherlock’s transferred his grip from the arms of the chair to Moriarty’s hips. He gave short, sharp thrusts up, bouncing them both. “And no doubt my answer has crossed yours?” he countered.

Moriarty gave a rueful smirk. “That’s final?”

“What do you think?” growled Sherlock, launching them, in one tangle of limbs, from the armchair to the bear skin hearth rug.

Moriarty fell on his hands and knees. Sherlock mounted him and fucked him raw.

“Mister Holmes I should strongly advise you to drop this case!” Moriarty’s voice trembled from the violence of the assault.

“Don’t be silly,” said Sherlock with a sneer.

“Think it over.”

But just as Sherlock was about to spend himself, Moriarty heaved upwards, lifting Sherlock, then threw himself sharply downwards, and twisted. Now on his back, he hurled himself at Sherlock and flipped their positions, effectively pinning Sherlock onto his back on the rug.

“We’ve had many encounters in the past. You hope to place me on the gallows. I tell you I shall never stand up on the gallows, but if you are instrumental in any way in bringing about my destruction you will not be alive to enjoy your satisfaction.”

Moriarty jerked himself off as he spoke, ending his statement by decorating Sherlock’s face and neck with his come.

“And we shall walk together through the gates of eternity hand-in-hand,” said Sherlock, licking a splash from the corner of his mouth.

“What a charming picture that would make,” said Moriarty, then he paused, enjoying his handiwork.

It was a mistake, for it gave Sherlock the moment’s opportunity required to seize Moriarty and shove him face-first onto the rug.

“Yes, wouldn’t it?” agreed he as he thrust. He came with a shout muffled by the sink of his teeth into the side of Moriarty’s neck. “And I really think it might be worth it.”

They sighed and, without suspecting, shared two thoughts.

The first: how I hate him.

The second: that ginger tea really is quite good.

Chapter Text

Damn, thought Molly, pushing away from her desk. She was going to have to call someone about it.

Knock, knock!

Molly frowned, went to the door, looked through the peep hole, and smiled.

“IT services,” said a deadpan voice.

Molly opened the door. “Do all IT services come bearing…?”

“A Cupcake Crème Frappuccino? Only the good ones.”

Molly took the white foamy beverage and ushered him inside. “Internet’s not working, but I can’t tell what’s wrong.”

“Don’t worry, little lady. I’ll fix your wagon.”

Molly took a sip from the long green straw and tried not to giggle.


“Well, I found you problem.”

“Yeah?” Molly sat in the swivel office chair, watching the crouched figure beneath her desk.

“Oh, yeah.”

Molly slid down in the chair and parted the sides of the lower half of her dressing gown. She exhaled a long sigh when hands pushed her hair aside and a warm wet mouth covered her clit.

The hands were sliding beneath her, cupping her buttocks, then holding her thighs.

Molly spread her knees as wide as she was able and lifted her legs. She braced the soles of her feet against the edge of the desk.

She heard the ‘click’ of the chair’s lock.

The hands moved back to her bush, holding her open. She felt cool air, then a wide tongue, not moving, not licking, just covering her clit like blanket.

Waiting.

For her body to adjust, for her mind to adjust, for her need to grow.

Well, it didn’t take long.

Molly whimpered. A slow, gentle licking commenced. Indirect, teasing the edges, circling ‘round and ‘round, with no haste, no urgency, no hunger.

As if there was all the time in the world. And maybe there was.

Molly hummed. One of her hands was resting lightly on a head of dark hair; the other dropped and her fingertips dipped into the plastic cup and brushed the melting whipped crème. She brought the white frothy sweetness to her lips and sucked.

The mouth between Molly’s legs shifted from clit to cunt and imitated her sucking. They worked in tandem for a while, Molly telegraphing just how and how hard she wanted to be pleasured.

Then lips began to press teasing kisses to her inner thighs in damp trails towards and away from her centre. There was licking and nuzzling at the crease of her thighs and more cunt-wet kisses and then more sucking of her clit, this time with more force, more direct pressure, more urgency.

Molly growled.

A tongue pushed inside her, and what followed was sloppy and ruthless and hungry and shameless.

“Yeah,” said Molly. “That’s what I needed. Just like that.”

Molly’s heels were digging into a dark uniform shirt with stenciled lettering, and her hips were bucking into an open mouth. Her thighs came together hard. She gave a needy little cry, then a satisfied hum, then unfolded like a flower.

“I think you’re set.”

“Yeah,” said Molly, with a contented grin. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Chapter Text

“You shouldn’t smoke. Cigarettes will kill you.”

Molly looked up at the head peeking out from the balcony overhead.

“It’s been a rough week,” she replied dryly. “My boyfriend killed himself.”

“Bastard.”

With feline grace, he swung down beside her and took the cigarette from her fingers.

“I thought cigarettes will kill you,” she said.

He took a drag. “Don’t worry. I’m already dead.”


“You said six months, Jim.”

He was holding her hair up and kissing the nape of her neck. “Six months, six days. I’m so changeable. But to be fair, I’ve only two. Weaknesses, that is.” He licked, then worried a tender spot with his teeth. “I tried to stay away, but I found I quite simply could not live without you, Molly.”

“You couldn’t die without me either.” She twisted ‘round and met his mouth in a hard, hungry kiss, then her arms were ‘round him, clinging, half-mad with the want of him.

“There’s no haste, my queen.” He took one of her hands in his and pressed his lips to her pulse. “All night. Your servant.”

He kissed her lips gently and pulled away. She bit at his mouth savagely and did not.


“I want to draw first blood,” she said once she had.

He chuckled and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Was there ever any doubt?”


At few moments later, with a much-abused mouth, he kissed her neck and shoulders, kissed along her jawline, kissed up and over her chin, kissed the corners of her mouth, kissed her eyelids when they closed.

He caressed her breasts and suckled her nipples ‘til they pebbled. He nuzzled at her cleavage then turned her on her stomach and licked broad stripes along her back.

He pushed up, covering her body with his own, curling his head ‘round hers, the better to flick her earlobe with the tip of his tongue.

“How?” he asked with a puff of air.

She turned her head and studied him with a half-lidded gaze. Then she brushed his lower lip with her thumb and said, “Riding this.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“But first, Jim…”

“Hmm?”

“Would you rub my back? It’s been a really rough week.”

He nodded and gave her a look that was only hers. “He’s a bastard, you know? Your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, but he’s dead now.”


She came just as she said she would, then she crawled towards the head of the bed and propped herself up.

He took a bottle of lotion from the bedside table and with greased hands began to massage her foot.

She closed her eyes and sighed loudly.

“Those boots are too tight,” he said, running his thumbs along her arch.

“They match the dress.”

He shrugged, then looked up.

She smiled. He smiled.

“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest. Yo, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum,” he sang softly.

“Can I ride your cock?” she asked.

“All night,” he replied. “Your servant.”

Chapter Text

In the early hours before dawn, Irene hurried along the street.

At a familiar corner, she halted abruptly, as if an invisible arm was flung cross her chest. She looked about cautiously, though not a car was on the road.

As she crossed the street, she put her phone to her ear.

“Renny,” said a soft voice.

“Kate?”

“Eleven o’clock.”

“Hardly. It’s half three.”

“Stupid Renny. Still have to have the last word. Still have to prove how clever you are. Up and left.”

Across the street, in the second-floor window, there appeared a silhouette that Irene knew better than her own. She smiled and said,

“You’re up early.”

“You’re working late.”

“You know me.”

“I know what you like.”

In the window, arms bent at the elbows and hands curled towards shoulders. Then a gossamer-thin garment dropped.

Irene’s breath caught.

In the window, hands cupped breasts, lifted them, pushed them together, then let them fall apart. Irene could just make out the darkened nipples before thumbs covered them. The back arched, the breasts lifted, and so did Irene’s.

Then, in the window, one hand began to crisscross the chest, fondling each breast in turn while the other hand traveled up to rest at the base of a swan-like neck.

The nude chest, and the hand that caressed it, rose and fell and Irene found herself synchronizing her breath to that of the figure, to that of the rhythm of inhale and exhale in her ear. Her own hand, mirroring that of the one above, went to her own neck.

Was it Irene’s imagination or did the hand on the neck tighten its grip? Impossible to tell from the distance; nevertheless, Irene squeezed and heard a choked sigh of feminine pleasure.

“Yes.”

Was that Kate’s voice? Or her own?

Difficult to tell. And did it really matter?

“Renny.”

“Go on. Be a good girl,” said Irene.

The hand on the throat did not move, but the hand on the breasts slipped lower and lower.

“Put a foot on the sill. I want to see you,” said Irene.

The hand was petting, petting, petting, in languid, circular strokes.

Irene thought of imitating the caress on her own body, but immediately discarded the notion: her coat and gloves and dress beneath were too much obstacle. But she felt her muscles tense and relax, tense and relax.

“Wet?” she asked. The head nodded. “Show me.”

Irene couldn’t see, of course, but she thought could taste it on the tip of her tongue.

“Come on, Kate. I want to hear you.”

In the window, the hand rubbed between the legs.

“I want to hear you, Renny. I won’t come unless I do.”

Irene hesitated. She felt cold.

“Please, Renny.”

“I love you, Kate. I always will.”

“Oh!”

That familiar cry.

And then the body fell from the window, splintering, dissolving into a ribbon of silver fog.

And the window was dark.

“Just a ghost,” said Irene, looking at her dead phone. “Just like me.”  

Chapter Text

Seb woke to the click of metal and the scent of the salt water. His fingers immediately went to the tightness at his neck.

Leather.

“Doctor’s orders.”

“Watson didn’t say to collar me, boss.”

“He said you needed to rest your lungs, along with the CT scan, which was clear, and the antibiotics.”

Seb inhaled. “Sea cure?”

“What can I say? I’m old-fashioned.”

“Brighton?”

“After the last job? No. We need to disappear for a bit. The Mediterranean. Our own dot on the map.”

Seb’s fingers travelled along the leather to the ring and the strap.

“Lead, boss?”

“For your own good, Sebbie. A reminder.”

“That I’m yours?”

“And I need to take good care of what’s mine.”


Seb watched the waves without thinking about much of anything. Then he took a deep breath of briny air and was pleased that it finally no longer hurt to do so. He looked over, meeting a green-eyed gaze that missed nothing, and smiled.

Click!

At once, the lead was attached to the ring and the strap was being wound ‘round knuckles and Seb’s head was being jerked forward.

And then there was a cock to suck.

And Seb sucked it.

He liked the way it filled his mouth, tickled the back of his throat, brushed the top of his palate. He liked the way it spread his lips. He liked swirling his tongue ‘round it, mapping the veins and ridges and changes of texture. He liked the taste of it.

There were sharp tugs on the lead, but Seb didn’t mind. He kept bobbing and sucking the way the boss liked. He brought his hands up to trousers and pushed them and pants down, exposing very pale, very sensitive buttocks to the breeze and the sun and his own kneading grip.

“Sebbie.”

When the load was shot down Seb’s throat, he coughed a little. But just a little.

“Wanna go for a walk?”


A casual observer might have thought the scene strange, a huge, hulking, Scandinavian-looking figure in loose swimming trunks being led like a pet down the beach by a dark-haired, petite companion in a natty three-piece linen suit.

But there were no casual observers. No observers at all.

No one saw Seb brought to heel. No one saw the lead tethered to a ring in the side of a wall of rock. No one saw Seb’s cock being sucked, then abandoned. No one saw Seb being brought to the edge, then left unsatisfied, over and over. No one saw Seb lunge, pulling at the lead, hard, but not too hard. No one heard Seb growl.

Well, no one but the only one that mattered.

A cock was thrust between Seb's lips. He sucked it between foul oaths.

And then Seb was finally offered the arsehole he'd wanted all along, and he fucked it savagely as the lead was transferred from ring to hand and tightened.

They crashed to the sand, one atop the other, as Seb came.

“You salty dog.”

Chapter Text

“’Will you walk into my parlor?’”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched as he passed through the door.

“Up a winding stair?”

“Naturally.


“It is quite the retreat when one is feeling the strain of things.”

Mycroft nodded as a door was opened. He surveyed the handsome interior before passing inside.

He took it all in, the room and its many furnishings, especially the hooks in the ceiling from which were suspended heavy weights and the knotted ropes laid out in neat display upon an antique sofa.

“Your work?”

“Yes. Shall I prove it?”

Mycroft shook his head, then walked slowly ‘round the room. When he returned to centre, his host said,

“So, now you’ve seen my parlour, Mister Holmes. My invitation to tea still stands.”

“Ah, but the tea?”

“Just so.”

A cupboard was opened. A tin produced. When the lid was removed, Mycroft sniffed and nodded.

“Thank you for your time. I shall give the matter serious consideration.”

When the front door closed, Moriarty smiled to himself.


Moriarty stood under Mycroft Holmes, looking up, admiring his own handiwork.

“’Come hither, hither, little fly with the pearl and silver wing.’”

Disheveled and divested of all but pants, Mycroft grunted.

“It is difficult, no? Being the smart one. And such professional dedication! Never an hour’s rest. Except here. No one can touch you here. No one but me, that is. This is my parlour. My web. I am the Spider.”

Moriarty ran a possessive hand up and down Mycroft’s bound body, paying special attention to the growing bulge in his pants.

“With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew.”

Mycroft grunted again, but this time the noise was a discernible word.

Spider.

Moriarty had prepared for much, but not for the blow of that simple utterance. He strode to the ropes, adjusting them and speaking with clipped urgency,

“’Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue—/ Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing!”

Mycroft was lowered until his body hovered in a horizontal plank a few feet from the floor.

Moriarty strode towards Mycroft’s head, still reciting,

“’Up jumped the cunning Spider and fiercely held her fast.’”

Moriarty then opened his trousers and fed Mycroft his half-hard cock.

“’He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, Within his little parlor—but she ne’er came out again!”

Moriarty pushed, and Mycroft swung forward and back, with each pass devouring more, with each pass impaling himself deeper on Moriarty’s cock.

Mycroft mumbled something unintelligible. Twice.

The hum produced a delicious vibration, but Moriarty withdrew his cock and stilled Mycroft’s body.

Mycroft lifted his head. Their eyes met. “I am the Fly,” he said.

The words struck Moriarty, momentarily stunning him, rendering him speechless.

Then he spat on his palm and pumped his cock with violent jerks, splattering Mycroft’s face with come.

“’Undo an evil counselor, open mouth and hole and cry, ‘There are many lessons yet to learn, for the Spider and the Fly.’”

Chapter Text

Seb peeked inside the suit bag and gave a long wolf whistle.

“Comb your fur and cough up your hairballs, Tiger. We got a date.”


“I don’t like this, boss. I feel naked walking around without my gun.”

“You’ve still got the only gun that matters.”

“And just where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises, boss. We’re not going to see your mom again, are we? ‘Cause that graveyard shit…”

“What’s that, Sebbie?”

Seb looked down at the pink box in his own hands. “Cake.”

“So?”

Seb looked thoughtful. “Mary Shelley’s grave?”


“Delicious, thank you,” said Mycroft Holmes. “So, shall we retire to the smoking room?”

Seb snorted.

“Seb’s a bit…”

“Understandable. I have a PA of similar temperament. Perhaps, Colonel, you’d prefer to take the role of voyeur and join in if the mood strikes.”

Seb nodded.


Seb smoked his cigar and sipped his whiskey.

The boss enjoyed getting his cock sucked, well and good, and when he was on the very edge, he was offered a nice tight arse for finishing.  Now the boss was reciprocating, on his knees, taking Holmes’s cock, but in the same manner, he pulled away before the very end.

“Web for the spider?”

Seb’s eyebrows rose when Holmes produced the rope and allowed the boss to tie him to one of two sets of rings, which Seb suspected were not originally intended for holding curtains.

When Holmes was secured to the rings, the boss began to tease his cock anew. And it was clear from the silly grins on the mugs of guest and host that they were in their element.

Seb was momentarily distracted by thoughts of the cake. He’d liked it, especially the icing. Not the poncey stuff like Jim unusually bought, which Seb always thought tasted like his Gran’s Sunday hat dipped in sugar. Seb wondered how much was left.

Seb stood just as the boss was passing Holmes some his own come, mouth-to-mouth.

“Hey, Tiger.” The boss gave a mock grunt. “Oof. Rut, Sebbie. You’re not nearly hard enough. Oh, there you go. You’re going to want to watch this, Mister Holmes.”

“Untie me and I’ll do more than watch.”

“Oh, Sebbie. Side by side. Then you can do us bo—”

WHAM!

“Great idea,” said Seb as he quickly bound the boss to the second set of rings. “I’m going to go have another piece of cake.”

“Seb!”

“Colonel Moran!” Seb closed the door, but heard Holmes ask, “What now?”

The boss sighed. “Seen any good films lately?”


Seb sucked Holmes’s cock as Holmes licked the icing off Seb’s fingers and fed cake to the boss, who was buggering Seb nice and slow. Mycroft came, the boss came, and then they were both, quite literally, falling over themselves to suck Seb off and offer him last licks.

“And inspired decision to invite your associate,” said Mycroft Holmes. “He really is…”

The boss licked a white smear from the corner of Mycroft’s mouth and replied,

“I know.”

Chapter Text

“…cock?”

“Yeah. Don’t get me wrong, tits are great, but tonight...”

“Cock.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have yours in hand already, John?”

“Nah, I wasn’t certain…”

“I’m a sure thing, John. Make yourself comfortable. Put me on speaker.”

“All right. I know you’ve heard everything that’s crossing my mind a thousand times.”

“’I’ve never done this before’?”

“Heh. True, but no. I was thinking ‘you’ve a nice voice.’ Really, the perfect voice for this.”

“Thank you. And you’re correct, I have heard it a thousand times. But it’s never unappreciated. Ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Lean back, close your eyes…”

“No!”

“Okay, John, okay.”

“Sorry. I can’t close my eyes. That’s part of the problem…”

“Nightmares?”

“Yeah. I don’t sleep well.”

“My mistake. Eyes open. Looking into mine.”

“What colour are they?”

“Grey.”

“Like one of those big fluffy cats?”

“Precisely. And I’ve been told there is something of the feline about me.”

“You’re a pretty puss, are you?”

“Arrogant. Aloof. Independent.”

“Like to be petted?”

“I might. Hand good and slick?”

“Yeah. Both of ‘em. Like to come prepared. Heh, heh.”

“You have a pawky sense of humour, John.”

“Mm.”

“I like your voice, too.”

“It’s a mutual admiration society.”

“It certainly is. Here, John.”

BEEP!

“What’s this?”

“Link to a video feed. If you’d like, it can be a mutual admiration and masturbation society.”

“Ha! That’s going to cost extra!”

“On the house.”

“All right. Whoa! That’s you?”

“Mm.”

“Nice hands. Really nice hands.”

“Imagine they’re stroking you, John, just like they’re stroking me.”

“No difficulty there. Nice and slow?”

“Nice and slow. A bit of this?”

“Yeah, I like that a lot. Wish it was your hands playing with my…”

“How ‘bout my mouth, John? You like them licked, sucked?”

“Fuck, well, if you’re keen…”

“I’m keen. Or can’t you tell?”

“Long and lean with a slight bend to the left.”

“That’s me. Getting hard?”

“Yeah.”

“Bit faster, bit tighter. Like this, John.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Like that. This is good. It seems so easy, but it’s been damn near impossible…”

“Let’s eliminate the impossible, John, and stick with the highly improbable.”

“Ok, Spock.”

“I’m betting your hung like Captain Kirk.”

“Ha, ha! Not just hung like ‘im.”

“Military? Captain John?”

“Mm. Ex. As of, uh, twenty-seven days ago, but who’s counting. Oh, damn, damn. Sorry. I’m not, uh, not… Maybe we should call it a night...”

“Not so fast, John. Look at my cock. Look at my hands.”

“Yeah. Gorgeous.”

“My mouth’s just the same, John. You want me on my knees, sucking you?”

“Not really.”

“No?”

“Nah, then I couldn’t hear your voice.”

“Cheeky. Just watch my hands.”

“Mm. Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, just the little finger.”

“Think you could take something a bit bigger?”

“I’d try. I like the burn.”

“Fuckity fuck!”

“Better view?”

“Yeah. What an arse! Christ!”

“Right here, John. Want you right here.”

“Yeah, that’s where I wanna be. Right there. Fuck!”

“OH!”

“John?”

“John?”

“Good. M’good. Thanks."

BEEP!

"What’s that?”

“Private number, John. Call anytime.”

Chapter Text

Sometimes John can’t believe his luck. What are the odds that his path would cross that of someone as extraordinary as Sherlock Holmes? And added to those odds (or multiplied, John’s never been good at maths) are the odds that this extraordinary creature would accept, nay, desire John as a partner in every sense of the word!

As daylight filters through the window and lights Sherlock’s nude body, John is left humbled. And wanting.

He begins with soft licks at Sherlock’s neck and shoulders and kisses to Sherlock’s hair. He begins with tender, gentle petting, and he ends there, too, if Sherlock grunts and rolls away from him.

After all, seduction is an art, not a science.

But if Sherlock makes an encouraging noise and snuggles towards John, then John’s heart, and his prick, if truth be told, leap.

Then John presses his nose into Sherlock’s hair and breathes in the fragrance of poncey shampoo. Then he kisses down and up the entire length of Sherlock’s spine.

Then, sometimes, John licks Sherlock’s hole open and fucks him. Then, sometimes, John slicks his own prick, slides it between Sherlock’s thighs, and comes. Then, sometimes, John turns Sherlock just enough to take Sherlock’s prick in his mouth and suck. Then, sometimes, John simply watches his lover, the most beautiful creature in the world, still and slumbering, while he, John takes himself in a slicked hand and finds his own release.

But John always thinks what a wonderful way to greet the day.


Sometimes Sherlock marvels at the probability that he, Sherlock Holmes, is allowed to end his day in the arms of someone like John Watson. Sherlock calculates the odds, but in the end, attributes the phenomenon to something much more John-like: luck or faith or another superstition.

When night falls and they return to the flat, whether in victory or defeat, John is there, and only the most depressing or tiring of days renders him unresponsive to amorous intentions.

John is almost always, as they say, in the mood for love.

Sherlock can take him on the stairs, whilst making tea, in his armchair, in Sherlock’s armchair, on the rug, against the wall, really, anywhere two bodies of their proportions can fit, comfortably or not.

Eventually, however, they end up in a bedroom, usually Sherlock’s, and they fuck until one of them falls asleep, usually John.

Sherlock has found his sexual appetite, now awakened, is omnivorous. He can suck John’s prick. Or take it in his arse. He can lick John’s balls or his rim. He can kiss John’s lips or lick his scar.

Sherlock likes it all. And sometimes, on those rare Sundays when they’re both rested and not a bit bored, they do it all.

And when they are sated and clean and dry once more and John has kissed Sherlock’s cheek ‘good night’ and allowed his gaze to go dull and his eyelids to flutter closed…

Sherlock thinks to himself what a wonderful way to end the night.

 

Chapter Text

“Oh, my apology. Did I catch you at a moment when you were all tied up?”

Mycroft didn’t wait for a reply.

“Some people enjoy making puns. Some people find them annoying. I’m afraid I fall into both categories. My cross to bear. You look lovely. Perfect, in fact. It’s a special night, isn’t it? I thought I’d dress. I might say I’d been shopping today for something to wear, but that’d be a lie. Tut-tut, Mycroft. The truth is I bought something last week. Online. Much more discrete, no? And I do so value discretion. As much as I value silk.”

Mycroft removed his suit jacket and hung it on the wooden valet in the corner. He did the same with his tie and waistcoat, then unbuttoned his shirt cuffs.

He paced back and forth.

“Yes, there’s nothing like silk. Satin. Lace. All very beautiful. And, of course, the modern elastics are extraordinarily useful. But silk is ancient and for texture, well, is there anything better? No, I don’t think so.”

Mycroft sat in the far armchair and untied his shoes. He stored them at the base of the valet beside a pair of black stilettos.

He untucked his shirt from his trousers and unbuttoned it. He unfastened his belt, then opened his trousers and ran a flat hand inside.

“Silk,” he murmured, then closed his eyes.

And rubbed. And hummed.

“Silk,” he repeated. Then his eyes fluttered open. “Oh, can’t get distracted,” he said in a quiet sing-song voice.

He removed his shirt and his trousers and hung both, as well as his belt, carefully on the valet. Then he stepped into the black shoes.

“There,” he said when he was done. He pivoted and walked slowly, placing each foot in front of the other with care. “No matter how one practices, always takes a bit getting used to,” he said apologetically.

He walked back and forth, with each pass growing more confident and surer in his stride.

When he was sashaying with ease, he stopped and stood, with a hip cocked to one side, in black knickers and black hold-ups.

“Silk.”

He ran his hands over the bulge in the front of the knickers.

He turned around and massaged his arse, first atop the silk, then beneath it.

“Mm. Nothing like it.”

He turned back, give the front of the knickers a few upward strokes before saying,

“But it isn’t really about the knickers,” he said, hooking the sides under his thumbs and easing the tiny scrap of black down and off.

He removed the gag and stuffed the knickers in the open mouth.

Then he dragged an armless chair, front and centre, and sat.

“It’s about these.”

He leaned back, held up each leg and caressing it from ankle to thigh. He kicked his legs up and down.

Then he leaned forward and remove the stuffed knickers and held out a palm.

He took his spit-slicked palm and wrapped it ‘round his prick.

“Open wide, luv.”

Chapter Text

“Stanley!”

“John! How are you?”

“Great! Sherlock and I just got our invitations to the Scotland Yard Hallowe’en fancy dress orgy! Greg and I are going as the Fox and the Hound. Or maybe Lady and the Tramp. Sherlock, naturally, will be a no-show. He doesn’t go in for fancy dress.”

“You’re missing out, Sherlock. It's going to be a great event,” said Stanley.

Sherlock harrumphed and bent to examine the body.

“That’s certainly the impression I got from the invitation,” said John.

“I don’t have to rely on impressions,” said Stanley. “I’m the chair of the orgy committee.”

“Really?! Hear that, Sherlock? Stanley’s in charge!”

“I’m not deaf, John.”

“The committee’s been meeting since April,” said Stanley. “There’s selecting the venue and the theme. Then there’s coordinating the work of the sub-committees for decorations, food and drink, contests, and, most importantly, safety. An event of such magnitude requires many volunteer hours of work to be successful.”

“So apparently does solving a murder!” chirruped Sherlock. “But not many hours, just one, with the right volunteer! I’ve a clue if anyone’s interested!”

“Sorry, John. Duty calls.”

“Yeah, yeah.”


“G’night, John.”

“G’night, Stanley.” John stepped into the office. “What’s all that?”

“The floorplan of the venue hosting the orgy. Here are the fire exits. Here’s where the first aid stations will be. Here,” Stanley opened a binder, “are the shift rota of the volunteer staff for security,” he flipped a page, “entertainment, and medical assistance.”

“And this?” asked John.

“The seedier side of things, but essential for a Hallowe’en orgy.”

John frowned.

“An invoice for pumpkins,” said Stanley with a deadpan expression.

John giggled.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway.

“Don’t encourage him, Hopkins, by giving him seasonal puns to inflict upon the world.”

“Sorry,” said Stanley with a twinkle in his eye.

“I’m still trying to convince Sherlock to go. Maybe if you promise him a free pumpkin, he will. I’ve seen the look in his eyes when we pass certain shop windows. He’s quite keen to carve one, though he’d never admit it.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to win the costume contest or the pumpkin carving contest or the longest-held erection…”

John laughed. “You’re joking about the last one, right?”

Stanley shook his head. “I don’t joke about sub-committee decisions, John.”

“Oh, Greg better get himself together! The game is on!”


“…all right. Over there. Yes, I’ll sign. Thank you.”

“Hello, Stanley!”

“Hello, John. Great costume! Detective Inspector Lestrade is the eggs?”

“Right you are! And guess who’s here?”

“Hello, Sherlock. You look—”

“Like the world’s only consulting detective?”

“Well, Stanley isn’t in costume, either,” said John. “Yet?”

“No, actually, that was my last act as chair. I’m going home.”

“Home?!” cried John. “If you don’t attend, why do you chair the committee?”

“I get voted as chair every year because, well,” he blushed, “I’m competent. This is my reward.” He held up a pumpkin. “I’m going home to carve it.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit. “Want company?”

Stanley smiled. “I'd love some.”

Chapter Text

Lestrade looked over his shoulder just as the fog coalesced into a silhouette.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Apologies for startling you,” said Mycroft. “The London particular is extraordinarily particular this evening. It makes for a dramatic but, I hope, not-altogether-unwanted encounter.”

“As I’ve got ‘close encounters of the third kind’ on the brain, I suppose I’m extra jumpy.”

“How was the sci-fi film festival?”

“Weird. Fabulous.”

“It is hyperbole to say that I am disappointed that I could not join you.”

“If we keep trying to spend time together, I expect I will return the favour. Crisis averted, I suppose, if you’re roaming free, slipping through the mist like a Whitechapel murderer?”

“Indeed. Might offer you a ride home or a nightcap or…?”

A pair of raindrops struck Lestrade’s sleeve.

“…this,” said Mycroft, opening his umbrella.

Lestrade stepped towards Mycroft. The rain fell harder, and they moved as one towards the entrance of an alley.

“I don’t believe I’ve had an opportunity to tell you that my domicile is host to a modest home cinema,” said Mycroft.

“Why do I suspect ‘modest’ is also hyperbole? But, no, I did not know that.”

“My library runs towards noir and historical subjects, but I’d like to add some science fiction works, the better to attract the interest of a certain someone I’ve an interest in attracting. Perhaps you could suggest a few titles.”

“I could,” Lestrade looked down, then up, then said in a husky rumble, “but I have to warn you, Mister Holmes…”

“Oh, yes, Detective Inspector…?”

With his gaze fixed on Mycroft’s mouth, Lestrade stepped forward.

With his gaze fixed on Lestrade’s mouth, Mycroft stepped back until his back was against a wall.

“Sometimes,” Lestrade leaned closer, “for some unfortunate sods watching films about little green men in flying saucers makes them incredibly…”

He let his whole body fall against Mycroft, and their mouths met.

“Indeed?” breathed Mycroft when the kiss broke.

Lestrade licked his lips and nodded.

“And if someone with that affliction had just viewed,” Mycroft’s eyes traveled to the umbrella, “approximately…”

“…eight hours,” supplied Lestrade.

“Goodness” said Mycroft with eyebrows raised in slight alarm.

“As my date suddenly wasn’t available and tomorrow’s my day off, I decided not to restrain myself.”

“Noted. As I was saying, a person afflicted thusly who’d indulge in a number of such films might find himself in rather a state,” said Mycroft.

Lestrade ground his lower half into Mycroft’s and hummed. “Like that?”

“Like that,” said Mycroft, letting the hand that wasn’t holding the umbrella handle drop and rub the bulge in the front of Lestrade’s trousers. “Well, then there’s only one thing left to ask, I suppose.”

“What’s that?”

“Shall I service you here or in the car I’ve just called or at my home?”

“Rather narrow of you, I think, Mister Holmes.”

“There’s an option I’ve neglected, Detective Inspector?”

“All of the above?”

Mycroft smiled and curled his hand and whispered, “Well, hurrah for the little green men and their flying saucers.”

Chapter Text

The scars we wear

beneath our chain mail suits; ‘neath fine well-tailored clothes,

the scars we bear.

 

We never share

their tales, reveal their pain. Never do we expose

the scars we wear.

 

We never dare

discuss in everyday, in crowd or still repose

the scars we bear.

 

We never spare

a word of blotted ink for spectres which compose

the scars we wear.

 

We might despair

of ever knowing but a soul who truly knows

the scars we bear

 

We might compare,

halve shame, but our fear neither forgets nor forgoes

the scars we wear,

the scars we bear.


John returned the book to the shelf. The poem might not be Sherlock’s. The book appeared to have had at least a couple of prior owners, and John didn’t know Sherlock’s handwriting very well.

Nevertheless, there was something about the poem that reminded John of Sherlock. Or maybe he was just waiting for a sign, which had arrived.

“You’re gagging for it, aren’t you?”

Sherlock looked up, removed his goggles, tilted his head, and pressed his lips tightly together for a moment before he asked,

“It?”

“To study my scar.”

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched, and John watched his change of expression with interest. A clever retort formed, grew to maturity, and then was interred without a sound ever escaping Sherlock’s lips.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, quite simply and, John thought, quite honestly.

“Now?”

“Yes.”

John tore off his vest and sat in his armchair. Sherlock sprang to John’s side in a rather cartoonish fashion.

The heat of Sherlock’s scrutiny warmed John; he stared, twisting and curling like a strange puppet, but made no attempt to touch.

After about twenty minutes, Sherlock said, with some finality, “Thank you, John.”

“Want to touch it?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. His nostrils flared. Then he licked his lips.

“Yes.”

Sherlock's fingertips were as thorough as his eyes. He touched lightly, he touched gently, but he touched every ridge and valley at least twice.

John’s gaze fluttered southward to Sherlock’s tented trouser front.

“You’re hard,” John observed.

“Just transport,” muttered Sherlock. “It’ll go away.”

“Would you like me to help it go away quicker?”

Sherlock nodded, but he didn’t stop his examination, not when John opened his trousers and eased his half-hard prick out, not when John spit on his hand and curled his fingers ‘round the shaft, not when John’s stroking brought about his release.

John mopped up the mess with his discarded vest.

“Thank you, thrice,” said Sherlock. “I’ve scars of my own, by the way.”

“Drugs?”

“Among other things. I’d be happy to return the favour once I’ve recorded my observations.”

“No judgment, but needle marks don’t really interest me.”

Sherlock smiled. “I meant the hand job.”

John laughed at himself. “Of course. Sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I mean, yes, please. But is it a fetish, the other, I mean?”

“I don’t know. Scars are puzzles, vestiges of trauma and pain, monuments to survival and strength.”

John smiled. “That’s macabre and poetic.”

“That’s me.”

Chapter Text

Jim didn’t require video. He had the sound feed.

Bell. Door.

“Seb. Long time. How have you been?”

“Excellent. Boss asked me to convey his apologies. He’ll be late. And sorry for the change of address. This is definitely coming down in the world.”

“Permanent?”

“No.”

“Job?”

“Can’t say, Molly, but you’re no fool. Drink while you wait?”

“Sure.”

“I make a brilliant mojito.”

Seb was probably pulling a funny face. It was true, though. He did make a brilliant mojito.

Laughter.

“All right.”

“In case I make a mess…”

The sound of a vest being removed in the manner of striptease artists throughout history.

“Been sun-bathing, Seb?”

“I wish.”

Laughter.

Pouring. Mixing. Muddling.

“You’re looking good, Molly. New dress?”

“This ol’ thing?”

“How’s work?”

“Dead.”

Laughter.

“Cheers.”

“Cheers.”

Silence.

“Just the thing, Seb. Thanks.”

“Long week?”

“They’re all kind of long.”

“Boss told me to tell you to make yourself at home and I was to extend every courtesy and offer every comfort. Like this.”

Molly hummed. “Every comfort, hmm?”

Jim smiled.

“Every single one.”

“Lower, Seb, and a bit harder.”

“Right here?”

“Yeah.”

“Bit lower?”

“Mm.”

Zipper.

“Seb?”

“One hand here, and one hand here.”

“Naughty girl! Going to the opera with no knickers!”

Giggles. “Intermissions are never boring. Here. Better?”

“Ogling your bare tits is always better, Molly.”

“Those jeans are tight, Seb.”

“Getting tighter by the moment. I’d much rather be out of them altogether and shoved right, up, here, in this sweet…”

Ice clinking.

“God, you really do make a brilliant mojito.”

Jim listened for the glass being placed on the table, then dropped the earpiece in his pocket, and burst through the door.

“Honey, I’m home!” he cried as he slammed the door.

“Boss!”

“Jim. Don’t be cross. Seb was just extending every courtesy, every comfort.”

“I see that.”

Jim circled the sofa and sat down beside them. Molly was facing him with Seb behind her. The halter straps of her turquoise dress were unfastened and hanging down, indeed, the whole bodice was curling forward, away from her torso.

Seb’s hand covered one of her breasts.

“I ought to fillet you both right here, right now,” said Jim casually. “Or go old school. Decapitation.”

“That’s a bit rough, Boss. Let her come first. She’s almost there.”

Jim plucked at the satin and tulle of the turquoise skirt, then slid his hand under. He found Seb’s fingers and added two of his own.

“Oh,” moaned Molly. She closed her eyes and leaned back against Seb and spread her thighs wider as Jim’s thumb brushed her clit.

Four fingers began to thrust in and out of Molly’s wet pussy. She arched her back, and Jim pinched with her bare nipple, the one Seb wasn’t teasing. Then he reached for Molly’s glass and drank.

“Ah, well,” he said resignedly as Molly stifled a cry and clenched her thighs ‘round their fingers. “It’d be a waste of front row tickets. We’ll be back late, Sebbie.”

“I’ll wait up.”

Chapter Text

Jim leaned forward. Molly leaned forward.

Their mouths just brushed, but each could taste the fruity sweetness of Seb’s maracuya mojito on the other’s lips.

They smiled.

Then Jim pulled back and looked down and said,

“One of the few times when I wish the blighter were a bit shorter.”

“No, he’s perfect,” cooed Molly.

Seb was laid out between them.

Molly rubbed more lube on the strap-on then pushed it between Seb’s buttocks. She positioned the prick’s tip at Seb’s rim, and then all three of them sighed as the prick sank back into Seb’s hole.

Molly gripped Seb’s hips and began to thrust, shallow and quick.

“My Queen,” said Jim, casting a look of undisguised adoration at her. “Always anticipating our wants and needs. I’ll admit I wasn’t prepared for how much I enjoy watching you taking Sebbie like the naughty tart he’s always been.”

Jim took up the riding crop. He dragged the keeper down Seb’s spine then bounced it on Seb’s buttocks.

“Really? I’ve been masturbating to this very scenario for months. Those jeans give very wicked ideas to a girl, Seb. You shouldn’t flaunt your tight arse in public if you don’t want a rubber prick up your hole.”

Jim snorted, and Seb hummed around Jim’s prick.

Jim tossed the crop aside and began to fuck Seb’s mouth with the same rhythm and roughness that Molly was using on his hole.

When Jim had shot his load down Seb’s throat, he gave his Tiger’s head an affectionate pet.

As he pulled out, so did Molly.

With a rather elegant twist, Seb flipped onto his back and looked from Molly to Jim.

“Half a pitcher left in the cooler,” he said. “If anyone’s thirsty.”


“Good God, Molls,” groaned Seb. “You were right. I was wrong. It is so fucking hot, watching the Boss suck your prick. He such a pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty cocksucker.” He punctuated each adjective with a hard squeeze of Jim’s buttocks.

Molly grinned and nodded. “Now you know how I feel when I see you two at it,” she said.

She ripped her gaze from Jim’s suckling to watched Seb’s prick disappear inside Jim’s hole.

She licked her lips.

“You’re so big, Seb.”

“Yeah,” said Seb with a shrug and a soft lop-sided smile. “And no matter how hard you fuck ‘im, he’s still tight like a virgin. You just can’t loosen him, God knows I’ve tried. But it doesn’t matter, he takes it all and them some, eh, Boss?”

Jim growled and gnashed his teeth and thrashed between them like a small, angry alligator.

“Uh-huh,” said Molly. She caught Seb’s eye and gave a nod.

Seb slowed his thrusting and leaned and reached and passed her what she wanted.

WHACK!

The crop landed across Jim’s back.

“No biting!” scolded Molly.

Seb snickered, and then he chuckled, then he laughed.

And laughed and laughed.

And he was still laughing when he finally bent forward and spent himself inside Jim.

“Bloody hell, Molls.”

Chapter Text

“I have to say I think the frosty coconut mojito is your best effort to-date, Sebbie.”

“Thank, Boss. There’s more, Molly.”

“No thanks, Seb.”

Molly was staring at the bottom of her glass.

Seb set the pitcher down. He and Jim looked at each other, then spoke at the same time.

“What would you like, Molly?”

Molly didn’t look up as she said,

“You, sexy.”

Seb and Jim exchanged glances.

‘She means me, of course. I’m the sexy one.’

‘I’m the sexy one, Seb.’

‘With all due respect, Boss...’

‘Fuck your ‘all due respect.’ She was talking about me!’

“For a criminal mastermind and brilliant sniper, you certainly are a pair of idiots,” said Molly. “I want both.”

Jim reached for her hand and kissed her fingertips.

“Beauty before age, my Queen?”

“I’m three years younger than you, Boss.”

“Says who? Your mum?”

Molly put her fingers over Jim’s lips to silence him.

“I want both at the same time.”


They made it as far as the piece of furniture which might have been, at one time, an unusually tall settee. It was shoved against a wall, by a window, and wholly inadequate for their purpose.

But they didn’t care.

Seb and Jim kissed Molly’s lips and her hair and her neck.

Seb eased his prick into her cunt. Jim eased his prick into her arse.

Molly hummed her contentment and closed her eyes.


Jim’s eye caught the flicker at the window, and what happened next happened very quickly and very quietly.

Jim shot a look at Seb, whose expression changed, then changed again.

Jim let his hand on Molly’s shoulder drop, and his fingers found what they sought, what was wedged between the frame and the cushions of the settee.

Seb kissed Molly’s shoulder and grunted. “Ready baby? I think we’re really close.”

Molly, eyes still closed, hummed her assent. “So full,” she murmured. “S’great.”

Seb dropped his own hand, and Jim passed him the gun.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Seb whispered.

Jim gave a minute nod.

Jim returned his hand to Molly, but with the other, he slid the window open very slowly and, due to the grease with which Seb had treated the necessary parts when he’d first arrived, very quietly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” whispered Jim, and he put a protective hand over Molly’s eyes.

And what happened next happened even more quickly, but not so silently.

Seb jerked his hips. So did Jim. They gritted their teeth and growled as they came.

Then Seb pulled out and twisted at the waist and took the shot out of the window.

Jim pulled out and curled his arms ‘round Molly, threw them both to the floor, and rolled them under the settee.

Jim peppered Molly’s face with kisses as the sound of gunfire and glass breaking erupted above them. “Too rough, my Queen. Too rough by half. I’m so sorry.”

“Date night is over, isn’t it?” asked Molly.

Jim hummed. “I’m afraid Seb’s got to go back to work.”

Chapter Text

Mycroft coughed and sweated and dreamed.


“Drink. My gran’s recipe.”

Mycroft drank.

“Lemon. Honey. Ginger. Whiskey.”

Mycroft swallowed and coughed. “Ambrosial. Thank you very much.”

“More.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Detective Inspector, and make wicked advances upon my virtue?”

“Sounds more like an invitation than an accusation, Mister Holmes.”

“Good.”

“Drink.”

Mycroft drank.


“I’ve another home remedy, a liniment.”

“If you feel you must strip me to the waist and caress my skin with firm, deep strokes, Detective Inspector, who am I to protest?”

“Who indeed?”

“Might I have a spot more tea?”

“Of course.”


Mycroft’s cough became a groan.

“Oh, Gregory.”

“Splendid. The truth is I just wanted you drunk enough to drop the titles, Mycroft. Chest opening up?”

Mycroft hummed and closed his eyes. “Among other areas.”

“What aches? Back? Shoulders? Neck?”

“Yes, yes, yes.”


“Lower?”

“Oh, fuck, yes. Thank you, Gregory. Oh.”

“Thank you. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on your arse for ages.”

“If you’d asked thirty seconds after we met, the answer would’ve been a whimpered ‘yes, please.’ Does there happen to be any more tea, Gregory?”

“Are you trying to get yourself drunk, Mycroft, and make wicked entreaties upon my virtue?”

“How did you guess?”

“Detective, remember?”


“You shouldn’t, you know.”

“Succumb to your charms so readily?”

“Colour your hair.”

“Not all of us look so distinguished in our natural state, Gregory.”

“I’m quite keen to see all your ginger bits.”

Mycroft yanked his pyjama bottoms down.

“Bloody hell! All right, gorgeous. Don’t move. I’m going to need a very different liniment.”


“Like that?”

As the hand stroked his prick, Mycroft could only moan and breathe in the sweet, spicy fragrance of the tiny kisses being peppered along the side of his face.

His pyjamas had been discarded. Most of the bedclothes, too. He was nude with his legs splayed, hips lifting and falling, arm curled behind him.

There were lips on his neck and a filthy whisper in his ear.

“I’m gonna love choking myself on it. If you’d shown me that thick ginger root thirty seconds after we met, My, I’d have been on my knees, begging for it.”

“Gregory, I’m so close, but I don’t want to come yet. Draw it out more.”

“This is just the beginning, love. I’m gonna suck you and fuck you and take such bloody good care of you.”

Mycroft’s hand came down to his own buttock and lifted it slightly.

“After…”

“Fuck, yeah. Mount my horse-hung ginger stallion. Ride him hard and put him up very, very wet. Sorry, luv,” the endearment was punctuated with a nip to Mycroft’s shoulder, “I can’t wait.”

The hand sped up.

Mycroft buried his cry in the mattress.


In a fit of feverish self-disgust, Mycroft threw the dildo on the floor.

Then he heard a beep.

Not my business, but if you’d like to try my gran’s ginger tea, I’ll bring some ‘round. Hope you feel better. GL

Mycroft didn’t hesitate.

Yes, please. MH

Chapter Text

Retreating warmth accompanied the swish of sheets.

Loo, Sherlock hoped, just loo. Not tea.

He listened.

Gurgle of pipes. Woosh of water in the basin.

Washing hands. Splashing face?

No, Sherlock hoped.

Bare feet shuffling on cold floorboards.

Back to bed. Back to Sherlock.

Yes!

No getting up yet.

Sherlock threw a possessive arm across John and fell back asleep.


When he woke, his hand was on John’s thigh. He rubbed tentatively and got a lovely, prick-stiffening rumble in reply.

“Feeling better, luv?”

“Very much so. Thank you for taking care of me last night, John.”

“M’pleasure.”

John reached a hand back and yanked down his own pants. Sherlock wanted to throw the bedclothes back and look, but that would be a cold shock, so he settled for snaking a hand between them and caressing the slope of John’s buttocks and his cleft.

“Tea?” asked John.

Sherlock did not want tea. He wanted to keep John’s warm, sleepy, pliant, utterly fuckable body in the bed for as long as they both should live. But he did not say this; instead, he said,

“Cocoa.”

John chuckled, and Sherlock rid himself of his pyjama bottoms and spooned his lower half, including his half-hard prick, tight to John’s.

“There isn’t cocoa, you git.” John’s hand reached farther back to Sherlock’s buttock, pulling him closer and rubbing seductively against him. “Wow, you are much better, aren’t you? Fuck, love that arse. And that prick.”

“There is,” insisted Sherlock, twisting at the waist and reaching in the direction of the beside table and the bottle of lubricant. “Mrs. Hudson received an assortment as a gift, some of which weren’t to her taste, so she passed them on to us.”

“Like what?”

“Mexican. With chili pepper.”

“Huh. Worth trying,” said John, then he added, “Oh, that’s right,” when Sherlock’s slicked fingers wrapped ‘round his prick. Sherlock curled his wrist and rubbed his thumb along John’s shaft as if mapping it for the first time, but his strokes were slow, much slower than John liked.

“Oh, no, are you gonna tease me?” whined John. “D’rather you play with my balls while I do it.”

At first, Sherlock complied. Pushing the lube into John’s hand, then cupping John’s sacs, fondling them, squeezing them.

He was quite pleased with himself when John forgot what he was about. Twice.

But Sherlock had no intention of allowing John to finish by spilling himself on the sheets.

As soon as John’s prick was well-slicked by his own hand, Sherlock sprang.

Throwing off the bedding. Rolling them. Flipping them. Sliding, crawling, effectively pinning himself beneath John, and shoving his own arse up.

“Oh, you bastard,” growled John. “You wanna a torn hole, sweetheart?”

Sherlock did.

And that was just what he got.

John’s body atop his. John’s hands nailing his to the bed. John’s prick pounding his arsehole open. John pissing his come up deep inside Sherlock, laughing and swearing and saying,

“Mexican cocoa it is as soon as I suck you off."

Chapter Text

“John, what’s the probability the poinsettia spritz punch Major Vamberry served us earlier was spiked with hallucinogenic drugs?”

John pulled off and looked up at Sherlock, who was half-sitting, half-reclining, ensconced in a mountain of pillows at the head of the bed.

“Okay. Those burns to your fingers,” John glanced at one of Sherlock’s bandaged hands, “must’ve somehow fried that supercomputer brain of yours or else my technique tonight leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Has my interest flagged?” retorted Sherlock, glancing down at his own cock, which was still very much erect and pink and dripping with John’s saliva. “I’m in a stately antique home, in a stately antique bed, after solving a stately, though not exactly antique, case, getting an exquisite blow job from the man I love who has also expertly tended my wounds, but, and this is no trifle, John, I also happen to be seeing a figure closely resembling a person-sized Christmas nutcracker staring at me from the side of the bed. No, don’t look, John!” Sherlock grabbed John’s head. “If you look at it, it might disappear. Didn’t the Major say this room was haunted?”

“And you laughed at him!” cried John. “Let me go! I want to see, too!”

“No,” said Sherlock in an almost matronly tone. “Finish your blow job.”

John began to giggle. “I don’t know that I can now.”

“John.”

“So he’s watching? Like really watching?’

“It seems so. He doesn’t seem angry or offended. He looks interested. Maybe he’s trying to pick up tips. You are very good.”

“Okay, now I’m beginning to think the punch was spiked.” John took a deep breath, trying to stifle his laughter. “Just give us a second. Gotta get my head back into the giving head game.”

“John.”

“All right. Here we go. I never keep score, Sherlock, but for this, missing out on a real live ghost, you owe me.”

“It’s not my mouth that’s bandaged, John.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. I think I’m going to…”

John’s eyes fluttered open.

“Holy fuck!”

He started violently.

Sherlock pulled off John’s cock but did not look up. “Is it a nutcracker?”

“It’s a goddamn rat with seven heads!”

“Interesting.”

John made a noise to indicate he did not find it interesting.

“He’s not doing anything. He’s just watching. Oh, and now, he’s taken out a little notebook and pencil. Okay, yes, the punch was spiked.”

“He’s the Rat King, John. From the story, the ballet. He’s with the nutcracker,” said Sherlock.

“And what? They are ghosts! I suppose they’re trying to frighten us.”

“Perhaps, but it isn’t working. Maybe it’s like watching porn for them.”

“Yeah, well, the Rat King is going to be like me watching porn and be sorely disappointed because I am not able to keep it up, Sherlock. Not like this.”

Sherlock abandoned John’s cock and carefully crawled up his body.

“C’mon, John. Let’s give ‘em a show.”

“You’re barking,” said John with a grin.

“So are you.”

Their lips met.

Chapter Text

Sherlock was still dressed and tied, arms wide, to the headboard.

John was still sitting at the foot of Sherlock’s bed and still wearing the jumper with the scene of grinning cats, a destroyed tree, and a cheery ‘Have Yourself a Meow-y Little Christmas!”

“I surrender, John. You’ve sleigh-ed me with your pun-ishment for deducing my Christmas gift. It will still be a pleasure, if not a surprise, to have an original 1893 edition of Bertillon's Identification Anthropométrique.

“Too bad that you’re not going to get it. At the last second, I was outbid.”

“Oh.” Sherlock frowned. “Well, it’s the thought that counts.”

“Sherlock,” John looked down at his own hands, “I haven’t anything for you for Christmas...”

“You needn’t bother. I’m an extraordinarily difficult person to do anything for, John.”

“…but I was thinking of this.”

John pulled off his jumper. And then his vest. And then he crawled up the bed towards Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. A tiny smile flickered on his lips, and he spread his legs as wide as his trousers permitted.

“I was thinking…”

John’s voice was a low, sexy growl as he slid up Sherlock’s body and straddled him.

“…to keep you on edge the whole of Christmas Eve and let you come at the stroke—quite literally, ha, ha, once you start punning it’s difficult to stop—of midnight.”

Despite the pun, Sherlock shuddered.

Then John cupped Sherlock’s head in his hands and kissed his lips softly.

“Would you like that Sherlock? Keep you just like this. Well, not just like this,” John whispered. His hands dropped to the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. “You’d be naked and prepped and stretched and plugged and ringed and rosied.”

“I think,” said Sherlock hoarsely, then he licked his lips, “that’s a wonderful idea. Perhaps we should rehearse a bit now.”

John pulled apart the sides of Sherlock’s shirt, then unbuckled and opened Sherlock’s belt. He palmed the front of Sherlock’s trousers hard.

Sherlock put his feet on the bed and lifted his lower half, pushing into John’s touch.

“Perhaps Mrs. Hudson will let us use her breeding stand, that way I can mount you all day,” said John as he stripped Sherlock from the waist. “I’ll keep you gagged, that is, when your mouth isn’t otherwise occupied.”

“Oh, God, John,” groaned Sherlock when John’s slicked fist was ‘round Sherlock’s prick and his slicked two fingers were sunk deep in Sherlock’s hole.

Fist and fingers pumped in a synchronised rhythm, in and out of Sherlock.

Until they didn’t.

“There,” said John as he quickly eased off the bed and stood beside it, looking at Sherlock like an artist appraising a half-finished canvas.

Sherlock’s eyelashes fluttered. “Wank and then finish me. Or come here and I’ll suck you, John.”

John smiled. “No. Not until you say what you’ve got me for Christmas.”

“If you must know, I was already in the process of revising my selection.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A tin of Sven the Reindeer tea is wholly inadequate.”

Chapter Text

Lestrade had just hung up his coat and was shaking the excess snow off his hair when he spotted the trail of pink rose petals on the floor. He quickly rid himself of his boots and followed the line to the kitchen in socked feet. He lifted lids and sniffed: a savoury roast, a pot of mulled wine, and fresh from the oven, a quartet of tiny mince pies. He washed the grime of the day from his hands and helped himself to a pie. Then frantically panting ‘hot, hot, hot,’ he gulped half the contents of the glass. The cocktail was new: gin, he surmised, and something sweet and something frothy and something oddly floral.

Like the petals on the floor.

Noticing that the pink trail continued from the kitchen, Lestrade took his glass and his half-eaten pie and followed.

He marveled at the sitting room: the magnificent Christmas tree with all the trimmings and the miniature snow-covered village encircled by train tracks. He listened to the ‘toot, toot’ of the engine as it made its way ‘round. He washed the rest of the pie down with the remainder of cocktail and set the glass on the window sill, then resumed the journey of the rose petals.

He climbed the stairs and pushed open the bedroom door.

“I thought you might want to unwrap presents first,” said a muffled voice from the pillows.

Lestrade smiled.

“That was considerate of you.”

The prone body on the bed was nude save for a big, bright red bow at the waist, a bow whose dangling ribbons concealed the crack of buttocks, but nothing of the plump cheeks.

Lestrade hurried to the bottle of lubricant on the bedside table. His cock was out and being slicked by his own hand in moments. He tossed the bottle toward the foot of the bed as he approached it, then crawled up and straddled the figure.

He hummed.

“It’s been said many times, many ways, but never I think like this.”

He grabbed the buttocks and squeezed, pushing them together and letting them fall apart over and over.

He saw the tiny sliver of pale pink satin that was nestled between the cheeks. He eased it aside and then holding it in place with his hand, began to tease the hole with his thumb.

“The rose petals were beautiful,” he said. “But this is the bud I like best.”

He bent and brought his lips and tongue to the hole and resumed his teasing, and he didn’t stop until he heard his name being shouted, then whimpered.

He rose up and moved closer.

Then he sank his cock into the hole and pulled at one tail of the red bow, undoing the knot and then spreading both ends of red satin widthwise along the bed.

“What a lovely gift,” he said as he gripped the hips and began to thrust into the tight, wet heat.

“Happy Christmas to us both,” came the reply from the pillows.

Chapter Text

He would have fled as soon as he heard the footsteps if he’d not smelled the perfume as well.

“I’m that predictable?” he asked when she was in earshot.

“Only to one who knows where you go when you’re trying not to smoke.”

As if on cue, snow began to fall.

“Rough day at the office?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes you’re the Nutcracker. Sometimes, the Rat King.”

“Sherlock got the better of you?”

“Today. In a matter that seems quite trivial compared to the fact that you’re standing here.”

She smiled. “What was it?”

“A cursed pink diamond called the Winter Rose.”

“Stolen?”

“Of questionable lineage.”

He sighed. “I haven’t anything for you for Christmas, my Queen, except devotion.” He neared her and licked the snowflakes from her neck with the tip of his tongue. He caressed her racing pulse and felt his own leap response.

“You’re an impossible person to shop for,” she complained. “A drink at mine?”


 

He held her gaze for a long moment as the snow fell about them, then he kissed her lips softly and nodded.

“It’s sweet,” he said as he nibbled along the nape of her neck.

“It’s the Chambord.”

“I mean, this. You.”

“Are Rat Kings always this romantic at Christmas?”

“They are when they’re not invited to a party where their Sugar Plum Fairy has worn this dress.” He eased the zipper down and sent the pink satin and tulle to the floor. Then he kissed down her spine and to the cleft of her buttocks where he bit at the tiny pink ribbons.

“It’s sort of like that fairy in Sleeping Beauty,” he whispered as his hands urged her to turn. “Makes you want to curse things.”

She stepped ‘round the dress as she twisted, then leaned back against the counter, offering him her pussy.

He licked and licked and licked at the pink satin until she begged. Then he curled the knickers down and she opened her legs wide and he put his mouth to her and…

…stopped abruptly, emitting a noise of surprise.

He eased back on his heels and looked up.

“Go on. It’s yours.”

He put his fingers inside her and pulled out what was there.

In the centre of the cotton padding was a pink, tear-dropped-shaped stone.

He got to his feet and held it to the light. Then he stared at her, mouth slightly open.

“How? Did Sherlock give it to you?”

She shook her head. “He’s probably just noticing it’s gone.”

“You are marvelous,” he said with undisguised admiration. Then he kissed her lips. “How? Please tell me.”

“Sometimes you’re the Rat King, sometimes, the Nutcracker, but then there’s the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

“Yes, but how?”

“I took it off him when he and John were fucking in the morgue.”

“It’s yours, you know. I got it for you.”

“I don’t want curses. Just you.”

He smiled, dropped the diamond in the glass, swept her up in his arms, and took her to bed.

Chapter Text

The chai toddy wasn’t half bad, Molly decided.

She set her mug down and climbed into window seat with diary and pen. By the light of the small but gloriously festive Christmas tree with which she shared her perch and the strand of bright, large-bulbed fairy lights hanging overhead, she wrote.


25 December

Lovely Christmas. Yesterday’s party at Barts was tiresome, as expected, but I was able to pick up perfect gift for J. Found J. in the park doing best Heathcliff on the moor. Brought him back for drinks.

Getting wet just remembering: him on his knees, in the kitchen, licking the front of my party knickers over and over ‘til they were soaked, looking up at me with those dark devilish eyes.

Hungry. Always hungry. Even before he found his gift!

He was surprised and impressed and smitten all over. Picked me up to take me to bed but begged him for a quick fuck in the chair to take the edge off before we settled in for our long winter’s shag.

Love sitting in his lap, rutting against him, making a royal mess of his posh suit. Leant back against his chest. He ran his hands over my hips to my pussy and spread my lips, wide enough to get that sharp touch of air, a teasing reminder that his cock wasn’t in me—yet.

And he always knows (sort of like Father Christmas!) when I want my nipples pinched and my tits squeezed hard (like in the chair) and when I want them licked and sucked and nuzzled (like later in bed).

Him, sitting, dressed, cock out, me, naked, kneeling between his legs, sucking him off. Him calling me Queen and tart and don’t stop and please more.

And I’m there, love. As if I didn’t know!

Bed was grand, of course. Sitting on his face ‘til I was raw and sweating. Then riding him forwards, backwards. His hands gripping my hips me as he thrusts up, his hands kneading my arse.

Then the kissing! Tasting myself on him. Biting those lips and the inside of his thighs.

Harder my Queen leave a mark.

He’ll never admit to being tired, so I yawn, and he rests his head on my stomach and I stroke his hair. His hand is there, petting my pussy.

One more my Queen.

I ask him to suck my clit a little and finger me, which he does, but that doesn’t finish me off at all. Cock please! He bends me in half and we kiss as he comes, then his mouth is on my clit and he’s doing that thing with his tongue and I’m moaning so loud I wake Toby.

And that’s the end, of course. Giggling. Snuggling. Pretending to sleep to avoid the feline stare of extreme disappointment until we actually do sleep.

Nice good morning/good bye fuck.

God, I’m beyond wet. Going to get off right here and send it to him.

Extra something in his stocking!

Chapter Text

Molly gulped the last of her Christmas Cosmo, set up the camera, and tested it on a sleeping Toby.

Then she crawled into the window seat beside the tiny Christmas tree. The glass behind her was frosted with snow and ice. And there was enough light, she decided, with the fairy lights of the tree, and the string of large-bulb coloured lights hanging overhead.

Molly’s legs were bare, but she still wore her thick, wooly Christmas jumper with matching socks.

Forgetting about the camera, she closed her eyes and thought of the morning and the night before.

And him.

And she felt herself getting wet, all over again.

She leaned back against the window and, bending her knees, hooked her heels on the edge of the seat.

She spread her legs wide, showing off the dark, damp centre of her red knickers.

She rubbed herself slowly, letting her pleasure build, then she slipped her hand inside her knickers and rubbed some more. She teased her clit for a short while, then leaned up and slowly peeled off the jumper.

Her bra was red, too.

She knelt in the window seat, one hand in her knickers and one hand in her bra.

She took her time, the way he had, squeezing, teasing, gentle, rough. She licked her own fingers, the way he did. She thought about all the things he called her and all the things he said.

Then she pulled down the straps of the bra and unhooked it and let it fall.

She leaned forward, towards the camera and rocked a bit, letting her breasts hang and sway for his enjoyment. She remembered riding him and the way his hands guided her up and down and played with her breasts and caressed her stomach and buttocks.

She remembered the way he gripped her hips hard right before he spent himself. She tried to reproduce the gesture with her own hands but shook her head at the failed effort.

It wasn’t the same.

She hadn’t been certain earlier if she was going to want them, but she was, in fact, relieved that she had stashed her dildo and the bottle of lubricant beneath the skirt of the tiny tree.

She leaned back once more against the window pane and opened her legs. One hand was petting her patch of hair while the other was lower, a single finger pushing inside.

Silly, she thought, get rid of the knickers.

He’ll want to see.

So she did.

And then she was nude, save for a pair of tall, thick, wooly socks.

She slicked the dildo then put the tip to her pussy, moving it about in circles before pushing it in.

She teased her clit and fucked herself with the dildo and thought of all the ways he made her come.

And then she came. And smiled for the camera.


“What are you grinning about, Boss?”

“Molly just sent me a video of Toby. I’m not to be disturbed, Sebby.”

“Understood, Boss.”

 

Chapter Text

Lestrade woke with a smile.

Five days on the beaches of Spain had been bliss, and now he had one more day to get things done around the flat before he had to go back to work.

Life was good.

He rolled out of bed, tugged on some jeans, and went to make coffee.

The bathroom, he decided.

Fix the drip. Re-spackle that strip of tile. Put the towel rack back up.


Knock, knock.

Damn!

“Greg.”

“John. Sherlock. How are things?”

“Things are awful,” said Sherlock. “And you’re brown as a nut!”

“Yeah,” said Lestrade, scratching his chest. “Holiday, remember?”

“I remember, Lestrade, because you gave the forgery case to Hopkins, and she’s bungled the whole thing.”

“Wait, Sherlock. I’m still on holiday. I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.”

“But!”

“No!”

“John, give him the nuts.”

John handed Lestrade a paper cone. “A Christmas market just set up four streets from here, and I remembered how much you liked roasted chestnuts.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks. I haven’t seen it yet. Got back late last night.”

“Now, Lestrade…”

“Nope, Sherlock. Thanks, John. Bye.”


“So why can’t I come with you?” cried John as they passed through the door.

“Yoo-hoo, boys,” called Mrs. Hudson.

“Because you’re too busy daydreaming about Lestrade’s naked, bronzed torso!”

“Oh,” said Mrs. Hudson. “What’s all this?”

She looked inquiringly at John as Sherlock stormed up the stairs and stormed right back down, barking

“I’m off to Barts, then the Yard!”


Knock, knock.

“Damn! What now?” muttered Lestrade.

“Mrs. Hudson. Molly.”

“Hello, we both just happened to be in the area and there’s a lovely new Christmas market and we thought you’d like some roasted chestnuts.”

“Oh, well, that’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Have a nice holiday?” asked Mrs. Hudson.

“Yeah, I did, thanks.”

“You look really well,” said Molly.

“Thanks again,” said Lestrade, rubbing his chest.

“We’ll be going now.”


Knock, knock.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” cried Lestrade.

“Hopkins. Donovan. It’s going to have to wait. I’m still on holiday.”

“Oh,” said Hopkins. “Yes, well, um, that is, Sherlock is impossible.”

“Is that why you’re here, Hopkins? To complain about Sherlock?”

“Yes,” lied Hopkins.

“And why are you here, Donovan?”

“Because she’s here. And to give you some nuts. Did you know there’s a Christmas market four streets away?”

“No. Thanks. Tomorrow.”


Knock, knock!

“Okay, that’s it.”

“Nuts. Great. Mister Holmes, did they teach you how to spackle in spy-school?”

“Yes,” lied Mycroft.

“Come in.” Lestrade slammed the door behind Mycroft, then tossed the cone of nuts beside the other three on the counter. “I don’t really need you to spackle. I need you to stay here and answer the door and tell whoever it happens to be—nicely, diplomatically—to shove their roasted chestnuts up their arse!”

“I can do that.”

“Great. You’re hired. Then maybe when I finish the bathroom, we can check out that Christmas market.”

Mycroft smiled. “I’d like that very much, Detective Inspector.”

“Fabulous. Help yourself. There’s coffee and nuts.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Chapter Text

“The Christmas market is lovely, Mister Holmes.”

“Indeed, Detective Inspector. Is there anything else you wish to do on the final day of your holiday?”

Lestrade said nothing, merely shot Mycroft Holmes a look that could easily be ignored if unwelcome.

“What exactly?”

The question was whispered in Lestrade’s ear while they continued to watch the crowd milling about the stalls of mulled wine, fir trees, and baked sweets.

“Anything.”

“But surely you have something in mind, Detective Inspector.”

“On your knees?”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. Mine’s four streets away.”

“There’s a vacant stall approximately fifteen paces to your left.”


“Fuck,” said Lestrade as he looked down. “What a beautiful sight.” He inhaled the rich scent of the fir trees packed tightly ‘round them and tried not to lose his balance. “Smells good, too.”

Mycroft paused his sucking to hum around Lestrade’s cock, sending a current of delicious electricity though Lestrade’s body.

Mycroft worked with no little skill and aplomb, but Lestrade feared that he, too, would lose his balance as he was squatting awkwardly to avoid soiling the knees of his trousers.

“Hold on and let me?”

Mycroft hummed again and gripped Lestrade’s thighs while Lestrade held Mycroft’s head, gently but firmly, in both hands, and thrust into his mouth.

Mycroft swallowed and got to his feet.

“Extraordinary, Mister Holmes. Better than my fantasies. Your turn.”

“You needn’t…”

“I’m aching to…”

Mycroft unfastened his trousers.

Lestrade gave a tiny gasp.

“Confession. I have many flaws, Mister Holmes.”

“Nonsense. You are a gorgeous, generous, hard-working…”

“And a bit of a size queen. And you’re…”

“I believe the crude phrase is ‘hung like a horse.’”

“Fuck! I never thought you’d be interested in me.”

“I’m nothing but interested in you, Detective Inspector, that much should be obvious.”

“I’m not clever like you and Sherlock.”

“Congratulations.”

“But if you’d shown me that sooner I would’ve made a bloody ass of myself for you. Still might.”

Lestrade had no qualms about dirtying his jeans. He fell right to his knees, swallowed Mycroft down, and brought him to the very edge, then pulled off and stood up.

“What? Detective Inspector!”

“How do you really want me, Mister Holmes?”

Mycroft whimpered. “Naked. In my bed.”

“Big bed?”

“Enormous. Four-poster. Thousand-count sheets.”

“Nice. Top? Bottom? Me, not the sheets.”

“Either. Both. Neither.”

“But surely you’ve something…”

“Sixty-nine.”

Lestrade smiled. “Might work. We’re about...”

“It would work. We’re precisely…”

“Bring you off here or make you suffer a bit until we reach yours?”

Their eyes met.

Mycroft licked his lips and exhaled a very deep shuddering breath. “The latter.”


“Pardon me, Detective Inspector. I’m clearing my schedule.”

In the car, Mycroft tapped his phone while Lestrade shot not-so-subtle glances at him.

Then Lestrade leaned close.

“Would you let me put my hoary old chestnuts in your mouth, Mister Holmes?”

“Gladly. On the stairs to the bedroom. Would you let me make a foul, sticky mess of your gorgeous, holiday-bronzed chest, Detective Inspector?”

“The moment that we’re behind closed doors.”

Chapter Text

“Goddammit!”

Mycroft was unbuttoning his suit jacket with one hand when a flash of lightning lit the sky and a swearing silhouette appeared before him on the pavement.

Egad, fortune did, indeed, favour the prepared!

“Detective Inspector? Shelter from the storm?”

Mycroft raised his umbrella in invitation, and the figure dashed through the curtains of rain which separated them.

“Mister Holmes! What a godsend! Left my spare brolly in the office. Didn’t even realise—"

“Cats and dogs, Detective Inspector, and you seem to be doing an admirable impression of a drowned rat.”

It was a 1000-watt smile, the kind that someone might write a song about, and he was standing so close that Mycroft could smell the hint of bitter coffee beneath the strong mint.

“I know! And I’m dripping all over your nice—”

He looked down, and Mycroft watched the penny drop.

He hadn’t noticed that his hand had slipped beneath Mycroft’s coat and suit jacket to what lay beneath.

The one day that Mycroft hadn’t worn a proper waistcoat! There was prepared and then there was angels fearing to tread!

“—jumper. Sorry. Very soft. Suits you, too.”

“Thank you. May I offer you a ride?”


“Sorry I can’t offer you something more sophisticated,” said Lestrade as he handed Mycroft the mug. “Just the powdered stuff but made with milk.”

He gave a wink, and Mycroft nearly spilled the whole business on the rug.

This was the moment he had to seize!

Mycroft glanced down for inspiration and found it in dark brown cashmere.

“Don’t let the jumper fool you, Detective Inspector. I’m not so exacting or so snobbish. Thank you.”

A flash of that 1000-watt smile, then his host began to pace about the kitchen.

Mycroft leaned against counter like he belonged there, his pose and expression, ones of attentive listening.

“Yeah, I like those sleeveless jumpers a lot, but I don’t think that something like that,” he waved the hand that held his own mug at Mycroft’s torso, “would look as good on me as it does on you. I just don’t think I could I could pull it off.”

Oh!

While his host's face was half-hidden in the mug, Mycroft quickly countered.

“Oh, I’m certain you could manage it, Detective Inspector.”

Mycroft’s glance caught a very slight, but thoroughly charming blush about the cheeks. And there was bit of schoolboy snickering.

But the growl that followed was anything but adolescent.

“Yeah?”

The hard, wanting look went straight to Mycroft’s groin, and he didn’t say a word as his mug was gently removed from his grasp and set on the counter beside the other mug.

The kiss was hot and sweet and as delicious as Mycroft’s dreams. He curled his arms up and around as lips moved against his. A head tilted, a mouth opened, a gentle swipe of tongue as eager hands roamed all over the dark brown cashmere.

Half-drunk by the time the kiss broke, Mycroft slurred, “Let’s see if you can pull it off.”

Chapter Text

John’s head slammed against the bricks so hard that he saw stars. And not just any stars, these were bright, sudden bursts of colour, gold, red, purple, green as well as a white so hot it dazzled.

Then the stars fell. They rained down in cascades of tiny shards of neon, in showers of electric sparks.

Their light cast a halo about Sherlock’s tousled curls.

In the next moment, the world and everything in it, the alley, the street, the city, Sherlock and John, was dark again.

So, this is what kissing Sherlock Holmes is like, thought John. Fireworks.

Then there was a boom.

John jumped out his own skin.

The boom was followed by a crackling, and, once more, the firmament was painted in technicolour hues, in arcoiris illumination. And once more, Sherlock’s head was bathed in beatifying light.

He smirked.

“I couldn’t help it, John. I love to be dramatic. I wanted our first kiss to be memorable.”

“Mission accomplished,” said John. “I forgot it was New Year’s Eve.”

“Good.”

“But tell me this, Sherlock: are pyrotechnics requisite for kissing?”

“Not at all. Our first kiss should be memorable, but the rest of our kisses should be legion.”


John’s tongue swirled ‘round Sherlock’s prickhead.

Sherlock closed his eyes and saw stars.

Not real stars, of course, not even New Year’s Eve pyrotechnics. These were horizontal flashes of bright pink against darker pink, the inside of Sherlock’s own eyelids, the result of muscles and nerves and penetrating light, a normal biological process.

Sherlock could describe the process in detail if he wanted. But he didn’t want.

Sherlock wanted to focus his attention on John’s mouth and the wet, tight heat that was quickly enveloping the length of his prick and the exquisite, yes, pretentious, but, in truth, no other word sufficed, pleasure that was resulting.

So, this is getting a blow job from John Watson, thought Sherlock.

And the six days from first kiss to this? Bliss. Teasing, taunting, drunk-on-each-other bliss.

Sherlock listened to his own ragged breathing as John’s curled lips brushed his skin. He felt John’s throat relax.

To take that last bit of me in, thought Sherlock.

“Oh!”

He couldn’t help the cry: John had him fully sheathed. His fingers, already in John’s hair, clenched, then he forced himself to relax the grip.

Let him, let him, let go, and let him.

John hummed, so Sherlock might, just might, have said that last bit aloud.

John’s tongue teased the underside of Sherlock’s shaft. Or perhaps it wasn’t a tease, but a reassuring caress. Either way, Sherlock whimpered.

John’s slow withdraw was accompanied by an obscene slurping noise.

“No?”

It was a soft plea.

Sherlock’s prick was hit with cold air and emptiness. His eyes fluttered open and he pushed himself up on his elbows and looked down.

“John?”

John shot him a wicked grin and growled,

“Naughty sleuths who don’t tell their boyfriends it’s their birthday get a very naughty teasing before they’re allowed to come.”

Chapter Text

“If you’ll permit a liberty, my dear, I believe the usual length of time you’ve spent before a computer screen, compiling the quarterly reports, is putting a strain on your eyes. Necessary evil, of course, but nonetheless worrying for one who is concerned about your wellbeing.”

The fingers massaging Molly’s temples were firm. With each circular caress, they seemed to press a bit deeper into her skull, easing the ache she’d quite forgotten, forgotten because there was an equally expert tongue circling her clit.

The mouth buried between Molly’s legs was open now, simply covering her sex with a tent of wet heat. She mimicked it, turning her head and offering her own mouth for kissing.

While Mycroft obliged, his lips driving her damn near insane, Molly reached back, curling one hand around his neck. The fingers of her other hand were laced in Greg’s. She squeezed them, then pulled back slightly, just enough to put a sliver of space between her face and Mycroft’s, and panted,

“I want to come.”

Greg released Molly’s fingers—and Mycroft’s—and gripped Molly’s lower body with both hands. When his tongue resumed its circling of Molly’s clit, his hands were roughly kneading her buttocks and upper thighs.

Mycroft whispered in Molly’s ear.

“Fuck yourself on his mouth, my dear.”

Molly moaned. The obscenity always sounded exponentially obscene in his voice, and perhaps Mycroft knew this because he said it again.

“Fuck yourself well. Don’t spare a single thought for his comfort. Take what you need, as hard as you need it. If you smother him, well, he’ll die happy. I know I would.”

“Fuck!” exclaimed Molly as her hips bucked.

When her breathing slowed, she turned her head again.

Mycroft made to kiss her anew, but she put two fingers to his lips.

“I want you both.”

Greg came up for air grinning, the lower half of his face wet.

“Sounds like a plan to me! Gentlemen or players first?”

Molly’s eyes were slits, and her chest was still heaving.

“Together.”

Greg’s gaze lit, then he glanced at Mycroft with a raised eyebrow.

Mycroft kissed Molly’s neck tenderly, then nodded, and, because he was Mycroft, he had to add,

“Carefully.”


“Fuck!” cried Molly when they were both fully-sheathed.

“Oh, baby!”

Greg liked to call her ‘baby.’ Mycroft wouldn’t dream of it.

Their hands were on her breasts and on her belly and everywhere. Their heads met just over the slope of her neck. She heard their wet kisses between ragged breaths.

“How are you, lover?” cooed Greg. Kiss. “You feel me? You feel me here? Inside this pretty baby? God, she’s so good to us.”

Mycroft whimpered, then coughed and managed a hoarse ‘My dear?’

“Perfect,” Molly assured him as she kissed him on the cheek. “God, I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

“Quarterly reports will do that,” quipped Greg, and Molly began to shake with laugher.

They held each other, and her, tight as they swore and came in quick succession.

Chapter Text

Avoiding me? IA

Yes, but not for the reason you think. MH

Dinner? IA

Mine. MH


Irene frowned. Molly’s back had been to her since she’d arrived.

“I’ve been babysitting Rosie a lot. It’s affecting me.”

“You’re feeling…maternal?”

Molly turned with a grim chuckle. “You could say that.”

Irene kept her expression neutral, but she couldn’t help staring. She knew Molly’s breasts as well as her own, and those were…

“Big.”

“Yeah,” said Molly. “And if I keep Rosie two days in a row.” She eased the sides of the cardigan apart, revealing two wet patches.

Irene gasped. “Oh, my.” Molly’s pained face worried her. “Does it hurt?”

Molly shook her head. “They start to deflate after a couple of hours. I’m back to normal within a day. Freakish, no?”

“Fascinating.”

“Yeah? Do you want to…?”

“Yes.”

Irene moved closer until she could unbutton Molly’s blouse, then unfasten the clasp of her bra.

“Oh,” she sighed when she took in the bare, heavy breasts and leaking nipples. “Molly?”

“Yes.”


“Fuck!” exhaled Molly when Irene began to suckle.

Irene pulled off and licked a stripe up the valley of Molly’s cleavage. “Good?”

“Yeah.”

“For me, too. Intoxicating.”

Molly cupped the other breast. Irene latched without hesitation.


Much later, Irene asked,

“Next time, do you want to go to the club?”

No Irene had meant no club. Molly hadn’t realised how much she’d missed it until that moment.

“How?”

“I’ll make your face up so no one recognises you and encourage the rumour that you’ve thrown me off and I’m shopping for someone new.”

Molly smiled.


Molly smiled.

She didn’t recognise herself in the mirror.

Irene led her to the dance floor. It was late. Couples were already fondling and groping.

Eyes turned to them.

Good.

After one dance, Molly let Irene push the strap of her tunic bodice off her shoulder, and after a few of Irene’s caresses, Molly’s breast was dribbling freely down her torso.

Irene had been right. Heated glances. Not a few gasps.

Molly’s hand brushed the hilt of the stick which was secured against Irene’s back. Heavier than a crop, Irene wasn’t afraid to use it if Molly received any attention she didn’t enjoy.

But thus far, Molly had enjoyed everything. She leaned back into Irene’s hands, arching her spine, as Irene licked.

They danced.

Molly, bare to the waist, rebuffed all but one request.

With, one arm still curled ‘round Irene, she allowed a faun-like creature to nestle between them and suckle. She liked watching the war behind Irene’s cool expression, jealousy fighting higher notions.

Finally, Molly shooed the faun away.

“Showtime.”


On all fours, Molly’s cunt clutched. Wetness commenced to trickle down her thighs.

They never did this, well, not this.

Irene was showing off the gargantuan cock hanging from her harness. Then she took up her position behind Molly.

Molly felt the prick-tip, squeezed her breasts, felt the gush between her fingers, and grinned, savouring the collective groan which tore through the club.

Chapter Text

Sherlock loves the dying days, the fattening nights of winter.

They mean more time with John.

More time for cases, more time for tea (which Sherlock drinks solely because of John’s delight at it). More time for quiet moments and loud ones (Mrs. Hudson, thankfully, is a troll with highly selective hearing).

Summer nights are wretchedly short. No sooner has Sherlock washed off the day’s slumber (the presence of coffin dust on Sherlock’s bare body persists in disturbing John) and snatched a few precious, tender moments with her beloved than biologies prevail and she and John are saying ‘good night.’

Not so in winter when the nights seem to be rolled out before them like a bear hearth rug.  And when Sherlock feeds from John in winter, well, it’s a veritable twelve-course banquet.

The enemy, of course, is cold. Sherlock does not, cannot, feel cold, and so the low temperatures made lower by howling winds and heavy snowfall mean nothing to her. If the flat were cold, she wouldn’t notice it, except through chance observation of the antique weather station in the corner of the room. And, for her own comfort alone, she wouldn’t care.

But the thought of John being cold is anathema to Sherlock; perceiving a single shiver running through John’s form provokes a state of profound anxiety.

She well knows her fear is driven by base selfishness, primordial instincts.

She is parasite. John is host. It behooves her to keep John’s circulation running swiftly and smoothly and, yes, warmly, for as long as possible.

Fear manifests itself in thick, wooly blankets and thick, wooly jumpers and thick, wooly scarves and hats and gloves and socks. In hot cups of tea and hot bowls of soup and hot baths. In a hell-worthy inferno roaring in the fireplace.

And on those nights, banquet nights, Sherlock stokes the fire and builds a nest before it and lays her bath-soaked, tea-steeped, soup-stewed beloved amongst the blankets, nude save for wooly socks, which get pitched at some point in the proceedings.

And John opens her legs.

And Sherlock feeds.

And feeds.

And feeds.

And as John’s blood flows into Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock uses her tongue, her lips and her mouth’s suction as well as her roaming hands, to tease John to climax.

And then Sherlock is drinking not just John’s blood, but her orgasm, too. And the combination is, quite frankly, delicious.

The first half dozen of John’s orgasms are strong, high peaks of pleasure followed by dips into muddled afterglow, but eventually, Sherlock is able to keep her in a state of continuous near-ecstasy.

John weeps and sweats and screams and invites Sherlock to do all sorts of amusing things.

But Sherlock does none of them.

She simply feeds.

John’s blood sustains Sherlock’s existence, such as it is, but it also provides her with a sensation very akin to orgasm.

And to warmth.

And so, the dying days of winter are, for one vampire, much like the dog days of summer.

Chapter Text

One hundred steps.

Kate has been counting steps since her journey began. Counting helps to quash any hope of what she might or might not find in the cabin. She is simply following instructions.

Fifty steps.

Kate’s boots crunch in the snow. Her torch is bright, but not as bright as the broad ribbon of light above, a celestial path leading to the cabin. There is no earthly path except the one behind her; the drifts are smooth and even.

Twenty-five steps.

The beauty of the sky, Kate decides, is miracle enough.

Five steps.

The cabin door opens.

“Hello again.”


It was her.

If Kate’s eyes deceived her, if that voice wasn’t the husky purr she heard in her dreams—and nightmares—if that scent could be replicated and bottled and sold to someone else, she would still know it was her.

Waxing or waning, ebbing or flowing, the tide knew the moon.

Kate didn’t need to sink into her role. She’d been there since she started her journey, following the cryptic clues—learnt by rote and burnt—step by step to this frozen corner of the world. She was good at following instructions, made for it, in fact.

Irene knew it, too, for after she spoke her scripted line, after she made her grand entrance back from the dead, back into Kate’s life, she said,

“Good, good girl.”

And then Kate was being led inside the cosy cabin and peeled of her many layers.

Their second first kiss was before the fire, with Kate nude and curled in Irene’s lap. Irene’s mouth was hungry, pressing hard, pausing its assault only to bite at Kate’s bottom lip and lick at her top lip.

Irene’s hand, of course, was between Kate’s legs. Fondling Kate’s pussy had been a near obsession and death had not, apparently, diminished her appetite for it.

Irene kissed the slope of Kate’s neck.

“Kate?”

Kate hummed her consent, and the two teasing fingers pushed inside her.

Irene groaned. “I missed you so much. I’m sorry.” She bent her head and with a cupped hand brought Kate’s breast to her mouth. She licked the nipple, then bit it gently.

Kate sighed in a way she hoped was reassuring and soothing and sweet, but more was beyond her. She was already gone, floating on a candy floss cloud.

“Such a good girl, clever girl. And such a wet pussy. A nice, long, hello-again fuck, then dinner, then I’ll make us this wonderful vanilla cider, with honeyed walnuts, even! And then we can watch the stars and play some more.”

It seemed like a capital plan to Kate.

There was more kissing while Irene added a third finger and began to thrust, in and out; her thumb rubbed about Kate’s clit.

Kate’s cloud got sweeter. She heard her own moaning, soft and urgent, and she felt her body pitch awkwardly in Irene’s lap.

“That’s right. Come for me, my good, good girl.”

Kate, as always, did as she was told.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry my raid ruined your date, Mister Holmes.”

“Duty calls, Detective Inspector. And it was a meeting of colleagues. Professional.”

Lestrade looked down at the tiny table, the two tiny plates of tiny food, and the glasses, one mostly full, one mostly empty.

“I’m doubly sorry you didn’t even finish your drink. I like an old fashioned myself.”

“It is a specialty of the house, an Earl Grey old fashioned. My colleague’s preference.”

“Huh.”

“Would you like to try it?”

Lestrade shot him a look, then shrugged. “Sure.” He picked up the glass closest to Mycroft, sipped, and scowled.

“Wow. That’s a fabulous way to ruin a very nice bourbon—and probably a nice cup of Earl Grey, for that matter.”

Mycroft smiled at the ground and rocked back on his heels. “Indeed.”

“Jesus. How much did that set you back? Never mind. I know: if you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

“I believe the phrase is ‘highway robbery.’”

“Speaking of which, I’d better go and get the paperwork started to close this case.”

“I, too, have matters that require my attention, however,” Mycroft paused, “may I make a bold proposal? Will you be free in, say, four hours?”

Lestrade considered, then nodded. “Yeah, I’ll probably be wrapping up ‘round two a.m.”

“Then, if you aren’t too fatigued, you’re invited to my flat for an old-fashioned old fashioned. I’ve a tantalus…”

“Now why doesn’t it surprise me that you have a tantalus, Mister Holmes?”

Mycroft blushed. “Open, standing invitation to view it and sample its contents, Detective Inspector. Good evening.”


“Gregory.”

Lestrade was licking from Mycroft’s left nipple to the ridge of his shoulder. Then he covered Mycroft’s body with his once more and ground his hips into Mycroft’s. He sank his teeth gently into Mycroft’s skin and groaned. He licked, then bit, at Mycroft’s neck, then the tip of his chin, then his lower lip. Then he sat up and removed his dress shirt.

“You taste even better than the bourbon.”

“Gregory.”

Hair ruffled, tie askew, shirt threw over the sofa, Mycroft looked every bit the utterly snogged creature that he was.

“I’ve half a mind to pour bourbon all over you and lick it off—”

“Enchanting idea,” murmured Mycroft. “But Gregory—”

Gregory leaned in and cupped the front of Mycroft’s bulging trousers.

“—but I’d much rather suck this. Hmm?”

“Oh, yes. And I you, but Gregory…”

Lestrade unbuckled Mycroft’s belt. When he undid Mycroft’s flies, Mycroft put his hands atop of Lestrade’s.

Lestrade stopped. “What’s wrong, My?”

“I lied. It was a date. A blind, first, not very successful date and when you and your team burst through the doors, it seemed like, oh, a hundred things I don’t believe in: an answer to prayer, a sign, a fairy tale…”

“I know, My.”

“What?”

“I know what a date looks like. Detective. Divorced. Remember? But anyone who picked that drink isn’t the one for you. Now, shall we be old-fashioned old fashioned together?”

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

“You aren’t by any chance looking for pomegranates or pomegranate juice?” asked Molly.

“Of course not,” said Sally.

“Of course not,” said Stella.

They looked at each other.

“It’s just a stupid superstition,” said Sally.

“Completely,” agreed Stella. “I mean, who thought it’d be a good idea to sleep naked on the night before some saint day?

Molly nodded. “And leave pomegranates out? What’s that all about?”

The shop will be closing in five minutes!

“You know, my aunt makes her own pomegranate juice,” said a voice behind them.

They turned.

“Your aunt?” asked Sally.

“Auntie Martha,” said Anthea, grinning.


“Have fun,” called Kate.

“Always. It’s my favourite night of the year.”

“Where are you going first?”

“Molly’s, of course.”


“Fuck!”

Molly forced her eyes open.

There was nothing there. How could there be nothing there?

Something had her wrists pinned to the bed. Something had her legs spread open. Something warm and wet and wonderful was playing with her clit.

She was lifting off the bed but the invisible something kept pleasuring her.

She turned her head. The glass on the bedside table was empty. Something had drunk the pomegranate juice. She felt the sweet-sour taste on her tongue.


“Stella!”

“I know, Sally!”

“Inside me!”

“Me too! How is it possible—?”

They were lying side-by-side on the bed, arms by their sides, not touching.

“God, it feels like—”

“Fist?”

“Yeah, oh, God, stretching—”

“So bloody full!”

“But there’s a mouth, too, I think, or a tentacle?”

“Yeah, something. But I can’t see anything. The fruit?”

“Let me look. Gone. Every bit.”

“God, Stella.”

“I know, love. I’m coming again, too.”

“I don’t think I’ve stopped coming—oh!—since I fell asleep!”

“Wish I could make you come like that.”

“Once a year like this is enough!”

"Yeah, you're right!"


“I’m such a naughty girl,” growled Anthea as she pushed up onto her elbows and looked down at her nude body. She spread legs and bent her knees.

An antique sherry glass floated through the air, then tipped. The dark red liquid poured out onto her breasts. Then the liquid disappeared, stripe by stripe. A delicious warmth filled her.

“Let me eat you out, please,” Anthea begged.

She opened her mouth and felt the touch of a single, sweet, hard bud on her tongue.

Like a seed.

She sucked.

It dissolved. Another appeared.

She came and came, her body writhing.


“No need for theatricals, my dear,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I’m too old, and you’re too tired after the night you’ve had.”

Something soft pressed at her cheek, and she smelled an exhale of sweet-sour breath.

“You’re welcome. It’s my pleasure. Or it will be if you’ll get on with it.”

Gentleness teased her breasts and her belly and her pussy and the back of her knees. Tenderness suckled her clit and kneaded her thighs and buttocks.

She arched off the bed, letting out sigh after sigh as she came.


“Good night?” asked Kate.

“The best,” replied Irene with a grin.

Chapter Text

“You should not have gone off alone,” said Stella after it was all over, and they were snuggled in bed.

“I left a note,” said Sally. She took Stella’s hand in hers and kissed the fingertips. “You know I’d been getting nowhere on this case. I was in the shower, and I suddenly made a connection. I wasn’t certain anything would come of it. I just wanted to check it out myself before I mentioned it at work.”

“Do you know what that bastard was studying?”

“Absolute zero.”

“Yes! Sally, you could have literally been frozen to death!”

“I knew you’d turn up. But it was a bit like a comic book, wasn’t it? Mister Freeze. But my superhero partner swooped in, kicked arse, and saved the day.”

Stella giggled. “He didn’t see me coming, did he?”

“Nope. Thankfully, they never do.”

“I get very angry when someone tries to make an ice lolly out of my girlfriend! And I glad you’ve still got all your fingers and toes!”

Sally laughed. “All my bits are accounted for. If you want to check…”

“Doctor Watson said you should rest.”

“Doctor Watson is used to having his advice ignored. And I will rest. In a minute.”

They turned towards one another and kissed.

Stella pulled back.

“I was scared, Sally. Don’t do that again. Don’t go off without back-up.”

“I won’t. But neither of us can avoid danger altogether, Stella. Not on the job and not off it, either.

She tilted her head and began to kiss down Stella’s neck.

“Yeah, but you don’t need to go running towards it on your day off,” grumbled Stella, but she leaned into Sally’s mouth and hummed and let her hand curl ‘round ‘til it cupped Sally’s arse.

“Says the woman who once interrupted a picnic to stop a carjacking.”

Stella huffed. “That was some third date, huh?”

Sally laughed. She put a hand under Stella’s chin, lifted her face, and kissed her lips. “Did I forget to say thank you for saving my life today?”

“No, but I’m open to an encore.”

Sally kissed her again. “Thank you for saving my life today.”

“You’re welcome,” said Stella. She gave Sally’s arse a playful squeeze. “I wasn’t the only one worried. Lestrade was frantic. Even Sherlock was upset.”

Sally snorted. “Doubtful about the last.”

“I’m serious, Sally. He was genuinely concerned, and we might not have reached you so fast without him.”

“Perhaps, but let’s not talk about him. Kills the mood. C’mere.”

Stella released her grip on Sally’s arse and rolled on top of her. Sally slid her hands beneath Stella’s pyjama bottoms as Stella eased the strap of her pyjama top down. Sally kissed from breast to chin and back as Stella rut against her.

Stella’s lips trembled against Sally’s as she came.

“You are a superhero, Stella,” said Sally, thickly. “My superhero.”

“For you, there isn’t anyone I wouldn’t fight, nowhere I wouldn’t go, centre of the earth, another galaxy, absolute zero.”

Chapter Text

“The meal was perfection,” said Lestrade. “I’m afraid this bourbon you’re touting, no matter how illustrious, is going to be, well, anti-climactic.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Mycroft blushed, but replied evenly, “The pleasures of the evening have just begun, Gregory.”

Lestrade gave a long whistle. “Mister Holmes, you certainly know how to entertain a fellow.”

Mycroft coughed, then continued, “Please, through here. It’s in the tantalus.”

“Keep it locked up, eh?”

“Yes, the key is…”

Mycroft opened a drawer and held up a small key and frowned. “This is not the key.”


“Ah, ha!” called Sherlock from the bathroom. “You hid it in the drain!”

John smiled but continued to slowly tap at his laptop.

A moment later, Sherlock cast a shadow upon John.

“But this is not the key I gave you three days ago.”

“The ‘very special’ key you told me to keep ‘as safe as my poor idiot brain could manage’?”

“Yes!”

John smiled. “Well, I decided to be clever.”

“Where did you put it?”

“Somewhere no one will ever find it.”

“John!”


“Have you a second key?” asked Lestrade.

“Yes, of course, but this is bizarre,” said Mycroft.

“Mycroft, do you happen to know what kind of key that is?”

“Not offhand.” He raised his gaze. “But you do.”

Lestrade looked away.

“Gregory, what is it?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Your opinion of me may…”

“No, it won’t. Tell me, please.”

Lestrade did.

Mycroft’s eye widened. Then he looked down at the key. “How did something like that get here?!”

“Have any unusual guests over lately?”

“No guests at all, except Doctor Watson who returned an ID and an umbrella that Sherlock had stolen.”

Lestrade gave Mycroft a knowing look.

“Doctor Watson?! Oh, no, he’s just the keeper of the key, isn’t he?”

They looked at each other and grinned.

“When you said the pleasures were just beginning, Mycroft…”

“I had no idea how right I was!”


John stared at Sherlock’s caged cock. When speech returned, he screamed.

“A CHASTITY DEVICE?!”

“I told you I wanted to try something new, to build trust.”

“Bloody hell, Sherlock! Have you had that on for three days?!”

“No. It snaps to lock. You just the key to open it. Where is the key?”

“I exchanged it with that key.” John pointed.

“This key? But this is…” Sherlock went pale.

“You said, ‘keep it safe’! Your brother’s home is safer than this one!”

Beep-beep-beep!

“Mycroft’s calling me,” said John.

“Don’t answer it! I’ll pick the lock!”

John put the mobile to his ear. “Hello.”

“Good evening, Doctor. Might you put me on speaker phone?”

John tapped the screen.

“Hi, lads!” cried Lestrade. “Missing something?”

Sherlock covered his face with his hand.

“Mycroft was just about to ply me with his fancy bourbon, but there’s a snag. Seems you’ve got the key to our naughty evening and we’ve got the key to yours,” said Lestrade, laughing uproariously.

“I think we can arrive at a mutually beneficial exchange,” added Mycroft. “Let’s negotiate terms.”

Chapter Text

“Hello, John.”

“Oh, God.”

“Not quite…”

“You’re an angel!”

“Yes.”

“Your wings! I thought angels’ wings were white.”

“Well…”

“It stands to reason.”

“What?”

“My guardian angel would have black wings.”

Guardian angel? Well…”

“I’ve been shot, right?”

“Yes.”

“What better time for my guardian angel to swoop in and rescue me. Are you clever? You look clever.”

“Well, I was once the brightest…”

“I knew it! And you’re gorgeous. I’ve never seen you before, but you should absolutely come to my dreams, if you do that sort of thing. God, what that would be like? Or are you occupied guarding others? I mean, do you have a caseload?”

“Not exactly. I work one-on-one but, John…”

“Just mine, then. What a lucky boy am I! Except for getting shot, of course. God, you’re gorgeous. I didn’t know angels wore jeans.”

“Am I wearing jeans?”

“Yes, of course. You can’t see yourself?”

“Not exactly. What do I look like, beside the black wings, I mean?”

“Dark hair in soft curls that are begging to be touched. Cool grey eyes the colour of my gran’s Persian cat. Kissable lips in a natural pout. Face and chest like a Renaissance sculpture. Tattoo on the left shoulder which matches the one on your cheek. In a nutshell, you look sexy as hell.”

“John…”

“Can I touch you?”

“I can already feel you…”

“Can you touch me? Oh, God, you already are, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, shit. It’s like coming but not coming. Coming from the inside. It’s warm and sort of gooey. Oh, God. What’s you name? I want to say it when I…”

“John…”

“Please! I want it on my lips!”

“I was once called Sherlock.”

“Oh, God. Oh, God, Oh, God. Sherlock! SHERLOCK!”

“John…”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

“John…”

“I do. I love you, love you, love you. Those beautiful black wings. Like a raven, no? Of course, you’re clever. Ravens are clever, aren’t they? Glossy black raven wings. And eyes, so soft and grey, but sad. Why are you sad, Sherlock? Don’t be sad. I love you. I’ll always love you. What can I do to make you smile? May I touch your wings?”

“Yes.”

“So soft. Oh, God, you were made for petting, weren’t you?

“John, I love you, too.”

“Of course, you do.”

“Of course?!”

“You’re my guardian angel! How could you not love me? Can you feel that?”

“Yes.”

“How does it feel?”

“Heavenly.”

“How do you do that, Sherlock?”

“Do what?”

“Turn your wings white.”

“Have they turned white?!”

“Of course, they have.”

“John!”

“You’re fading, Sherlock. Where are you going? Don’t go, please!”

“I have to go, John. I’m changing.”

“No, please! I’m dying. Don’t go!”

“You were dying. You’re not anymore. Don’t worry. I’ll find you. Wherever you are, I’ll find you. Things will be very tough for a little while, but just a little while. You must not despair.”

“Sherlock!”

“Remember my name in your heart. I shan’t forget yours. Thank you, John.”

“Sherlock!”

Chapter Text

Mycroft’s heart was breaking, but then Lestrade pivoted and made a swift return.

“Why, Mister Holmes?” he asked sharply.

A lie was on the tip of Mycroft’s tongue.

“The whole truth, Mister Holmes or as far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more to be said.”

“As earnest as your invitation appears to be, Detective Inspector, I have reason to believe your,” Mycroft coughed, “affection lies elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere? With whom?”

Mycroft cast his eyes downward. His voice fell to a whisper. “Matilda.” He glanced toward the street. “Please, Detective Inspector, my car has arrived.”

“How do you know about Matilda?”

“Two conversations you had with Doctor Watson. I wasn’t eavesdropping. I just chanced to overhear. The warmth of your colourful phrasing left little to the imagination.”

“Did you have her investigated?”

Mycroft met Lestrade’s gaze, which was strangle impassive.

“Absolutely not!” Mycroft cried indignantly. “I don’t want to know anything about her. Now let me pass!”

Lestrade hurried after Mycroft and forced himself into the car.

“Hello, Georges!” he called to the driver.

“Hello, Detective Inspector. Wonderful to see you this evening, sir.”

“Detective Inspector, this is highly irregular,” began Mycroft.

Lestrade barked an address and slammed the door behind him.

“Yes, sir,” said Georges.

“The least you can do is give me a ride,” said Lestrade.

As they traveled, Mycroft tried to work himself into a fury but only managed an odd confusion, which Lestrade’s stony, tight-lipped expression did nothing to remedy.

When the car finally stopped, Lestrade said,

“Out.”

Mycroft got out.

Lestrade produced a set of keys and unlocked a warehouse door, then a gate, then he switched on a set of lights.

That is Matilda.”

Mycroft gawked at the rusted automobile then covered his face with his hand.

“She is a beauty and I do adore her and some fine spring day, when I have her top off and she’s purring like a kitten, I want to take you out for a nice, long drive in the country, Mister Holmes.”

“Perhaps the Feast of Fools would be appropriate,” groaned Mycroft.


The first day of April proved to be unseasonable warm.

Mycroft tilted his head back and rested it on the leather seat. He gazed up at the green-leafed canopy. There was a light breeze, and a few tiny pink petals brushed his face. He smiled.

“You were right, Gregory. Mathilda is a beautiful whore.”

Lestrade hummed around Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft groaned, then yanked aside the blanket which had been covering them both.

Lestrade pulled off Mycroft’s cock, wiped his face on the back of his hand, and grinned. “Perfect threesome, isn’t it?”

Mycroft caressed Lestrade’s face, then he raked his eyes up and down Lestrade’s nude body.

“Indeed.” Mycroft turned to kneel on the seat. “If not for her, I’d have no idea how enamoured I was of al fresco dining.” He leaned forward and wiggled his arse.

Lestrade eased behind Mycroft, nudging his prickhead into the slicked hole on offer before growling,

“I adore you both.”

Chapter Text

Mary heard a rustling and drew her pistol.

She saw the rifle before the person holding it. She was about to fire when a voice stopped her.

“Mary?”

Mary blinked. “Janine?”

Janine emerged from the thicket. “I thought you were dead!”

Mary tried to smile. “Always ahead of the curve, wasn’t I? Dying well before everyone else was doing it!”

Janine tried to laugh. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re still alive. I’ve been lucky, but you always made your own luck.”

“As I recall, you weren’t so bad at the luck-making business. You just had less practice than I did.”

“We’re the last, the cockroaches.”

“Indeed. And this cockroach is looking for food.”

“I’ve food,” said Janine, lowering her rifle. “But I’m looking for shelter.”

“I’ve got a nice base. It’s a hike but worth it.”

“Let’s go,” said Janine eagerly. “Running into you is the best bit of luck I’ve had in a long, long time.”


Janine drew back, but Mary chased her mouth and kissed her hard once more.

“Slow down,” teased Janine. “We’ve got time. The world has already ended, remember?”

“Touching you I forgot,” said Mary. She looked down at Janine’s bare torso. “You’ve still got the best rack in the world—though, I’ll admit, the competition has dwindled.”

Janine laughed and arched her back. Mary took a nipple in her mouth and sucked.

“Fuck!” exhaled Janine. “Your arse, Mary.”

They fell together onto the floor of the cave, Janine pulling Mary top her and grabbing her buttocks.

“I’ve not eaten so well in months, but I swear to a god in whom I no longer believe, I’m going to devour every inch of you!” growled Mary.

“Come here, come here,” chanted Janine, though Mary’s nude body was already plastered to hers and encaged protectively, possessively by Janine’s limbs. “Come inside. I want you inside me the way we’re inside this cave, warm and dry and safe and full.”

They slowed their movements, kissing more languidly and rubbing against one another with less frenzy.

They both groaned as their damp cunts brushed over and over again.

“That’s good,” sighed Janine.

“Yeah,” agreed Mary, putting her hands on either side of Janine, the better to lift her upper body and grind her lower body into Janine’s.

“Fu-u-u-ck! Long live the cockroaches!”

Mary cackled. “Long fuck the cockroaches!”

“Shit, yeah. Survival of the fittest pussy.”

“Natural selection, really.”

They giggled.

Then Mary collapsed atop Janine.

“Oof!” grunted Janine.

“Sorry.”

Janine kissed Mary’s lips, then her neck and shoulders as her hands kneaded Mary’s arse, the muscles beneath tensing and relaxing in rhythm with their rolling hips.

“I’m close,” whispered Mary.

“Yeah? Come for me, baby.”

Mary slipped a hand between them as she rut hard against Janine.

“Oh!” She closed her eyes and smiled and hummed. “Like honey dripping. Let’s keep it going. Switch before it fades.”

They rolled together across the cave floor.

Janine smiled. “First time in a long time I’m happy to be alive.”

Chapter Text

The aroma of the brown bundle hit Martha Hudson’s nose at once.

“Oh, I’m afraid this can’t possibly be mine. It smells far too pungent.”

“Is that my Vindaloo?” called a voice.

Martha turned. “Margaret!”

“Oh, Martha! Is this your tandoori?”

“Yes, and this must be yours, you fire-breathing dragon!”

They exchanged bundles.

“Whatever are you doing in London?” asked Martha.

“I’ve just moved back.”

“Are you living nearby?”

“Temporarily. I’ve a bedsit.” Margaret went on to mention an address.

“A bedsit?” echoed Martha.

Margaret bit her lip. “Phillip died six months ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Thank you. He was sick for long time. Cancer. It’s taken while get things settled and figure out what I want to do next.”

Martha surveyed the bundle in Margaret’s arms, which was much bulkier than her own. “Are you eating alone?”

“Yes,” said Margaret with a self-conscious chuckle. “I ordered quite a bit extra, so I wouldn’t have to worry about tomorrow.”

“Or washing up.”

“Exactly.”

“Would you like to come over to mine? We could get some drinks and catch up. Listen to music. Like old times.”

“Sounds wonderful.”


“Do you remember…?”

“Oh, God, yes, what was the name of that place, something ridiculous…”

“Oh, Margaret…”

“I just didn’t know what to do…”

“Oh, Martha…”

“I know, he’s a brilliant boy. That’s why I let him stay. Thank goodness John Watson came along…”

“I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”


Empty beer bottles were scattered about them.

Margaret’s eyes were closed. She smiled.

“I remember this song.”

“It’s late, Margaret. Why don’t you stay?”

Margaret opened her eyes. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Anything else you’re hoping I’ll say?” teased Martha.

Margaret shot her a glance, then batted her eyelashes in mock coquetry. “Well…”

“There’s a sofa, there’s a guest bedroom, but there’s also…”

Martha raised her eyebrows and gave a nod towards the hall.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Margaret sat up and leaned over and kissed Martha’s lips. “Let’s clean all this up.”

“And go to bed, Miss Spicy Kisses," finished Martha, who kissed her back.


They slid between the sheets from either side of the bed and met in the middle, kissing, hands roaming over one another’s body.

“Show me what you like, Margaret.”

“Everything so far, you wicked woman.”

“Like this?”

“Bit harder. Yes! Right there!”


“I have a …”

“Oh, me, too. Shall I…?”

“Yes, please. In the drawer.”

“Oh, fancy. This’ll be fun.”


“Oh, God!”

“How’s that, dear? More?”

“Oh, Maggie, that’s perfect, that’s lovely.”

“So are you, Martie. Are you going to come for me, sweetness?”

“Yes, yes!”


Martha’s eyes opened. Then she looked over and stared disbelievingly at the clock.

“Ah, you’re finally awake. Tea?” prompted Margaret as she shuffled into the bedroom with a steaming cup in hand.

“Yes, please,” said Martha. “Oh, you’re an angel,” she added after taking a sip. “You know, Margaret, most weekends I get takeaway at least once. Maybe…”

“It’s a date,” said Margaret, with a wink.

Chapter Text

“So that’s all of what happened. I’m not asking for forgiveness, Kate.”

“Good,” said Kate, who had already silently forgiven Irene.

Irene fell to Kate’s feet.

“I want, no, I deserve punishment, Kate. Don’t talk to me about boot licking or polishing the silver, please. I need reprimand of the severest order by your hand and your hand alone.”

Kate reached down and, with two fingers under Irene’s chin, tipped Irene’s head up. She scanned her lover’s face, then she pronounced without emotion,

“The colours of flag.”

The relief that swept across Irene’s face was all the affirmation Kate needed.


“The blue’s done,” said Irene as she waltzed into the bedroom. She turned and let the dressing gown fall. “May I have the red?”

Irene hissed as Kate touched one of the many bruises on Irene’s back.

“You’ll have the red when I’m ready to give you the red,” said Kate.

“Of course,” said Irene meekly, then she scooped up the dressing gown, re-wrapped herself, and scurried out of the room.


“The red’s done,” said Kate, wiping the blade and setting it on the cloth which covered the little table.

Irene’s face was buried in a pillow. She turned her face and sobbed, “The white?”

“When I’m ready,” said Kate but she knew that she was nearing the edge of her own sanity, so she reached for the slick at once. She closed her eyes as she stroked her cock, imagining a different Irene from the one laid out on the bed, one that was not beaten and bloodied. She opened her eyes long enough to crawl upon the bed safely.

Irene made a gurgling noise as Kate closed her eyes once more and came all over Irene’s back.

Kate quickly cleaned herself, slipped back into a dressing gown, and circled the bed until she was in front of Irene’s head.

“Persimmon.”

At the word, Irene’s head lifted for a moment. Kate caught it in her hands before it sank back into the pillow.

“You’re done, my love. You’ve served your sentence beautifully.”

“Good?”

“You’ve been such a good girl. You’re forgiven. Every bit of it. Slate wiped clean.”

“Oh!”

As Irene wept, Kate felt her eyes sting as well. She did nothing to stop either flow of tears. She caressed Irene’s face and hair and kissed her sweetly and gently and whispered over and over.

“So good, all forgiven. So good, all forgiven.”


After a long while, Kate pulled away.

“I’m going to clean you now. It won’t be comfortable.”

“Good,” said Irene evenly. She wiped her face with her hands. A tiny smile curled her lips as she asked, “Will you fuck me?”

After I clean you.”

Irene rolled her eyes. “Really, Kate?” she whined.

“Really, Irene.”

“Very well. If you must.”


After another long while, Kate was very carefully sinking her cock into Irene’s cunt.

She gazed lovingly at Irene’s mauled back, and as she began to thrust, they both began to hum “God Save the Queen.”

Chapter Text

Lestrade frowned at the martini glass.

“This isn’t mine."

“From the gentleman at the end of the bar,” said the barman.

Lestrade looked, but no one was there. He took a sip and grimaced.

“An apple raspberry martini, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade looked over his shoulder. “It’s foul!” He grinned. “How have you been, Mister Holmes?”

“Well. Busy.”

Lestrade’s blood warmed at the undisguised flirtation in Mycroft’s eyes. He lowered his voice and twisted on the stool. “I’ve been thinking of you,” he said quickly.

“And I you, so much, Gregory, it’s bloody distracting.”

Lestrade almost groaned. “In the shower.”

“In the first moments after waking.”

“Yes! I want your warmth. By my side…”

“I want to throw a leg over you, mount you, and…”

“Fuck!”

“Indeed.”

“You know, Mycroft, I’ve been thinking, maybe between my thighs? Not as tight as an orifice, of course, but still tight and you could thrust completely…”

“I confess I’ve been pondering the possibilities too. Researching devices online.”

“Devices?”

“A facsimile cunt that two Alphas could use jointly, that is, simultaneously.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose.

Mycroft nodded. “I know, not ideal, but perhaps worth a try.”

“Might be better than just our hands wrapped around each other…”

Lestrade looked down, and the image his words conjured was too raw.

“Mycroft, this is shameless, but please tell me you’ve a car outside.”

“I will very shortly, but we must change the topic of conversation or I won’t be able to exit the premises without embarrassment.”

Lestrade pushed the martini glass to the left. “Try that.”

Mycroft took a big gulp and grimaced. “Very sobering.”

“Or we could talk about Brexit.”

“Also.” Mycroft glanced at his phone. “Let’s go. After you.”


Lestrade tore his lips from Mycroft’s and looked down at their hands wrapped ‘round their two pricks, which were sliding up and down against each other.

He kissed Mycroft again and said with no little desperation, “So many times in the last few weeks, I wanted to take a photo—”

“Or a video,” groaned Mycroft. “Put on a very naughty show for you.”

“—and send it to you, show you just how hard I was for you. Look, there’s no Omega anywhere near us, and I’m about to burst. Please tell me—”

“I’m taking you to my home, Gregory, installing you in my bed and fucking you there and in my bath—which is, by the way, much more spacious and accommodating than the facilities at 221b Baker Street—until dawn.”

Lestrade cried out. Mycroft drew a sharp breath in.

Their pricks lurched and spat.


“I can’t stop kissing you, Mycroft.”

“Please don’t stop, Gregory.”

Lestrade looked down and laughed.

“Sorry I got in your car and immediately took off half my clothes.”

“I’m not sorry at all. Turn around in my lap. Let me play with you until we arrive home.”

“Remember during John’s heat when you said you'd chain me to your desk?"

Mycroft bit Lestrade’s neck. “That's not until the second date, you tart.”

Chapter Text

Molly kept up the slow roll of her hips as she unbuttoned her blouse and unfastened her bra. She threw her head back and drew apart the fabric, exposing her bare breasts to the bright early spring sunshine and the still slightly cool early spring air.

“Molls,” groaned Jim, awkwardly pushing himself up on one hand and reaching for her with the other. He buried his face between her breasts as she squeezed tight ‘round his prick. Beneath her pleated skirt, which fanned nicely ‘round her, she was nude and impaled. She kept up the squeezing, and Jim groaned her name again. The remnants of a lavish picnic were scatter ‘round them on the chequered blanket.

“It was too nice a day to be inside working, but I could have just said I had the flu or something.”

Jim snorted. “Boring.”

“You didn’t have to fill my office with snakes.”

“Drove them out, didn’t I?”

“Hector gave me tomorrow off, too. Something about shock. He actually suggested I contact a therapist.”

Jim chuckled. “He’s the one going to need the therapy when he realises one narrow fellow slipped away into his office, Molly. But don’t fret, I’ve got your therapy right here.” He put her nipple in his mouth and teased it with his tongue.

Molly hummed and arched into the wet heat. Then she reached behind her and eased her blouse and bra off her arms. “You were showing off, showing up in that ridiculous uniform and gathering them all up.”

“It’s what I do: snake charm.”

She sighed. “It was so fucking hot. ‘Neath you, please!”

He rolled them. She bent her knees and curled her lower body into his.

He kissed her lips hard, then pulled back and looked down.

“I was showing off for you, my queen.”

She huffed. “I didn’t know I would like it so much, watching you wrangle a bunch of squirming reptiles.”

He hummed and nuzzled her neck. “I did. I know your psychology much better than your boss does.” He began to thrust.

“Oh, God, yeah,” she moaned, “hard, please, Jim. Hurt me just a little. I want to feel it tomorrow.”

He bit at her plump lips. “That’s what you said in the car on the way here. Don’t worry, love, you’ll feel it.”

“It was so hot,” sighed Molly. “I couldn’t help it.”

He bit the side of her neck and spoke in a firm, gentle voice, “No apologies.”

“The way you…”

He silenced her with another hard kiss and came.


“Jim?”

Her bare feet were resting on his back. His head was buried beneath the skirt, between her legs. She’d been imagining shapes in the clouds and cycling through yet another delicious orgasm, when her head had dropped to the side and she’d seen it.

A white bird with a long neck and a very cross expression on its face.

“Jim! Swan!”

Jim popped his head up. His face was wet, but his eyes were wide.

“Run, Molls!”

Chapter Text

“There you go, ruining another perfectly good firearm,” said Seb when the whole barrel was sheathed in Jim’s dripping cunt.

Jim’s reply was a garbled noise around the barrel of the twin of the gun in his cunt. The stain of drool on the pillow beneath his mouth grew larger.

“Suck it like a good baby,” cooed Seb, “or your Alpha Daddy won’t fuck your sweet needy cunt the way you like.”

Jim’s hum was high-pitched and pleading. The one eye that looked at Seb was wild and blown-black with lust. He lifted his arse higher and gripped the bedclothes tighter.

Ignoring his own prick, which was stiff and screaming for attention, Seb began to thrust the gun in and out of Jim’s cunt.

“Don’t wiggle. It’s loaded and ready to go. I won’t be responsible if you kill yourself with friendly fire.”

Jim screamed. His body trembled and clenched ‘round the metal shaft.

Finally, Seb withdrew the gun completely and set it on the floor.

Then he pounced on Jim, slamming his cock into Jim’s cunt over and over, without pause or gentleness.

It wasn’t until Seb felt that curious change, the expansion and lengthening of his cock which never ceased to thrill and disturb, that he eased the gun out of Jim’s mouth and set it on the bedside table.

“Seb.”

Jim’s voice was harsh and weak. His body was covered in sweat and trembling.

Seb eased them onto their sides and plastered himself to the length of Jim.

“I’m here, Boss.” He kissed Jim’s neck, then twisted and reached towards the other beside table. He held a third weapon, the one that he would not allow to be soiled with Jim’s spit or secretions, in front of Jim’s eyes.

“We’re covered, Boss. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Or if it does, I go, too. Yeah? We’ll be in hell, knotted together, me jizzing all my nice, hot come up in your sweet cunt for an infernal eternity.”

Jim sighed. Seb felt his tension ebb.

Jim covered Seb’s gun hand with his and brought the tip of the gun to his own temple.

“Would you kill me, Sebbie? If I asked you to.”

“Yeah. Want to die today?”

“No, I want to be fucked today.” Jim released the gun, and Seb twisted away and returned the gun to its place. Then he twined his fingers in Jim’s.

“Remember the first time?” asked Jim.

“Yeah. We were just kids. Exchange to America. I’m not even Irish, but I had to get away from my Pop. You presented. I presented. You got those two kids to take our place on that field trip and got us a hotel room.”

“You were amazing, Sebbie.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing.”

“That’s what made it even more amazing.”

“Shall I sing ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’?”

“Do and blow your head off,” said Jim. “And then my own.” He hummed. “Fuck me, Sebbie.”

“’Til the end of my days, Jimmy.”

Chapter Text

Mycroft burst into the room.

“Right on time, Mister Holmes. We’ve not been waiting long.”

Lestrade was nude, blindfolded, gagged, and bound in a kneeling position on the floor. A blanket was wrapped about his waist. He made a drooling noise, and the ball gag was immediately removed. He stretched his dry, chapped lips, then licked them and spoke in a hoarse croak.

“My?”

Mycroft fell to his knees. “I’m here.” He kissed Lestrade’s cheek, then cradled it in his palm. He looked up and asked coolly, “What do you want?”

Moriarty smiled and shook his head. “It’s not what I want, Mister Holmes. It’s what the Detective Inspector wants.”

“I don’t want to be saved or sold, My. I want to be shared.”

“Gregory.”

“I’ve kept him ready, Mister Holmes.”

Moriarty drew the blanket away, exposing Lestrade’s stiff prick and the ring that encircled its base. Then he beckoned Mycroft with a wave. Mycroft got to his feet and moved behind Lestrade. The metal ring of a plug jutted out from Lestrade’s buttocks.

Mycroft squatted low and rubbed Lestrade’s arms. Without a word, Moriarty extended a pair of snippers. Mycroft cut the ropes and resumed rubbing Lestrade’s arms.

“Please, My.”

“Hush,” admonished Mycroft. “When have I ever refused you?” He pushed Lestrade forward. Lestrade’s arms crumpled at touch to the floor. Mycroft stood and moved to Lestrade’s head.

Moriarty knelt behind Lestrade and removed the plug. He freed his erection and slicked it, then began fucking Lestrade’s arse as Mycroft fucked Lestrade’s mouth.

Mycroft and Moriarty glared at each other as their thrusting, push by pull, sychronised.

“He’s an excellent fuck,” said Moriarty.

“Yes, he is,” said Mycroft. “And I intend to keep him that way.”

“Intentions,” mused Moriarty. “Don’t they lead to hell?”

“Only the good ones,” said Mycroft. “Now do shut up.”

Moriarty’s brow was wet with effort of hammering his cock into Lestrade’s hole.

“He likes to know whose he is,” said Mycroft, his voice straining to breaking.

He and Moriarty quickly withdrew and decorated Lestrade’s back with streaks and dribbles. Then they rubbed the mess into Lestrade’s skin and praised him in soft, syrupy endearments.

“Such a good fuck.”

“The best.”

Mycroft gently guided Lestrade onto his back.

“Shall I have the honour?” asked Moriarty, nodding at Lestrade’s restrained cock.

“Yes. But wait a moment, if you will.”

Mycroft stood and stripped until he was wearing nothing save an unbuttoned dress shirt.

Lestrade cried out as Moriarty released the cock ring.

Mycroft quickly straddled Lestrade’s upper body and said firmly, “None of that. Put that tongue to much better use.” He spread his buttocks and lowered his hole to Lestrade’s mouth.

Moriarty watched, then swallowed Lestrade’s cock with an appreciative hum.

A few minutes later, Moriarty was spitting into the blanket. He wiped his mouth and said, “I bet he’s very, very good at that.”

Mycroft’s eyelids fluttered open.

“Yes, but I’m better.”

Moriarty’s eyebrow rose, then he stood and began to unbuckle his belt.

Chapter Text

The bed was surprisingly comfortable, surprisingly because the room and the bedclothes, or at least the topmost blanket, resembled a monastic cell.

The furniture was simple and unremarkable. A chair. A wardrobe. A washstand. A large tin box.

The only feature of note was the series of framed photographs of celebrated criminals on the wall. Moriarty had, naturally, added a flattering representation of himself to the collection, then he had sat down on the edge of the bed.

And was surprised.

He stood and stripped down to his drawers, folding and hanging his clothes neatly on the wooden chair as he went. Then he slipped between the sheets.

As he settled his head on the pillow, he gasped aloud. The pillow was as soft and firm and comforting as a mother’s breast. The mattress, too, was soft and firm. The topmost blanket was made of the rough, gnarled wool, but the under-blankets were smooth and warm, and the sheets, well, they were of some material that Moriarty was certain could not be had in England. The bastard must’ve got them on the Continent. Paris? Amsterdam? It was worth investigating.

And the scent. Not lavender or the usual perfumes, which sickened Moriarty with their sweet, cloying vulgarity. No, the fragrance had also been acquired abroad. It teased. It tempted. Like a far-off dream. Like poetry. And numbers.

Moriarty tried resist, but in violation of his plans, his sense of self-preservation, and all his villainous common sense, he fell asleep.


He woke, refreshed and confused, and with a prick as stiff as wood.

His hand immediately went the front of his drawers. He rubbed his palm up and down and hummed and rolled his head back and forth against the pillow and hummed some more. He held the bulge a bit tighter, pressed his hand a bit closer, and decided: he would pleasure himself in the bed of Sherlock Holmes.

Indeed, it seemed that the bed itself, with its sensual design, was demanding that its occupant do nothing else, once the body’s need for slumber had been satisfied.

How in the deuce did the bastard solve any problems at all with a bed like this?

Moriarty slipped his hand in his drawers. He bent his knees and spread his legs and fondled his balls with cupped fingers while his thumb caressed the base of his shaft.

It was decided: he would rid himself of his drawers, spit on his palm, and find his release in this very spot.

“But it seems a shame,” he whispered into the darkness, “to soil so fine a resting place with the waste of a brute urge.”

“Then why not let me help you?” asked the figure in the doorway.

A match was lit and then a candle.

Moriarty threw off the bedclothes and sat up, swinging his feet to the floor and slipping off his drawers. Then the figure was kneeling before him, dragging his tongue from base to head, then teasing along the weeping slit.

Chapter Text

“Where to?” asked Mycroft, his gaze fixed on the world beyond the car’s tinted window.

“Montague Street.”

“I’d prefer to take you home for a hot drink and a change of clothes. You must be,” Mycroft turned his head and gave Sherlock a sweeping glance, “cold.”

Sherlock’s gold skirt was short. His black boots were tall. His vest was tight with a plunging neckline that revealed an apricot-coloured bra.

“Thanks, but no, thanks.”

After a few minutes of silence, Mycroft asked,

“Information-gathering?”

“And surveillance,” added Sherlock. He was now touching up lip gloss with the aide of a small compact mirror he’d fished out of a fringed purse.

“Surveillance? Not exactly inconspicuous.”

“Depends on who’s being watched. You did very well, by the way, with your part.”

“A punter isn’t exactly Hamlet.”

“Nevertheless, it was a stretch for you, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock returned the gloss and compact to the purse. He drew out a few notes and studied them.

“But you didn’t get what you paid for. Bad business.” He tucked the money loosely in his bra and produced a tube of lubricant from his purse. Then he unzipped his skirt and wriggled out of it.

“Sherlock.”

The thin swathe of apricot-coloured nylon could barely contain Sherlock’s half-hard prick and patches of coarse pubic hair.

“Matchy-matchy,” sang Sherlock as he slicked his hand. He gave Mycroft a coquettish look through his long, curled eyelashes, then struck a pose with hips twisted and chest thrust out. “How do they look?”

“Mouth-watering.”

“Good enough to eat?”

“Of course.”

With one hand, Sherlock yanked the front of the knickers down, then he wrapped the fingers of the slicked hand around his shaft. He drew his hand up slowly, from base to head, give it a squeeze at the top, then ran it back down to base.

He repeated the gesture with increased speed and tighter grip. “Oh, that’s good. Just like that, I think.” He threw his head back and closed his eyes.

For a few minutes, the only noise was Sherlock’s wet stroking and his ragged breath.

Then Mycroft reached over and suddenly, silently, deftly tore the apricot-colored fabric in two. The sides of the knickers fell away.

Sherlock spread his legs wide and used his free hand to fondle his balls.

“Much better. Thanks. Oh, god, this is good.” He shot Mycroft another look. “I hope you’re getting your money’s worth, Brother Mine.”

“And then some,” said Mycroft, watching.

“It’s a pretty prick, isn’t it?”

“Gorgeous.”

“I’m getting close. You’re going to think about this tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And?” Sherlock nodded at his prick as he made a show of giving it a rough tug. “Do this?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why I’m doing it.”

“Oh, do shut up and come.”


“Thanks for the ride.” Sherlock gave Mycroft a peck on the cheek just before he opened the door. Then he indicated the scrap of apricot-coloured fabric on the floor of the car. “You’ll get me some new ones?”

“Don’t I always?"

Chapter Text

Mycroft escorted his guests to the lift, then returned to his office.

When he crossed the threshold, he turned and, out of habit, leaned back against the small expanse of wall immediately to the right of the door.

Most of the office was glass. It was only here, in this strip, that Mycroft could not be seen, though he needn’t have bothered. At that hour, there was no one to see him.

The meeting had run late. Everyone, even the stalwart Anthea, had gone home for the day.

No staff meant that Mycroft himself would have to tidy up those ubiquitous remnants of hospitality: a tall, well-polished silver teapot, used cups and saucers and spoons.

Mycroft welcomed the mundane task. It would keep his mind off what he did not want to be thinking of, namely, one Detective Inspector who he’d been forced by circumstance to look at quite often in the past three hours, a ridiculously handsome Detective Inspector with a travesty of a tie and a crooked Windsor knot that Mycroft could not, at any point in the meeting, reach across and straighten.

Mycroft would not go home and think about straightening that Windsor knot. Or doing away with the tie altogether. He would not go home and slip between the sheets of his comfortable, four-poster bed and think of the Detective Inspector’s smile and the easy way he spoke and the way his brow crinkled when the topic of discussion was something he felt strongly about. Mycroft would not, while in his bed, fantasise that it was the Detective Inspector’s hand that was stroking his stiff, much-neglected prick.

That hand!

That strong hand which Mycroft had first observed earlier holding an absolutely bizarre umbrella: bright yellow with a tubby pink-cheeked squirrel on it.

What grown man would…?

Oh, shit!

There was the Detective Inspector, in the doorway, looking at Mycroft via the reflection of the teapot, and there, in the umbrella stand, beside Mycroft’s own umbrella, Rocinante, was the crazy yellow one.

“Hi. Forgot my brolly, and it’s going to rain any second.”

Mycroft could only nod. He tried to reshape his face back into its polite, professional, aloof mask, but a question plagued him.

How much had the DI seen?

“Long day?”

“Yes,” admitted Mycroft.

“But it’s over, yeah? No offense, but you look like you could use some…sleep.”

The Detective Inspector’s cheeky smile before he pronounced the last word left no doubt in Mycroft’s mind.

He’d had observed Mycroft’s expression and, somehow, deduced what Mycroft was thinking!

“Perhaps. Good night, Detective Inspector,” said Mycroft coolly as he sought refuge in the dirty tea things.

“Good night.”

The jaunty whistling grew fainter until it was silenced behind the lift doors.

Mycroft knew he would get no more work done that night. He was packing up to go home when he spied it.

The yellow umbrella!

And his Rocinante gone!

“Oh, bugger me,” he murmured, wondering just how he was going to get his brolly back.

Chapter Text

Tap of a button. A disembodied voice.

You are relaxed…unencumbered…alert…attune…

The room was dark and locked. Sherlock sat upright in a dressing gown which was untied, open, and hanging comfortably on his shoulders. His forearms and hands rested on the arms of the chair. His eyes were closed.

You are being petted. Your thick, dark hair is being stroked, lovingly, affectionately, indulgently, from forehead to nape, again and again. Open fingers are combing your hair. Closed hand is smoothing it. You’re good, so very good. You deserve petting. Do you feel it?

A nod.

A tight grab, a yank, your head jerked back. Pain shoots from your scalp to the sockets of your eyes. Feel it?

A wince. An abrupt shift in the chair.

You are mine. No one’s pet but mine.

Another nod, shakier than the first.

Those lips. Lick your lips for me. Now.

A tongue swiped obediently.

Good. A mouth that can be persuaded to do so many, many things. Wicked, clever tongue. Show me.

A tongue protruded.

Good. Yours is a neck made for licking and sucking and dotting with broken capillaries. Shall I leave my mark on you? Shall we let the world know how much you love to be mauled? I’d rather suck your nipples. Pinch them between my fingers. Scrape them with my nails. Bite them. So very sensitive. Roll my tongue ‘round your pebbled buds. Shiny and wet before I clamp them. Oh, yes, clamped. Look down. Half-hard already?

Chin to chest. A nod.

I’m on my knees, suckling you like a baby, teasing your gorgeous prick. Stiff, pink, swollen. So needy. You need my mouth, don’t you? My tight wet heat? Show me that prick. Spread your legs. Wider. Show me. Oh, there you are. Fuck, what a gorgeous prick. It needs sucking. I want it in my mouth. Fuck my mouth. Spread my lips. Look down. Is that pretty slit, the one made for teasing with the tip of my tongue, is it weeping? One bead?

Chin to chest. A moan.

Fuck my mouth. Hold my head. Thrust. Pump. I’m relaxing my throat, taking all of you. I’m choking, tears streaming, but you can’t stop, you won’t stop, you need to come, don’t you? You need it so bad. You’d do anything for it. So bloody needy. If it wasn’t for me, you’d walk around with your gorgeous prick in hand, begging strangers to suck you. ‘Please, oh, please,’ you’d beg, and you’d get takers, with a prick like that. They’d be queuing to suck you and you, needy little whore, would take them all. Spread your legs! Show me what’s mine! Oh, fuck, you’re coming, coming, coming…

White-knuckled grip on the arms of the chair. A cry.

Well done, Sherlock. Drink a full glass of water after you clean yourself. I’ll be with you shortly.

Sherlock looked down and smiled at the mess. Then he looked up at the pitcher garnished with a bright yellow wedge.

Chapter Text

Jim took another sip of the fizzy drink and grimaced. God awful!

But, really, what was the point of running a successful international criminal enterprise if you couldn’t take a few minutes for yourself?

From an inner pocket, he drew out his mobile.

Molly.

That video she’d sent him at Christmas. It was among his favourites.

He tapped the screen.

First, as always, Toby, sleeping the sleep of the just.

Then, Molly in her Christmas jumper and woolly socks, spreading her legs in the window seat, flashing those red knickers. Her eyes were closed. She was touching herself, making herself wet. He watched the red centre of knickers grow darker with every passing moment.

Such a naughty girl.

Her fingers were atop the red material and then they disappeared beneath it. His mouth watered and, almost involuntarily, the tip of his tongue touched the roof of his palate.

He wanted to suck her clit right then.

He’d find her after the job.

Jim was getting as deliciously hot and bothered as the Molly of the video was, and as she pulled off her jumper, he looked about quickly and improvised.

He freed his erection and slicked it with some oil he’d found.

He began to stroke his hard prick.

She was so beautiful.

He loved her in red. Any colour, naturally. But the red was nice. It suited her.

He couldn’t wait, however, for what came next.

When she took off the bra.

And bounced.

Just like when she rode him. When he thrust up in her tight pussy. He tightened his grip on himself and began to stroke faster.

Maybe, he’d take her on holiday. A nice, long, fuck-filled holiday.

He remembered her voice once in a low, singsong teasing lilt as she’d reached for him.

‘Jim, will you fix it for me? My pussy’s so empty. It’s not been fucked for ages.”

Sometimes she was bloody insatiable, and he loved it.

She had both hands on herself now, fingering herself, playing with her clit, but it wasn’t enough. He knew that.

Naked except for those woolly socks!

Everything about her was lovely.

But, oh, she was naughty.

He liked to watch her mouth, her lips, her whole expression, change as she pushed the slicked dildo inside herself.

The video was muted but he remembered her hollow moans.

He watched with rapture as she fucked herself.

After the job, he’d find her and, well, do whatever she’d like, but he hoped it involved his prick doing its best imitation of that dildo!

That’s right, my Molly. Come for me.

They came together.

He set himself to rights just in time.

A soft knock and then a call.

“Father? Are you all right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Carruthers. I’m feeling much better, thank you. This, uh, remedy of yours has settled my stomach quite well.” Jim scowled the glass but drained it in a few quick gulps. “I am quite ready to begin.”

Jim tucked his mobile away safely.

“I'm glad, Father…”

Chapter Text

“It might be difficult,” said Mycroft.

“For you,” retorted Sherlock.

Mycroft shot him a look. “It’s a question of units, of measurement.”

Sherlock snickered.

“Quantity might increase,” Mycroft continued, “while quality…”

Sherlock’s expression turned scornful. “If you’re suggesting that any orgasm experienced by my Omega would be subpar…”

Sherlock and Mycroft were both well into their cups. Each had arrived expecting to suffer through one cocktail and one song performed, a duet, no less, by their respective Omegas. They did not expect John and Greg to win the first, second, and third rounds of the karaoke competition. Both loathed the venue, but neither had the heart to abandon his mate.

After a while, they had found themselves debating with unprecedented frankness which of them was the best Alpha.

“These things have a cycle,” said Mycroft. “Work interferes.”

“But,” persisted Sherlock, “over a forty-eight-hour period, say, on holiday. That might be a fair playing field. Laboratory conditions.”

Just then the room erupted into shouts and cheers. Sherlock scowled when a large fellow thumped him on the back.

“Kenny and Dolly just won!”

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at each other. Then they joined the raucous crowd its jubilation.

“We won!” they cried.


“What are you drinking, Greg?”

“A Suffering Bastard.”

John snickered, then signaled to the barman.

“This is the life, no?” said Greg with a sigh. He gestured to the beach and the beautiful blue waters beyond.

“Yeah. It’s paradise,” agreed John. “Cheers.” He raised his drink, well-garnished with orange slices and mint leaves, and tapped the rim of Greg’s.

“And to think, we got all this just for singing songs in a bar!” Greg sipped and sighed again. “I could get used to this.”

“Yeah.” John looked around. “Where’s Mycroft?”

Greg chuckled. “He’s sleeping.”

John grinned. “So’s Sherlock.”

“Think that they know that we know about their competition?”

“I don’t think so. I made a casual comment about Sherlock’s sudden spike in libido. Do you know what he blamed it on?”

“Holiday, I suppose. That’s what Mycroft said.”

“Sherlock was more specific. He said it was from swimming with the dolphins.”

Lestrade laughed loudly. “Swimming with the dolphins! Don’t tell anyone. Those poor dolphins won’t get any sleep. Every Alpha in the world will be wanting to take a dip with them if that’s the result. I don’t mind, honestly. Mycroft’s always an attentive Alpha, but on this holiday,” Greg whistled, “he’s going above and beyond the call of duty.”

“Yeah, same with Sherlock. Okay. Let’s get down to the numbers. How many?”

“Twelve.”

“Ha! Fifteen!”

“How?”

“Jacuzzi.”

“Oh, we haven’t tried that.”

“We’re in agreement, right? We end on the same number.”

“Definitely. Otherwise, there’ll be trouble.” Greg finished his drink. “Time to go wake up my Alpha and see if I can interest him in a bubbly soak.”

“I’m going to let mine follow the clues and find me. Helps him work up an appetite. See you.”

Greg sauntered out of the bar, twirling a tiny cocktail umbrella.

Chapter Text

John eased from the bed and padded silently down the hall. Soon he was humming to the rumbling of the machine and inhaling its fragrance.

How coffee dragged you by the nostrils from far away! Nothing else like it except, perhaps, bacon.

John fussed about for a while, then placed three mugs on a tray. The mugs were identical, their contents were not. One was black and bitter, one was almost white and tooth-rotteningly sweet, and one was somewhere in-between.

John carried the tray down the hall and pushed the door open with his foot and exclaimed,

“Oh, you’re up!”


“Christ, that smells good.” Lestrade was kneeling on the bed behind Sherlock. “John, would you mind—?”

“Not at all.” John set the tray down on Sherlock’s desk.

“You’re not going to stop to drink bloody coffee!” whined Sherlock.

POP!

Lestrade’s slap made a satisfying noise.

“I’m going to slow down so I don’t hurt myself or you or John by spilling a scalding beverage. But, no, bratty little pricksluts who wake me up on my day off begging for their holes to be filled are going to get them filled! Tout! Suite!”

“Here you go.”

John brought the cup to Lestrade’s lips and tipped it carefully.

“Holy Mary, that’s nice. That’s the stuff to give the troops, eh?”

“Certainly is,” said John with a wink. He offered Lestrade another sip.

“Thank you.”

Lestrade then turned his attention back to Sherlock. “I have to drink plenty of cold coffee, but I don’t drink it if I don’t have to, I don’t drink it on my day off, and, most especially, I don’t drink it to please whiny babies who can’t wait a hour to get a proper ‘good morning’ shag!”

“Cold coffee is fine!” snapped Sherlock.

Lestrade gripped Sherlock’s hips and shifted the angle of his thrust.

Sherlock howled.

“Found it, did I?” mused Lestrade with a chuckle. “Cold coffee is not fine. But what you drink isn’t coffee. It’s a nursery milkshake!”

John smiled as he sat down in a chair with his own mug. “I have to say I prefer it very hot or very cold. Lukewarm bothers me.” He sipped, then hummed, then set his mug on the floor. “You look so good together. I’m sorry I missed the beginning.”

“You were doing the Lord’s Work,” said Lestrade.

“Hit him again, Greg, right where it counts.”

“Like this?” asked Greg.

POP!

“Or like this?”

“Oooo!” cried Sherlock.

“Both is good,” said John as he yanked his pyjama bottoms down and off.

Lestrade and Sherlock groaned at the sight of John’s thick prick.

“John!”

“Open your mouth, Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallowed John’s prick with practiced ease.

John looked down and brushed Sherlock’s damp curls out of his eyes.

“Is that what you wanted?”

Sherlock hummed around John’s prick.

Lestrade leaned forward. “C’mere, you.”

John’s lips met Lestrade’s. Then he moaned, “Oh, Sherlock.”

“Yeah, his mouth’s as nice as his arse, isn’t it?”

“You said it.”

“C’mon,” urged Lestrade. “Coffee’s waiting.”

Chapter Text

John’s sitting, waiting, when Sherlock finally comes home. An untouched cup of PG Tips is resting on the table beside John’s armchair.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

John doesn’t know where Sherlock’s been. Maybe the lab. Maybe a case. Maybe getting blown in some alley. Who can say? Not John. John isn’t the one who can tell a life story by the mud on a trouser cuff.

But Sherlock can.

John knows that Sherlock could look at him and, with a few clicks of that supercomputer brain, discover exactly what he, John, has been up to the past hour. John can’t see any clues on himself, but he knows Sherlock can, could, if he looked.

John knows this.

What John doesn’t know is if Sherlock will. And if he does, what he will do about it.

So, John waits.

It’s a test of something, John’s not certain what, that he meets Sherlock’s eye and does not flinch or look away or flee. He keeps his body, his expression, his voice as relaxed as he’s able while running this gauntlet.

Oh! There he goes. John’s heart skips a beat.

Sherlock’s eyes are doing a familiar spider-leg dance of scrutiny about John’s person, taking in his clothes, his posture, creases and wrinkles, miniscule stains, the untouched cup of PG Tips and who knows what else.

John doesn’t know. But Sherlock does.

Sherlock will figure ‘the what’ out. And if he knows that John is sitting here, waiting for him to figure ‘the what’ out, then he’ll have his ‘why,’ too.

But.

But what is he going to do about it?

He’s going to walk down the hall.

John’s heart sinks. He’s told himself a thousand times in the last hour that this was part of the gamble. He’d braced himself for it, or so he thought. Self-recrimination crashes like a tsunami wave and—

“John.”

“Huh?”

John looks up.

It’s not even a smile, but it feels like one. It’s the nod of a head.

John can’t believe it. He stands up as Sherlock turns. He hesitates. Is he supposed to follow?

“For fuck’s sake, yes!”

Sherlock is pulling his shirttails from his trousers, unbuttoning his shirt, and letting it fall.

John wonders if he should pick the shirt up.

“Don’t.”

The bathroom door is pushed open. The shower is started.

John stands in the hall, peeking in as shoes and socks are thrown past him.

“Aloud?”

John barely hears the word as Sherlock removes the rest of his clothing.

“John?”

John’s mind is blank, then he says,

“Christ, you’re gorgeous.”

“Thank you.”

By now steam is starting to escape into the hallway. John decides to stop peeking in like a pervert and take an open stance leaning against the threshold. He crosses his arms over his chest, and Sherlock nods his approval.

“Did you say my name aloud when you came?”

“Uh, no, in my head.”

Sherlock nods again. “Do you know what the final clue was?”

John shakes his head.

“You hate PG Tips.”

Chapter Text

It hadn’t even been a drink. Just a cup of coffee.

And now it was over.

Of course, it was. It was the middle of the day. The Detective Inspector was in the middle of a case. It was rather foolish of Mycroft to have even extended the invitation. He hadn’t expected his offer to be accepted.

He’d hoped, but he hadn’t expected.

And because Mycroft had hoped, he’d worn the suit, the one that had caused the Detective Inspector several months ago to do a subtle double take. Only someone who had been paying very close attention would’ve noticed. Mycroft always paid very close attention.

Mycroft hadn’t worn the suit since, naturally, but this morning something had nudged him.

And then they were drinking americanos and chatting amicably.

And now they weren’t.

Mycroft looked down at the empty cup and was reminded it was coffee and not tea.

No fortunes to be read there.

He stood up and smoothed his suit jacket.

There hadn’t been any mention of future rendezvous, just exchanges of pleasantries.

Professional. Absolutely professional.

Of course. Why would it be otherwise?

Mycroft took a deep breath, steeling himself for the walk back to his office, thinking the fresh air would do him good.

But he’d only taken three steps when he saw the Detective Inspector approaching. Mycroft’s brow furrowed. His first thought was that the Detective Inspector had forgotten something behind.

A mobile, perhaps.

Mycroft rushed forward.

“Uh?”

Mycroft read the need for privacy in the darting gaze. He steered them towards an alley.

“Detective Inspector?”

“Listen, this may be a very stupid thing for me to say, but when this case is over, when it’s all done, I’m going to go home and have a shower and a ten-hour nap and a shave and a meal that I don’t eat standing up with one hand.”

Mycroft nodded.

“Then,” the Detective Inspector licked his lips in a way that made Mycroft melt, “I’m going to have a spectacular wank to the thought of divesting you, piece by piece, of that suit.”

Mycroft blinked. He wasn’t certain if the back of his head was still intact.

“And if you want to be there or watch it or even know it’s happening or it’s happened, you let me know.”

“Detect—”

A finger to Mycroft’s lips silenced him.

“Not now. Think about it, yeah? I mean, I thought I was being ridiculous. Then I thought about it more and reconsidered. That you even wore that suit must mean something, yeah?”

Mycroft nodded eagerly and was rewarded with the warmest, most handsome smile he’d ever had the good fortune to witness.

“Something to look forward to then?”

‘Look forward to’ was understatement, but Mycroft felt he really must break his silence and say something.

“Uh, Detective Inspector?”

Lips twitched. “Yes?”

“I will, uh, wait for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dark eyes widened. “Be good, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

Mycroft shivered as they bid their second set of farewells.

Chapter Text

“Damn it!”

Lestrade wiped his brow.

“How in the bloody hell am I going to justify this trip to accounting?!” he grumbled. “They’ll think I’m on holiday!”

Though he was rapidly sweating through his shirt, all Lestrade really wanted was a…

“Coffee, Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade spun ‘round.

“Jesus!”

“Not quite, but I’m flattered, nonetheless,” said Mycroft with a self-deprecating smirk. “There is a charming café a short distance from here.”

Lestrade sighed. “Very well, but your treat. My expense report is shot.”

“Now isn’t that precious?” remarked Lestrade, looking down at the starfish design in the foam. He took a first sip. “That’s much better. So, Mister Holmes, what brings you to Brighton?”

“Would you believe my doctor ordered me to take the waters, a seaside rest cure for my nerves?”

“Absolutely not. How it is that you look so dewy-fresh and I’m here melting into a niffy puddle?”

“Some would say it’s my reptilian nature.”

“People are idiots. Your brother taught me that.”

“A good tailor helps as well.”

Lestrade hummed and gave Mycroft’s suit an approving glance.

Mycroft tilted his head toward the strolling tourists beyond the glass window. “Do you fancy this kind of holiday, Detective Inspector?”

“I like a frolic in the waves, sure, but I’d rather be far from this maddening crowd. You don’t strike me as a bathing beauty, Mister Holmes.”

Mycroft flushed. “I swim quite well.”

“So do I. Maybe we should go for a swim someday.”

Their eyes met.

“I’d like that, Detective Inspector, and if I may be bold…”

“Be as bold as you like, Mister Holmes,” interjected Lestrade in a weary tone. “It’s a refreshing as a sea breeze, the one that shows absolutely no signs of disturbing us.”

“…I can get us as ‘away from it all’ as we’d like.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Crystal blue waters?”

Mycroft nodded. “Waves. Sunsets. Breezes. Tiny umbrellas. The lot.”

Lestrade gave a mock groan. “But wait, we haven’t even had a first date and you’re already whisking me away on holiday?”

“Haven’t we?” retorted Mycroft, gesturing to the coffees before them.

Lestrade snorted. “Apologies. Well, if we’re being bold…”

“Please, please,” urged Mycroft quietly.

“…I’d more than likely be as brown as a nut by the end of our holiday.”

Mycroft’s eyes widened. “Brown as a nut?” he echoed.

“Everywhere,” added Lestrade with a look that left nothing to doubt.

Mycroft coughed. “Well, then I think we’d both better clear our calendars.”

“I’d love to, but this damned case…”

Mycroft’s tone changed completely. “Walters wasn’t the man they found dead under the pier.”

Lestrade gawked. “Of course, he was.”

“No, it was his brother.”

“I’ve got his brother in a cell in London!”

“You know how it’s never twins? Well, it’s never, ever triplets.”

“You’re taking the piss!”

Mycroft rose. “Never, Detective Inspector, and especially not when a ‘brown as a nut’ holiday is at stake. Best of luck.”

And with that Mycroft Holmes rolled out, just like the tide.

Chapter Text

Molly looked at the scrap of paper.

Was it a 6 or an 8?

She pulled open Drawer No. 666 and got a shock.

“Jim! What about dinner and King Lear tonight?”

“She gets too hungry for dinner at 8!” crooned Jim as he sat up and quickly extracted himself from the drawer.

Dressed, as always, in bespoke Saville Row, he shuffle-ball-changed down and back up the tiled floor between the walls of drawers. He shoved the drawer closed with his shoulder, swept Molly into his arms, and kissed her soundly.

“She adores the theatre and doesn’t come late!” he added, raising his eyebrows.

Molly grinned.

He kissed her again, longer and slower, then twirled her. “She’d never bother with people she’d hate.” His voice softened. He brushed her hair. “That’s why the lady is a tramp.”

Molly looked down. “Tap shoes?”

“For work. Later.”

Molly let that go. “Couldn’t wait?”

“Not a bit of it, love.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re on break,” he cooed as he kissed her neck.

She hummed. “But quick, yeah?”

“And they say romance is dead.”

Soon her back was against the wall. He sank, nuzzling her breasts and stomach atop her clothes. Then he reached her skirt and whistled.

“New stockings?”

“It was date night. You’ve spoiled the surprise.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”


“Oh, fuck,” Molly sighed. Her hands were resting on his head, which was hidden beneath her skirt. It seemed all the heat in her body was emanating from the point at which his mouth touched her. He’d pushed the silk aside and sucked and licked and probed and then let her rut against his mouth, taking what she needed.

“Have you time?” she whispered when they were face-to-face again. After she came, she always wanted him inside her and being in a cold locker with corpses didn’t change that 

“For my Queen, always.”


“FUCK!”

She was clinging to him and clutching ‘round his delicious prick.

The voice in her ear was marvelously strained when it sang, “Doesn't like crap games with barons or earls, oh, God, Molly!”

Just then, there was a knock and a voice.

“What are you doing in there, Molly?”

“I’m having sex, John, what do you think?!” called Molly sarcastically as Jim licked her neck and set himself to rights.

“Oh, yeah.” A nervous laugh followed.

“Are you certain this is the number?” asked Molly. “Three 6’s?”

“Oh, no! I’m sorry, Molly. My handwriting’s shit. It’s 6-8-6.”

“Okay. Just a minute.”

“Take your time. Left sole and right, too, while you’re there.”

Molly looked from the door to Jim with alarm.

“You don’t think I’m leaving by the front, do you, my Queen?” said Jim before he kissed her and slid open a drawer and tucked himself in. He reached up to kiss her one more time and whispered,

“Don’t bother with 686. I cut both feet off. Tonight. Seven. Can’t wait!”

Molly slammed the drawer closed with a smile and a roll of her eyes.

Chapter Text

The back of Mycroft’s head hit the wall next to the door as Lestrade’s body slammed into his.

The door closed with a click.

Lestrade murmured into Mycroft’s hair, “Pity. I just bought you a postcard. Air mail stamp and everything.”

Lestrade had Mycroft pinned to the wall; he began to lick savagely at Mycroft neck.

Mycroft teetered on the edge of an old-fashioned swoon, then caught his breath.

“I will still take it, the postcard, that is, if you’ll permit. It'll make a lovely souvenir.”

“How ‘bout this instead?” Lestrade sank his teeth into Mycroft neck, then sucked hard.

“FUCK!” gasped Mycroft. “That’s good, too!”

Lestrade chuckled and licked tenderly at the abused spot. “Before I left you said…”

“I said a lot of foolish things, Gregory. I chased after you, across the Atlantic Ocean, in order to apologise profusely and personally for each one of them.”

“Apologies accepted. I get it. You were scared.”

“Oh!” Tears welled in Mycroft’s eyes. “I thought…”

“And you’re here. An ocean away, as you say. Flattering. And arousing.”

“…you might not be pleased to see me after how I behaved.”

Lestrade ground his lower half into Mycroft’s. “Think again.” He jerked out of a garishly printed shirt.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mycroft weakly when he felt the hard bulge through Lestrade’s thin trousers. He ran his hands down Lestrade’s back and ached, positively ached, to feel the brush of Lestrade’s coarse chest hair against his own smooth chest.

Lestrade dropped a hand between them, cupping Mycroft’s erection. “Yeah?” he teased.

“Do you doubt? Oh, Gregory, yes.”

Mycroft fumbled with his tie, only managing to loosen it before he ceded management of his undressing. He widened his stance, the better to receive Lestrade’s dry thrusting, which did not cease with the untying and unbuttoning and untucking.

“Holy fuck, My,” Lestrade breathed when he reached the vest beneath the dress shirt. “It is the islands, you know? You could’ve dispensed with one of the London layers.” He scrunched up the vest, fell to a squat, and began to lick Mycroft’s bare belly.

“There wasn’t time, and I’m a rather ridiculous creature.”

“Ridiculously delicious, you mean.” Lestrade rose slowly, then whispered in Mycroft’s ear. “How long can you stay?”

“Only three days, I’m afraid. Not the rest of the week.”

“Three days is more than enough time to wreck you.”

Mycroft shuddered and felt Lestrade’s grin tattooed on his skin.

“Then I’ll have a couple more days to recover before I have to face the real world once more.”

“Gregory.”

They were kissing now, rough and hard, Lestrade holding Mycroft’s head while Mycroft buried his fingers in Lestrade’s hair. When the kiss broke, all Mycroft could think to do was lick his lips, all he could think to say was,

“Rum. Honey. Champagne.”

“When in the islands,” replied Lestrade. “It’s called an ‘air mail.’ A fast way to oblivion.” He pulled away and made a dismissive wave. “I can’t believe it, but I’m so glad.”

“Me, too.”

Chapter Text

“Do you ever let your guard down, Mister Holmes?”

“Do you ever put yours up, Detective Inspector?”

With regret, Mycroft watched the handsome, easy-going, and kind visage become a stony mask.

And that was that.


Five years and about a dozen stiff, uncomfortable exchanges of pleasantries later, Mycroft saw Lestrade when he was being asked to give a statement to a Detective Sargent on a hot July night. Lestrade had interrupted his colleague and taken over the mundane task.

“Reason for being on the premises?”

“Shopping,” said Mycroft. “I was not anticipating being swept up in a police raid.”

“I don’t suppose so. Antiquing on a Wednesday night? There wasn’t a more professional reason for your presence?” He narrowed his gaze.

Mycroft realised he’d been waiting five years for this moment and no other.

“Would you like to see my purchase, Detective Inspector?”

It was painful for Mycroft to let his emotions run free, but he braced himself and allowed Lestrade to study his face and wonder at motives and craft his response.

“Yes.”

Mycroft reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cotton handkerchief, which he carefully unfolded.

Lestrade stared, then said cautiously,

“It’s a deer.”

“Yes. It is, more precisely, a Petit Felippe doe.”

Lestrade shook his head uncomprehendingly.

“Petit Felippe is a collection of antique porcelain figures. I,” and here Mycroft took a deep breath, “I have been assembling a Petit Felippe Christmas village for the past, well, for quite some time. I have a village square and some carolers and a church and a skating pond and a forest. The stag and the fawn I have, but the doe, well, the doe was thought to not exist anymore.”

“But Gorman had one?”

“Yes. I tracked it down and Gorman sold it to me, all quite legally and above board, about ten minutes before you arrived, before he was arrested.”

Lestrade leaned over the figure, eyeing it closely, then nodded. “Cute. It’s your hobby, this Christmas village?”

“Yes.”

There. Guard down. Part of Mycroft wanted to be sick, but part of him was relieved.

And then Lestrade did something extraordinary.

He smiled a wide, handsome, easy-going, kind smile. It was a smile that Mycroft had not seen in five years.

“I like Christmas myself,” he said.

Don’t let this go by, Mycroft urged himself. Don’t.

“When it’s assembled, would you care to view it? In person, I mean, in my home?”

The smile didn’t waiver. If anything, it grew warmer, so warm that Mycroft felt a bit lightheaded.

“That would be lovely. I should like to see this lady with her family.” Then he sighed and tapped the document between. “I’m afraid I have to get on with this.”

“Of course. I did not notice anything out of the ordinary except…”


Two weeks later, Lestrade received a text with a photo.

I couldn’t wait. Tomorrow night? MH

Lestrade laughed and replied at once.

Yes. I’ll bring some of my famous Christmas in July punch. GL

Chapter Text

“Once more, my queen? Please.”

Molly dragged her tongue up his neck. Then she bent her head and caught a glimpse of the pile of clothes on the floor, her new frock—a loud, lively, strappy harlequin-patterned thing—jumbled with his black-and-white evening wear.

They’d gone to a play, a rather good play. Then they’d come back to her flat and fucked. Twice.

She’d worked a full day and was a bit sleepy, but there was something in his tone.

“What’s going on?”

She studied his face, watched the mask he’d been wearing all night drop like landslide, exposing a slab of raw emotion.

Fear. Sorrow. Guilt. Panic.

“What’s happened? What’s going to happen?”

She let him fold her in his arms. She let him hide his face in her neck. She told herself the dampness was sweat. Criminal masterminds didn’t cry.

“You’re going to do something that’s going to hurt me?”

He nodded.

“A lot,” she said. Not a question. Criminal masterminds didn’t hurt people a little bit. “Fuck me, then. Fuck me until you have to go.”

“Molly…”

“For God’s sake, don’t talk! One lie, one false promise, one bit of bollocks that doesn’t apply to people like you and me, and, so help me, I will cut you! How much is the reward these days?”

He snorted. “The official one? Half a million pounds.”

“That’d buy a lot of cat toys.”  

“Vicious.” He kissed her shoulder. “And perfect.”

She kissed his lips, kissed over his chin, down his neck to his chest. She licked his nipples and his belly. She sucked his cock until he was moaning. Then she pulled off and climbed atop him.

His eyes were closed as she rode him, as he came.

He cleaned them, and she laid on her side. He spooned behind her.

“Until?” he asked, nuzzling behind her ear.

“Until.”

Molly didn’t know those would be the last words they said to each other for a long time.

She slept. He did not.

She woke once to him rubbing her nipples and cleavage with his come, woke again to his tongue in her arse. She suckled his prickhead once. She felt his prick inside her more than once.  

He fucked her with a frenzied despair, and part of Molly began to grieve even before knowing what precisely it was that she was losing.

It was him. It had to be him. Nothing else would drive him this mad.

Molly woke alone and found herself clothed in a clean cotton nightdress and sensible knickers. A stab of panic went through her when she glanced at her phone and saw the time, but then she remembered she was working evening shift.

Anxiety about Jim sat in the back of her mind all day, and when she had a spare moment, she wondered just what he was up to.

She got her first clue when a grave-looking Sherlock stopped by the morgue unexpectedly to tell her that what he needed most was her.

Chapter Text

Unadulterated joy mingled with Lestrade’s lust.

How could it not?

He was, naked, kneeling upon a very fine bed and gazing upon an equally fine arse while holding his hard, leaking prick in his hand.

He’d taken his time, not rushed the sucking of the handsome prick, nor the prepping of the sweet hole. Fingers, tongue. Stretching, teasing, and cleaning both of them as he went.

Now he’d nowhere to go and nothing to do but fuck this delicious arse.

It was going to be so good.

Lestrade savoured the anticipation. After all, he wasn’t a lad anymore; all-night binges were the stuff of fond memories. He liked his sleep a bit too much.

He gripped pale buttocks, kneading them, running his hands up to the lower back and around at the hips. The skin and flesh were soft, pliant, and warm beneath his touch.

But then, as Lestrade was about to spread the cheeks and nudge his prickhead into the waiting orifice, a thought occurred.

This was his division.

Not terrorism or intelligence. Not vice or traffic. Not even homicide.

Not burglary, but this.

Buggery!

Now Lestrade was the kind of man who laughed at his own jokes, no matter how weak, but in this instance, he didn’t realise that he had laughed at his own joke until an impatient voice snapped,

“If you’re quite done amusing yourself, perhaps, you’d like to get on with the matter at hand?”

Lestrade’s laugh turned into a snort.

“Says the man who once composed a haiku about my prick while he was sucking it.”

“It was, in fact, a tanka, and one that you decided to write on your skin in pen afterwards.”

“Well, it isn’t every day that—”

“No, it isn’t, but I was thinking that today was the day I was getting my arse fu—!”

Lestrade shoved his prick in with no finesse.

“How’s that?”

The reply was a gurgle.

Lestrade slid his prick in farther, leaning forward and gripping hips for leverage. “Oh, you feel so good ‘round me. Absolutely perfect. Tight and hot.” He hummed appreciatively. “That’s it, love. Take all of me.”

When Lestrade was fully sheathed, he leaned forward and whispered,

“Do you know what I was thinking?”

The reply was a grunt.

“I was thinking two things: one, that it is a joy to fuck you in this way, every way, of course, but I had this way in mind; and two, that this is my division, not burglary, but buggery!”

The reply was a groan and what might have been an expletive.

“All right,” conceded Lestrade.

He turned his attention to the matter at hand. He slid his prick in and out, finding the rhythm and angle that seemed to best suit the fucker and, judging by the muffled cries and whimpers and clutching of the bedclothes, the fucked.

And when he’d spent and pulled out, there was a sigh and a moan, not his own, and an admission,

“It really is your division.”

Chapter Text

It was the kind of cold, crisp winter night that John enjoyed. The pavement and paths themselves were clear, but along the edges, tall, craggy mounds, the dirty remnants of the previous week’s heavy snowfall, loomed.

John walked until he began to break a sweat beneath his heavy coat. He walked until his leg screamed. He collapsed on one end of a park bench, his ragged breaths forming foggy clouds in the dark.

The park was empty. Or so John thought.

But in a minute, a stranger appeared.

“May I?”

The voice was a rather pleasant, rumbly baritone.

John nodded and had a fleeting impression of dark curly hair, high cheekbones, and a very good coat.

The stranger settled on the opposite end of the bench.

“Do you have a light?”

Oh, Lord. The last thing John wanted was to have his nice, cold, crisp winter air polluted by someone’s cancer stick.

But he did, in fact, have a light.

The electrical wiring in the decrepit building that housed John’s miserable bedsit was, as they said, not up to code. The ancient fuses blew so much, John had been forced to invest in candles and matches.

He took the book of matches out of his pocket and leaned toward the stranger, who mirrored the movement.

It was, John decided, an intimate act, this one. Exchanging of fire. Enabling someone else’s vice. Hands and lips nearing. It also gave John the opportunity to observe a pair of lovely grey eyes and a mouth of which Renaissance sculptors dreamt.

“Thank you.”

John grunted.

Time to go. Good-bye, gorgeous.

The stranger leaned forward, set his mouth in an O, and blew out a perfect smoke ring.

John smiled despite himself.

Show off.

The stranger shot John a look, took another long drag on the cigarette, held it, then leaned towards John.

And it seemed the most natural thing in the world for John to meet him halfway.

The stranger exhaled. John inhaled.

And for one shared breath, their eyes met.

Then John turned away and coughed.

“Would you like to…?”

The voice was even lower and rumblier.

John was certain the stranger was going to say ‘fuck.’ In fact, John was so certain he was going to say ‘fuck’ that he missed what he did say.

“Sorry?”

“Would you like to help me catch a killer?”

John stared, then frowned, then managed an uncertain “Yes?”

“Good.” The stranger twisted his lips in a wry smile. “Afterwards we can do whatever you thought I was going to ask you to do.”

Heat rose in John’s cheeks.

The stranger took another puff, and John heard a tiny hiss when he buried his cigarette in the snowbank.

“He’s on his way. When I say ‘run,’ run.”

The stranger was obviously mad.

John heard nothing, but then, yes, footsteps, growing louder. “One condition,” he said, feeling his adrenaline surging, “about afterwards.”

The stranger met his gaze and smirked. “Of course. I’ve been trying to quit for ages.”

Chapter Text

…I’m filling you, fucking you, and all you can do is take it, but you are taking it, so beautifully, tied up so prettily just like a gift, it’s Christmas, isn’t it? And you’re my present under the tree…but I’m not going to let you go until I’ve had my fill of you, which is, God, is going to take a long while…do you want me to leave you tied up like this? Ready for me whenever I want? Spread wide, so vulnerable, so exposed, anyone could come along and see what a helpless toy you are, mine to do with as I please…would you like that?

…yes, yes, leave me tied up, fuck me whenever you’d like…

…leaking, yet?...

…yes…

…all right, you’ve been so good, I’m going to come, then you can…and I’ll be honest, I’m ready to burst, my lovely tart, the way that you tease me, driving me mad…oh, Christ…here I go…making such a perfect mess of you…

…please…

…so good…now, touch yourself…

“Thank you. The quality of the experience never waivers.”

“You’re welcome. Next week, same day, same time?”

“No. To my great misfortune I have a commitment overseas which won’t afford the necessary privacy, but the following week?”

“Absolutely. You have my number.”


“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

John looked down and shook his head. He’d thought he’d been imagining things when he’d heard the voice on the payphone.

“You met him yesterday and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

John’s own responses in the payphone had been monosyllabic grunts, and so far, he hadn’t said anything but exchanging banalities with the woman who’d brought him.

Did this person really not know who John was?

John looked up, searching the hazel eyes for signs of recognition.

“I’m an interested party,” said the man. “Interested in Sherlock Holmes. Not a friend, of course.”

He turned his head, and John caught the resemblance.

Gotcha. By the short and curlies.

John leaned in and whispered,

“You are going to take me directly to Baker Street. And I’m not going to tell your brother how we know each other. And I’ll look forward to your call on Wednesday. I missed you last week.”

The man’s expression was one of utter shock. Then he looked down at a notebook, flipping pages and muttering, “Always something.” He closed the notebook and said,

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“John Watson.”

They shook hands.

“You are a man of many talents, as well as surprises, Doctor Watson.”

“I aim to please.”

Mycroft nodded and smiled at his shoes. “A personal inquiry, one you needn’t answer: it may be ego, but I was under the impression that during our sessions…”

“Yes, I do. It’s rare, but I like your voice as much as you like mine.”

“I didn’t think Wednesdays could get more interesting.”

“But they will.”

Chapter Text

The beep woke Mycroft. In the darkness, he reached for his mobile and tapped.

Oh, just a home invasion of the fraternal variety.

He rose, found his slippers and dressing gown, and padded downstairs to the guest bedroom.

He didn’t need to switch on the light.

The skin of the almost-nude body stretched out on the bed was decorated with swirls of luminescence.

Mycroft’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he could see more.

“Sherlock, what on earth…?”

“Hallowe’en party.”

“Since when you celebrate Hallowe’en?

“Since tonight. I fancied a bit of fun.”

“What are you? A lizard?” Mycroft frowned. “Or imp?”

“Demon.”

“Oh, well, that’s fitting.”

Sherlock had been spread wide on his back. At Mycroft’s words, he curled forward in a manner that was, Mycroft admitted, demonic. Or, perhaps, devilish. Ribbons of painted skin undulated with a sensual grace.

As Sherlock neared Mycroft, he lifted his head and opened his eyes.

Mycroft gasped.

The eyes looking into his were bright yellow orbs with thin black slits down the centres.

Sherlock chuckled. “Contact lenses.”

“Have you a forked tongue, too?” inquired Mycroft.

“No, my own’s quite serviceable in that respect. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Mycroft grunted and stepped closer to the edge of the bed.

“Serpentine,” he observed as Sherlock writhed. Really, the painted swirls were quite mesmerising. “What are you wearing?”

“Nothing.”

There was a snap, and a scrap of day-glo cloth landed beside Mycroft’s slipper.

Sherlock raised his head and began nuzzling at the front of Mycroft’s dressing gown.

Mycroft petted Sherlock, smoothing his hair and gently massaging his scalp with the pads of his fingers.

Sherlock began to lick Mycroft’s growing bulge through the layers of fabric.

“How many pricks did you suck tonight, Sherlock?”

“A thousand. I wanted to get it just right before I came home to you.”

Mycroft chuckled despite himself. He let his gaze drift to the curls painted on Sherlock’s buttocks.

“Did you let anyone…?”

“Just a bit of play with an angel. Please, My.”

Mycroft drew apart the sides of his dressing gown and yanked down his pyjamas and fed Sherlock his prick. Then he released his clothing and began to rub Sherlock’s cheeks. He loved how they changed when Sherlock took him.

Mycroft’s hands soon returned to Sherlock’s hair. He held Sherlock’s head by the roots.

Sherlock fell still and allowed Mycroft to fuck his mouth for a bit.

Then Mycroft pulled out completely.

“You look amazing.”

Sherlock, taking his cue, rolled onto his back and began to perform: spreading his legs, twisting this way and that, slapping his buttocks, tweaking his nipples, and, eventually, dry humping his way across the bed.

Mycroft drank him in, then slid open the drawer of the bedside table. “I’ve got to sod you.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Sherlock raised his arse in the air and spread his cheeks.

“You’ve been plugged all night?” asked Mycroft, spying the protruding ring. “Oh, I’m going to wreck you.”

“Happy Hallowe’en!”

Chapter Text

Blast this legwork! Sherlock was the sleuthhound, not him!

Nevertheless, here he was, tromping through woods, following tracks, those of the person he was hunting as well as a much smaller pair, animal tracks, in fact, which seemed to be accompanying his quarry’s steps at every turn.

Until the abandoned well.

The lid was resting against the stone.

Mycroft heard a hollow whimpering.

“Cossington?”

“Oh, God!”

Time to call in the cavalry.

Mycroft tapped his phone.

“Tell ‘em to bring a doctor! I’m gonna die of rabies!” wailed the voice. “A bloody fox bit me! That’s why I fell. My leg’s broken, too! I’m sorry, Mister Holmes, I really am!”

“You’ve been stealing from my family’s estate for years, Cossington. My father turned a blind eye to your crimes, but I am not my father.” Mycroft looked up and there, peering over the edge of the well, with two delicate paws braced on the stones, was a fox.

A silver fox.

It was staring at Mycroft intently. It cocked its head to one side and stared some more.

Whiskers twitched.

The fox licked its lips, and Mycroft felt a strange sensation crawl up and down his spine.

He’d the urge to ask, ‘Do I know you?’

What a ridiculous thought! Almost ridiculous as chasing one’s swindling estate manager through the woods and trapping him in a very steep hole.

Mycroft gave a slight bow in the fox’s direction and mouthed, ‘Thank you.’

And, with a swish of a thick, silver tail, the fox was gone.

Soon, the usually silent, solitary well was the centre of noise and activity. Among those who arrived there was a familiar face.

“Detective Inspector!”

“Mister Holmes.”

“You can’t possibly have been in the neighborhood. We are far from London.”

“Well…”

A head cocked to one side. And Mycroft recognised clothes as those of a bundle he’d stumbled upon while trailing Cossington. Thinking that they were Cossington’s and that he might return for them, Mycroft had left them in their waterproof bag where he’d found them.

A nose twitched as if it had whiskers.

“Sherlock said you were having a spot of trouble at your family estate, and I am familiar with these woods. Or at least the ones some distance to the east…”

“Near the lake?”

A smile.

“As a boy, I heard stories,” murmured Mycroft, “about the woods ‘round the lake.”

“I’m certain you did. Well, I thought I’d investigate myself. A bit sly, of course, but that’s my nature.”

A pink tongue licked lips.

Mycroft’s pulse quickened. “Impossible,” he breathed.

“Only highly improbable.” Another smile. “And utterly magical.”

“Thank you for your help with Cossington.”

“That was my pleasure. I don’t have rabies, by the way.”

“Perish the thought.” Mycroft heard someone calling his name. He said quickly and quietly, “I have a very nice boar bristle brush. Perfect for smoothing fur.”

Dark eyes lit. “Now that sounds lovely. I’ll meet you in your garden when this is settled.”

A silver fox, indeed!

Chapter Text

“Good evening, Detective Inspector.”

“Oh, God,” groaned Lestrade, and not in the good way. He gave the visitor standing in the threshold to his office a less-than-welcoming glance. “Mister Holmes, I am on my way home. Tomorrow’s my day off. I really do not have time for whatever cloak-and-dagger bullocks you come bearing.”

Mycroft took a deep breath, then asked politely,

“May I?”

Lestrade gave a nod and a wave at the chair in front of his desk and collapsed with weary resignation back into his own chair.

“What is it?” he asked. “Not Sherlock, I hope.”

“No, it is simply the words which allow one purchase a certain seasonally-themed beverage at a certain establishment of which my sources tell me you are a frequent patron.”

Lestrade blinked, allowing the words to settle into his brain. Then he blinked again. Then he got up and closed the door, and, when he returned to his desk, said,

“You’ve got my attention, Mister Holmes.”

“I’m delighted.”

“You know the secret code words to get a Jack Skellington Frappuccino?!”

Mycroft smiled. “My cloak-and-dagger bullocks ought to be good for something.”

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “And what do you want for said information, Mister Holmes?” He was smiling, too, now, and the fatigue and impatience which had so plagued him minutes before seemed to be rapidly on the ebb.

“I already have what I want.”

“Which is?”

“Your attention.”

For a long while, the two held each other’s gaze, which is decidedly different from staring. Then Lestrade said,

“We could have breakfast together tomorrow.” He added hastily, almost apologetically, “If that’s something you do.”

“Detective Inspector, despite all indications, some of which I admittedly take pains to cultivate, I’m not an alien. Or a plant. I do take my nourishment in the regular fashion at the conventional hours. And I would greatly enjoy breakfasting with you tomorrow.”

“What time? I imagine you’re an early bird.”

“Let’s not consider my internal clock. It’s your day off. I assume a lie-in is of high priority on the agenda.”

Lestrade had a curious feeling and a curious notion and a curious image, or three, in his head.

“Have you ever seen The Nightmare Before Christmas, Mister Holmes?”

“No.”

“Care to?”

It was Mycroft’s turn to pause and consider. “Yes,” he said finally. “And I’ll have you know I have a home theatre in my residence.”

“Do you now? Posh?”

“Very.”

“Do you have a hot shower, too, Mister Holmes, in your residence?”

Mycroft nodded. “And an extra toothbrush.”

Lestrade smiled, then pressed his lips together, then unnecessarily straightened the files on his desk.

“Is this the point where I tell you that I don’t go home with every fellow who flaunts a pumpkin-spiced, mocha-drizzled, java-chipped, whipped-cream-topped obscenity in front of me?”

Mycroft leaned forward and plucked a pen from a jar. “You’ll wake up with the words written on your bare thigh tomorrow morning. Shall we?”

“God, yes.”

Chapter Text

“Here’s where I find you!”

“Boss!”

“What are you doing here, Sebbie?”

“Aren’t you a mastermind or a genius or something? What does it look like I’m doing here? What is everybody else doing here?

“By the looks of it, tromping through the middle of nowhere at the crack of arse in the morning!”

“I’ve done my research. This is the best pumpkin farm in the UK. And this is the best patch. And five minutes ago, they opened for picking. Excuse me, I’m going to find the perfect pumpkin before that Brownie troop beat me to it.”

“Sebbie, you had a job to do last night.”

“Yeah? Oh, this one! No! Look at the other side. That’s how they get you. One half, Cinderella’s coach, the other half, evil stepsister’s face. Over there.”

“I turned on my television this morning, and who do I see on ‘Wake up, You Poor Slobs’? The man you were supposed to put a bullet in last night, nattering amicably with chirpy Satan’s Spawn and her sidekick, Bucket of Congealed Drool.”

“There! Oh, look at it, Boss! Isn’t it perfect? Oh, mwah!”

“It’s a very sad day when the best sniper in the world chooses kissing a gourd over following his lord and master’s command!”

“Boss.”

“Don’t ‘boss’ me! I’m going to bugger you raw—”

“Boss, the Brownies! Watch your language!”

“—if you don’t stop this perfect pumpkin nonsense and get back to work!”

“You know this is what Marx said would happen.”

“I don’t give a bloody fu—”

“Hush.” Seb put his hand over Jim’s mouth. “If I’ve done my job, then I get to bugger you raw. Right here. In this patch. Tonight.”

“What about the Brownies?” taunted Jim. “How could you have done your job? I just saw the blighter on live television.”

“Here.” Seb tapped his phone.

BREAKING NEWS: FINANCIER AND PHILANTHROPIST THOMAS PAGE ALEXANDER HAS BEEN FOUND DEAD IN HIS HOME. POLICE ARE LOOKING FOR A DOPPLEGANGER WHO WAS HIRED TO IMPERSONATE ALEXANDER ON A SCHEDULED TELEVISION APPEARANCE EARLIER THIS MORNING…”


 

That night…in the pumpkin patch…

“Oh, Sebbie!” hissed Jim. “You calabash-pricked, Hallowe’en-loving bastard.”

“Burns, doesn’t it? Especially the third time. You’d better be good, or I’ll shove a squash up your arse next time. Now, where was I. Oh, yeah. It’s gonna be great, Boss. Perfect jack o’ lantern, it’s just the right shape for the carving I’ve planned out, and there’s a nice bit of pulp, more than enough for a small pie and a batch of that soup you like. And I can roast the seeds!”

“FU-U-UCK!”

“Bury your face in the dirt. It’ll make it easier.”

“How will it be easier?!”

“Well, I won’t have to hear your squawking for one. And neither will the pumpkins, bless them.”

“Sebbie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“Yeah? And?”

“And yours is perfect pumpkin.”

“I knew you’d come around.”

And with that, Seb flipped Jim onto his back and brought him off with two tugs.

Chapter Text

‘Oh, you’re so brave. To go to a party on your own.’

Molly tried to forget her co-worker’s words.

The food was excellent. The drinks even better. The music and ambient were lovely.

And everyone at the masked ball, including Molly herself, was dressed to kill.

And she was having a good time!

Molly’s full, floor-length, emerald green skirt swished in fairy-tale style as she sauntered from the main ballroom to a side room, which also had music and dancing. She watched the dancers until she spied two figures, one had a lovely gash of a red mouth, and the other full, plump candy-floss pink lips.

Perhaps feeling Molly’s stare, they turned to her. One beckoned.

Molly slotted herself between them.

And they danced.

When the song ended, Molly whispered in one of the pair’s ear what she wanted. Then a few words were whispered in Molly’s ear. She nodded.

In few minutes, Molly was grateful she hadn’t even considered knickers. One lovely mouth was making love to her clit while another was worshipping her arse. She looked down at her own chest and smiled.

One bright red lipstick print on the slope of one breast, one pink lipstick print on the other.

Molly wore them like badges of pride.

She clung to a column and shuddered through her orgasm, but when her eyes opened, there was no one beneath the voluminous folds of her dress.

She made her way upstairs to a room that was all leather and cigars and port. Or brandy. Or whiskey. Or whatever. A quartet seemed to be waiting for her, for they stopped their conversation and made space for her as she approached.

Molly took her place, a diminutive green sapling among four stately pines in evening dress.

Then there were lips on her bare shoulders, and there were clever fingers understanding, and undermining, the workings of her skirt.

And then they settled into their rotation. A prick inside her, a hand fondling her, a pair of lips kissing hers, and another suckling her tit, careful, she made certain, not to disturb the lipstick prints.

When one prick spent, she pivoted clockwise, and everyone shifted roles. They each were clever in their own ways, and Molly couldn’t help comparing.

Those hands, that prick, those lips, that tongue.

When they’d all had a turn inside her, they became as solicitous as lady’s maids, cleaning her and straightening her dress and hair.

Four kisses to her hand, and Molly floated out of the room and upstairs to the balcony.

“Not bored?” asked a voice.

“No,” said Molly as she leaned forward and looked down at the orgy under way. Then she stood back and released her grip on the railing and unfastened the clasp at her neck which held the bodice of her dress up.

She shimmied, shaking her bare breasts at the crowd, then felt hands come ‘round to cup them.

“Let’s give ‘em a show, my dear.”

She quivered and thought,

Oh, so brave!

Chapter Text

“Make ‘im beg, Clara,” growled Harry as she yanked on the lead.

John’s head jerked back, and Harry planted sloppy kisses on the side of his neck and the leather collar.

“Oh, yes, Johnny, do beg.” Clara was kneeling on the bed clad in only a lumpy oatmeal-coloured jumper. She pulled the front of the jumper down between her legs and teased, “C’mon, Johnny, be a good boy.”

“Please, Miss Clara, please, please, may I have my jumper back?”

“Good boy, indeed,” said Harry, ruffling John’s hair.

“You can have it if,” Clara raised the hem of the jumper, first showing off her damp ginger bush, then the lower half of her full, rosy-nippled tits, “you eat me out like a good boy.”

Harry and John groaned.

Then John was flat on his back, and Clara was kneeling, straddling his head.

Harry had the jumper hiked up and was licking Clara’s tits.

“Anyone would think you were the dog with the bone,” observed Clara as she took up the lead that Harry had dropped.

“Can’t get enough of you,” murmured Harry before kissing Clara’s pout.

Clara breathed into Harry’s mouth. “Oh, Harry, he’s so…”

“Good. Yeah, he ought to be. I taught him everything he knows about eating pussy. And yours, love, is the sweetest in the whole bloody world.”

Clara gave a little cry. Then she inched backwards and slowly pulled the jumper off.

“Your reward.”

John grinned, the lower half of his face shining wet. “Please, Miss Clara, please, please, will you ride my cock?”

Harry made a noise of protest, but Clara pulled on the lead, more gently than Harry had, and John sat up.

Clara curled the leather strap ‘round her fist as John moved closer. She kissed his lips, then licked his chin. Harry joined her, both lapping at John’s skin like hungry pups.

“I think,” Clara kissed John’s lips, then Harry’s, “I will ride you only if Mistress gets eaten out just as nicely while I do it.”

John and Harry howled.

“But first,” amended Clara as she cupped her own breasts and leaned down. “More tit love, please.”

John sucked hard at one nipple, then the other.

“Oh, oh,” mewled Harry as she watched, “Me, Johnny, me.”

John turned his head and sucked at Harry’s breasts, too.

“Harder, Johnny, please. And bite, please, bite them.”

Harry cried out as John bared his teeth, then clamped ‘round each bud in turn, but she recovered her haughty tone when she said,

“Now, if you want Miss Clara to put your naughty willie in her pussy, you’d better behave.”

But Clara was already inching further down John’s body and impaling herself on his erect member.

“Oh, Johnny!” she groaned. “Oh, my sweet puppy, yes.”

Harry took her place, facing Clara, straddling John’s head.

Harry and Clara’s lips met over John’s torso as Clara began to bounce on John’s cock.

“He’s such a good boy, Harry.”

Harry looked down and hummed her agreement.

“Especially when he begs.”

Chapter Text

Time to go home, thought Lestrade. Could be worse. At least he'd got a good book.

As he slid off the stool, he grabbed his shopping bag with one hand, tipped the last of his coffee down his throat and turned—

SMASH!

“What the hell?!”

“I’m terribly sorry. Oh.”

Mycroft stared. Lestrade stared.

Each, without taking his eyes from the other, reach down and picked up his bag.

“Mycroft.”

“Gregory, such a surprise to see you.”

“In a bookshop? Or at all?”

Mycroft blushed. “I didn’t know you knew…”

“How to read? It’s amazing what they teach goblins in school these days.” Lestrade winced. He sounded like a jilted lover.

Get over it, he told himself, it was one night, one exquisite night, but it was just a bit of fun and now moving on. He’s a vampire. You’re a demi-goblin. No hard feelings, just different worlds.

“Enjoy your book,” he said, then turned and fled the shop.


Damn, damn, damn.

Mycroft watched him go.

Then he went back into the bookshop, past the café, to the farthest row, a quiet place with naked light bulbs hanging down like bats.

It was an old story, even older than he was.

A perfect night. And then nothing.

He should’ve called. At first, he’d waited on purpose, thinking he’d seem too eager. And then there was that problem with Sherlock which consumed his attention for the better part of a week. And then, when things had finally settled, it seemed it was too late. He didn’t know what to say. Or what to do. Or how to start. And with every day that passed, and no word from Gregory, either, well…

And, now, when he’d finally decided to do something, to make a plan, he’d bumped into Gregory by chance and just made things worse.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Well, he was still going to do something, make a plan, and the first step was to…

He looked in the bag.

What? Only one?

He pulled out the book.

The Living Mountain by Nan Shepherd

Oh, dear.


Lestrade collapsed onto the bus seat and peered in his bag.

What? Two?

He pulled out the books.

“Bloody hell!”

The Down ‘n’ Dirty Vampire’s Secrets to Great Interspecies Sex by Myra M. Banks

Seduced by a Goblin Lord by Celestial Goodman

“Oh, Mycroft, you absolute pet!”

Lestrade giggled, then he pulled the rope and got off the bus long before his stop.


When the knock on the door came, Mycroft was in the middle of regretting that he was a vampire who lived in a place called the Vampire’s Spire because all he really wanted to do was dig a grave for himself and die.

“Gregory!”

Oh, that smile. It almost made it worth it.

“Very naughty to steal from a goblin, Mister Holmes.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not. I didn’t even know this book existed. And, I’m not a Lord, but if you fancy being seduced by a goblin…”

“Oh, I do,” breathed Mycroft.

Chapter Text

Mycroft cracked the car window. Drops splashed in.

“Fancy a dry place for the night, love?”

“Yeah.”

In a moment, the far door opened, and something resembling a wet rat in a miniskirt and platinum wig settled against the leather interior.

“What’s your name, love?”

“Sugar.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient? I’m Daddy.”

Bright pink lacquered lips curled in a smile around the protruding white stick of a lolly.

“Show Daddy your knickers, Sugar.”

The miniskirt was rucked up, revealing a swathe of hot pink lace strangling a half hard cock. A turn, and there was another, slightly larger swathe with the word ‘JUICY’ written in curled script.

The knickers were tied with thin hot pink ribbon on each side. Mycroft reached over and pulled one of the ends and kept pulling until the whole ensemble was decorating the floor of the car.

“First rule, no knickers with Daddy. He wants to slip his hand under your skirt and feel you whenever he pleases.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

The lolly stick rolled from one side of the mouth to the other. Mycroft reached over again and pulled it out, cracked the window, and threw it out into the storm.

“Second rule, the only thing you suck on is Daddy’s lolly.”

“Oh, yes, Daddy.”

“Come here.”

When Mycroft’s lap was full, he rubbed a plump bottom lip with his thumb. The pink gloss must’ve been a genuine lacquer for it didn’t smudge.

A chin tilted down and eyes looked up, but the winged eyelashes were so thick, it was impossible to say what colour the eyes were. Unless you knew.

“How many cocks have you sucked tonight, Sugar?”

“A dozen or so.”

“And how many cocks you take here?”

Mycroft gripped one buttock hard, then probed the rim with the very tip of his index finger.

“Half a dozen.”

“Busy.”

“It’s the rain.”

“How many sucked you, Sugar?”

Pink lips smiled. “None. I was saving myself for Daddy.”

Mycroft’s reserve snapped like a chain.

His mouth was full of cock in seconds, pressed to his forehead the rucked miniskirt, around his face, legs encased in fishnet stockings.

“Oh, fuck, Daddy, fuck!”

Mycroft’s eyes were closed, and he was sucking as hard as the muscles of his mouth would permit. His hands filled with the flesh of two round, plump arse cheeks, which he squeezed, as his fingertip continued to tease the edges of an orifice.

Soon, he was sitting up. “Sweet as sugar,” he remarked after swallowing a bitter mouthful.

“Daddy, please.” A turn, and Mycroft stared at the arse he’d been holding, cheeks spread, hole winking, “put your lolly in me. Let me make you feel good.”

Mycroft retrieved a tube of lubricant and obliged.

“Your intel was right, Mycroft. Reilly and his gang have moved on.”

Mycroft’s arms and lap were full. He whispered, “Come home with me tonight, Sherlock. It’s warm and dry and,” his voice faltered, and he tightened his embrace, “safe.”

“Your bed?”

“Naturally.”

“All right then. Just tonight.”

Chapter Text

“Seb!”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Boss! What in the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“Are nuns supposed to talk like that?”

“Are—what are you, anyway?—odd-job gardeners with too much gel in their hair supposed to stomp around a cloister in muddy boots and hiss at pious sisters going about their holy business from dark corners?”

“I just wanted to see how you are getting on. I tried yesterday, but you didn’t notice me, you blind-deaf bastard.”

“I did hear you. I was ignoring you. Practicing custody of the eyes and ears.”

“What? You have to put your eyes and ears as well as your cock on a leash?”

“Yes, but Sister Beatrice isn’t supposed to have a cock, is she?”

“All God’s children, Seb. Christ, you look good in black. The wimple, Sebbie, the bloody wimple, it does things to me. I never knew.”

“Boss, you need to get a hold of yourself, keep your hands to yourself, and get out of here. Do you want this bastard’s throat cut or not? It’s all set up. It’s going down tomorrow just like we planned.”

“Yeah, but, God Almighty, Seb, I really like this look on you. Tell me you’re going to keep the trappings after the job’s done.”

“No way, Boss. DNA, remember? It’s got to be burned.”

“Really? That’s unfortunate. You know, Sebbie, why wait? The way you’re looking, I could go right now. Come here and let me…”

“No. I’ve got to go to Sext.”

“But that’s what I’m talking about!”

“Sext. The midday prayer.”

“Sebbie, I’ll get down on my knees and worship…”

“You’re a fiend.”

“So are you! What’s that got to do with it?”

“Boss.”

“All right, all right. Good luck tomorrow. You need anything, let me know. Love you.”

“Boss. Wait. Come back.”

“Yeah?”

“You know this wool is coarse, nasty, rough stuff.”

“Yeah, so?”

“And my skin’s sensitive. I’m really missing my special cream.”

“What’s the point, Seb?”

“The point is that I am wearing dark silk stockings with black satin suspenders underneath this habit.”

“Seb.”

“Heh, heh. Gotta go. Bye!”

“Rot in hell, Sister!”


WHACK!

“Now, I want the truth this time, Master James. How many times yesterday did you touch your dirty part?”

“Thrice, Sister Beatrice.”

WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!

“And what precisely did the devil put into your mind when you were defiling yourself in this manner?”

“You, Sister Beatrice, I was thinking of you.”

“Wicked boy! On your knees!”

WHACK!

“I was thinking of your legs, Sister.”

“These legs?”

“Oh, yes, sister, and I was imagining that I was touching them just like that while I was, you know, touching myself.”

“Show me, you sinful boy. Oh, I see.”

“I put my mouth here, Sister, and sucked. Like this. And this. And this.”

“Oh, all the saints and martyrs, your depravity is near limitless! But there is always room for redemption. You shall do your penance here, inside the darkness of coarse wool. Oh, fingers, too, hmm, wicked…”

Chapter Text

John stumbled but caught himself. His lungs were on fire, and every muscle burned. Adrenaline still pushed his blood hard through the vessels of his body, and he was ready for the next attack.

It didn’t come.

He’d got them all.

But, wait.

Something in the far pile was moving.

John raised the axe.

“Don’t, don’t,” said a feeble voice. “I’m not…”

John blinked as something crawled out from a pile of the finally-dead undead. It raised up on its knee on the third try and lifted its hands. It was covered in blood and dirt and, but for the movements, resembled a dead body than a living one.

“I’m not.”

“I can see that,” said John. “Were you hiding there the whole time?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus Christ. Wait, are you cut?”

“I don’t think so. I have,” a hand touched a vial hung from on a leather cord ‘round its neck, “if I am. I’m Sherlock, by the way, or I was.”

“John. You need a wash. I know a place. I’ve got extra clothes,” he touched the rucksack on his back, “Let’s go.”


“There is a person underneath all that,” observed John as he sat on a rock by the edge of the pond. “What camp are you with?”

“I work alone.”

John’s eyes widened. “Alone?!”

“Alone protects me.”

“So does hiding under a mound of zombies, but…”

The sun broke through the clouds, and a nude Sherlock joined John on the rock, stretching out beside him.

“Feels good, eh?” said John.

Sherlock nodded. He glanced at the rucksack. “Doctor?”

“Yeah, once upon a time. You?”

“A detective.”

“Really?! I love detectives and detective stories!”

Sherlock almost smiled.

“Oh, please say you’ll come back to camp with me. What I miss most are good stories. Clever ones.”

Sherlock grunted. Then he met John’s gaze and said in a low voice, “Any slick in that pack?”

John grinned. “Yeah, I also got a mouth that waters at the sight of you.” He bent low and took Sherlock’s nipple in his mouth, running his wide, flat tongue back and forth over it, then swirling the tip of his tongue ‘round the edges and flicking it. Then he pressed his mouth to the whole area and sucked.

Sherlock groaned.

After a few more licks, John pulled off with an obscene, wet pop. “Sensitive?”

“Parts of me were.”

“Like this one?” John bent again and applied the same treatment to the other nipple until Sherlock began to whimper.

John pulled off again and took in the buds, now pebbled, and the expanse of smooth skin and too prominent ribs. He licked back and forth between the nipples, then bit, very slowly, very gently, ‘round one.

Sherlock’s body jerked.

John bit the other nipple.

Sherlock flailed again.

John licked swiftly down Sherlock’s torso, took his prick in his mouth, and sucked him off.

Sherlock came with his arms stretched over his head; John nuzzled into his armpit.

“Come back with me, Sherlock.”

“Of course.”

Chapter Text

“I’ve found someone for that part,” said Kate. “Here she is.”

Irene looked up from her clipboard and gasped.

“Molly?”

“Hi,” said Molly shyly.

Irene looked from Molly to Kate. “You here to…?”

“Audition for the pantomime.”

“The part is for a virgin sacrifice,” said Irene.

“Not a real sacrifice,” chirped Kate.

“Yeah,” said Molly.

“For a pantomime for a Hallowe’en orgy,” said Irene.

Molly’s slightly eager, slightly bashful expression didn’t change.

“Well,” said Irene, tapping her clipboard with a pen. “How about we take you through the steps? You can make final decision once you know what is involved.”

“Thanks.”

“All right. Kate, bring the rehearsal costume.”

Kate returned with a thin, lacy gown and a belt with a huge medallion buckle.

“Shall I try it on?” asked Molly nervously. “Now?”

Irene blinked, then looked at Kate, who shrugged. “Why not? You can keep your knickers on.”

“Oh, I’m not wearing any.”

“That’s okay, too,” said Kate quickly, shooting a glance at Irene, who tried not to smile.

Molly disappeared behind a standing partition, then reappeared in the gown with her hair hanging loose.

Irene studied her, nodding. “Lovely.”

“Really pretty,” added Kate, encouragingly.

“Thanks.”

“There will be a stage. The lady devil worshippers will have a dance. Then the virgin is led to the altar.”

Irene gestured to the stepstool and the table.

Molly raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Irene extended a hand and led her up.

Molly lay back on the table.

“More dancing,” said Irene as Kate adjusted the skirt of Molly’s gown, which was slit in several places. “Then the devil worshippers will taste the virgin.”

Kate bent until her head was between Molly’s legs. She put her hands under Molly’s thighs, coaxing her to bend her knees. Then she nuzzled at Molly through the fabric of the gown.

Molly giggled.

Irene grabbed Kate by her ponytail and yanked her head back. “Enough.” Then she climbed the stepstool. “Then the devil priestess will stand over the virgin, raise a dagger,” Irene raised her hand, “then bring it down until the tip presses the centre of the belt. Strings of tiny red flowers will shoot out like sprays of blood, and the devil worshippers will go into a frenzy and rip the clothing from the sacrifice.”

Kate made a show of pawing Molly. She unhooked the belt and pulled the sides of the gown apart.

Irene looked down, openly ogling Molly’s nude body.

Kate coughed.

Irene started. “So, are you still interested Molly?”

“Not at all, but I’d really like to be fucked.” Her shy expression morphed to one of pure mischief.

Kate giggled. Molly giggled. They exchanged a conspiratorial glance.

Irene smiled and rolled her eyes and clapped. “Well done, ladies.”

“Just a little Hallowe’en prank,” said Kate.

“We couldn’t resist,” said Molly.

Irene stepped off the stool and pointed to Molly. “Eat her out,” she ordered, “while I go get the paddle.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Kate, just before burying her grinning face in Molly’s bush.