Chapter 1: Slippery Nipple (Sherlock/John. Omegaverse. Lactation kink)
Alpha!Sherlock/Omega!John. Lactation kink. Post mpreg.
“I’m not a slave to my desires, John!”
“I’m not a beast!”
“You’re wrong. I’m not the least bit interested!”
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 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.
John’s back was against the wall. Sherlock’s mouth was clamped around John’s nipple.
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?”
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,
Sherlock rose and walked towards the refrigerator. “My turn. You rest. Wouldn’t want production to lag.”
Chapter 2: Kamikaze (Irene/Sally. Rope bondage.)
Irene/Sally. Mentions of past Sally/Anderson. Rope Bondage.
“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.”
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?”
Sally bent her head; Irene sighed,
“God, I love detectives!”
Chapter 3: Dirty Girl Scout (Anthea/Mycroft's Umbrella. Object Insertion.)
Anthea/Mycroft's Umbrella. Anthea/Mycroft. Masturbation. Object insertion. Phone sex. Food kink (chocolate).
“…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 …”
“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.”
“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.
“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.
“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 expect to see you looking well-rested and refreshed on Monday.”
Chapter 4: Irish Car Bomb (Moriarty/Moran. Knife play.)
Moriarty/Moran. Knife play. Blood licking. Object insertion.
“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.
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 5: Bloody Mary (Moriarty/Molly. Menstruation kink.)
Jim Moriarty/Molly. Menstrual kink.
“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.”
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?”
“Such a good girl. Good girls get as many orgasms as their beautiful bleeding bodies want.” He bent and kissed her clit.
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.”
Chapter 6: Old Fashioned (Sherlock/John. Nipple Piercing.)
Sherlock/John. Nipple piercing. For a-cumberbatch-of-cookies.
“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.”
“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.”
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—“
“—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.
John released it and whispered, “My treasure.”
Chapter 7: SoCo & Lime (Femlock/fem!John. Phone sex.)
Alpha fem!Sherlock/Omega fem!John. Phone sex.
Home soon? JW
No. Barts. SH
“Nothing for it. Exceptions must be made.”
Sherlock put her mobile to her ear.
John fled to the ladies toilet.
“I’m dying, Sherlock. I’ve drunk three of these hideously sweet American cocktails just to survive. ‘Southern Comfort’ is, in fact, a misnomer.”
“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—“
“Okay, Alpha-y pheromones. I’m wet!”
“I throw off my clothes!”
“I break the door down with my manly—“
“Okay, Alpha-y strength! I take you in my arms!”
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.”
“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 8: Dark 'N' Stormy (Sherlock/Mycroft/John. Dirty talk.)
Sherlock/Mycroft. Sherlock/John/Mycroft. Dirty talk. Incest. Reference to watersports. Reference to fisting. Reference to double penetration. No actual watersports or fisting or double penetration. For a-cumberbatch-of-cookies.
A Dark 'N' Stormy is dark rum, ginger beer, and a dash of bitters over ice.
“You’re thinking of him,” whispered Mycroft.
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.
“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?”
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 9: B-52 (Sherlock/John. Military kink.)
Sherlock/John. Military kink. John punching Sherlock in the face.
A B-52 is made of Bailey's, Kahlua, and Grand Marnier.
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.”
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.
“Two.” John rested one boot on Sherlock’s back as he moved up and down.
“Three. That’s right. Keep going.”
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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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 10: Death in the Afternoon (Sherlock/John. Vampire AU. Blow job.)
Death in the Afternoon. Sherlock/John. Vampire AU. Blow job.
Death in the Afternoon is absinthe and champagne. For a-cumberbatch-of-cookies.
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.
“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…”
“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?”
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 11: Margarita (Sherlock/John. Sherlock in heels. Rimming.)
“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.”
“Had you noted the fireman’s name was ‘Anderson,’ your suspicions might have been aroused.”
“Nevertheless, when you arrived, the last thing you expected was me at the top of a tree.”
“In these shoes.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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—“
“They also sell fine hosiery.”
“—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.”
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?”
“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.”
Much later, John sipped. “Nice. Where’d you get the recipe?”
“It was recommended to me on YouTube.”
Chapter 12: Rosé Sangria (Mystrade. Iceplay.)
Rosé Sangria. Mycroft/Lestrade. Ice play/food play.
For the LJ fan_flashworks prompt: rose.
“How much longer, Donovan?”
“Bastards!” He wiped his brow. “I’m poached already!”
“The smell,” she groaned. “Fried death.”
“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.”
“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.”
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 13: Fuzzy Navel (Sherlock/John. Genderbent. H/C. Petplay)
Sherlock/John. Genderbent. H/C. Petplay. John as dog. Post-the pool scene in "The Great Game."
A fuzzy navel is peach schnapps and orange juice.
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.
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 14: Mint Julep (Sherlock/John. Genderbent. Dream sex. Pony play)
Sherlock/John. Genderbent. Dream sex. Pony play. Sherlock as pony. Set during "The Blind Banker."
Mint julep is bourbon and simple syrup over crushed ice with mint sprigs. It's the traditional cocktail served at the most popular horse-racing event in the US, the Kentucky Derby.
This also fulfills my center Action/Adventure bingo square for the LJ 1_million_words June challenge: 'horsebackriding'
“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—“
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.”
“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…”
“Nice hindquarters,” said John with a grin.
“I would throw you,” retorted Sherlock.
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.
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,
Baker Street. John was mounting 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 15: Pimm's Cup (pre-Sherlock/Stanley Hopkins. Competency kink. Gen-rated)
“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.
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.
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.
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 16: Eggnog (Mystrade. Alien oviposition roleplay. Christmas.)
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.
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.
First egg was inside him.
He had been chosen.
Not as prey.
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.
In an instant, the straps were gone. Then there was a loud rusting and a concerned voice.
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 17: Scotch (Sherlock/John. AU. Kilt porn.)
Sherlock/John. Kilt porn. AU. Alternate First Meeting. A bit of exhibitionism. Window washer!John.
This is the naughty follow-up to my 221B Egged in which 221 is egged by young vandals just as Sherlock moves in and Mrs. Hudson calls the Men in Kilts cleaning service to help clean up the damage.
“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.
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 said that.”
“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 18: Four Horsemen (Sherlock/John. Mystrade. Four Horsemen AU.)
Four Horsemen AU. Sherlock/John. Blow job. Mystrade. Come play. Dirty talk. A bit of fat acceptance.
John as Pestilence; Lestrade as War; Mycroft as Famine; and Sherlock as Death.
A four horsemen is Jack Daniel's, Jameson, Jim Beam, and Johnnie Walker.
If you want more of these guys (in an foursome orgy picnic), check out Four Horsemen (the extended version).
Written for the July 2016 Watson's Woes 04 prompt: the Four Horsemen.
“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!”
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 19: Shirley Temple (Sherlock/John. Daddy kink.)
Sherlock/John. Daddy kink with Daddy!John & 'Shirley'
A Shirley Temple is ginger ale, grenadine, and maraschino cherries.
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.
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.
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.
Somewhere in my torpid mind, a penny dropped all the way to my cock.
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.
“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 20: Schlitz (Sherlock/John. Watersports.)
Sherlock/John. Watersports. First time.
Schlitz is an American beer. Apologies to any of its fans.
A very belated birthday gift to Vulgarweed; this ficlet is inspired by and a tribute to a hilarious line in "I Like Smoke and Lightning".
“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.
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.
“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.
John raced up the stairs and down the hall. At the sound of his stream cascading into the bowl, he sighed loudly.
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 21: Snakebite (Sherlock/John. Omegaverse. H/C.)
Omega Sherlock (surprise! surprise!) goes into Unexpected Heat. Omega Sherlock/Alpha John. H/C.
A snakebite is equal parts lager and cider.
“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.”
“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 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.”
“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 uncoiled. John gasped.
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.
“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 22: Sex with an Alligator (John/Mycroft. Car sex.)
Sex with an Alligator. John/Mycroft. Car sex. A bit h/c at the end. Inspired by the actual S4 trailer scene.
Sex with an Alligator is sweet & sour mix and Midori with raspberry liquor on the bottom and Jagermeister on top.
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.
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.”
“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.”
“We could have sex in a proper bed for starters.”
Mycroft chuckled, then leaned forward and tapped the glass.
Chapter 23: Pink Iguana (Sherlock/Molly. Fluff. H/c. Teen rating.)
Sherlock wants to cheer Molly up. Sherlock/Molly. Fluff. Rating: teen. Warning for mention of pet death.
A pink iguana is vodka, coconut rum, lime juice and cranberry juice.
Sherlock buttoned his coat.
“For what it’s worth, Sherlock…” said a voice from the darkness.
“…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.
“Where have you been? Toby died two weeks ago. Don’t you read her blog?”
“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!”
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…?”
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?”
Chapter 24: Water Moccasin. (Sherlock/Moriarty. Banter.)
Moriarty kidnaps Sherlock from a police launch. Sherlock/Moriarty. Banter. Hand job. Blow job. References to canon The Sign of Four.
One recipe for a water moccasin is Crown Royal, peach schnapps, sweet and sour mix and Triple sec.
Growing up, water moccasins scared me to death.
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.
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.”
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.”
“The case. Buried treasure. Escape from a prison island. A man with a wooden leg. Pygmy sidekick. It’s a pirate story.”
“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.”
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 25: Rattlesnake. (Sherlock/John Alternate First Meeting. Snogging)
Sherlock and John meet at a carnival. Alternate First Meet. Rating: Teen. Fluff & feels. Warning for Americanisms run amok. I do not know how these kinds of places work (amusement parks, fairs, carnivals, etc.) in the UK.
There are so many different recipes for a 'rattlesnake,' ranging from tequila + tabasco to Kaluha + Bailey's + crème de cacao to Soco + amaretto that I am loathe to recommend one, except to say they're all supposed to have a 'bite' at the end.
I spent 5+ hours in egg-frying weather at the county fair this week. You can write a lot of ficlets in your head waiting for a five-year old to tire himself out.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
“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?”
“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.”
The last of the reptile-themed ficlets. Hope you liked them.
Chapter 26: Kir Royale (Janine/Sally. Motorcycle sex. First time.)
Sally and Jeanine meet at the Watson wedding. Motorcycle sex. First time.
A Kir Royale is champagne and crème de cassis (black currant liquor). Tasty!
“…thank you for your statement, Ms. Hawkins.”
“You’re welcome, Sargent…”
“DONOVAN! WHERE ARE MY—? OH, WAIT. FOUND ‘EM!”
“That your boss?”
“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…”
“Whatever. Have you seen 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…”
“Yeah, I’m not in danger of losing my glass slipper tonight.”
“Well, if your carriage turns into a pumpkin, here’s my number.”
Carriage offer still good?
How about a chariot? Behind you.
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.
The engine growled.
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.”
“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?”
Jeanine licked her lips as she slowly drew the zipper down.
“You are such a naughty girl, Sally Donovan.”
Sally winced. “I’ve got to go.”
“What?! What about upstairs? Champagne and...me?”
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 27: Apocalypse Now. (Sherlock/Moran/Moriarty. Dirty talk.)
When everybody's DTF, but nobody wants to lower their gun. Sherlock/Moran/Moriarty. Dirty talk & banter only. Humor. Crack. Includes daddy-kink dirty talk.
An Apocalypse Now is tequila, dry vermouth, and Bailey's.
“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.”
“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 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.”.
“No, we are not stupid, Sebby. That’s why we use safewords, carefully negotiated boundaries, the whole lot. Exquisite aftercare.”
“Well, if there are cuddles…”
“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!”
“Boss, let’s play with him.”
“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!”
“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 28: My Fair Lady (Sherlock/John. Mystrade. Crack. Fluff.)
“Hi! Welcome to ‘My Fair Lady’ karaoke Night at Cheers!”
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?”
“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.”
“But how did you get Mycroft to agree to come in the first place?”
“I appealed to his generous nature as a partner.”
“A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell…”
“Did it involve handcuffs? Because that’s how I got Sherlock.”
“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.
“I just sent her the video of them singing.”
Chapter 29: Pisco Sour. (Sherlock/John. Post-Reichenbach.)
Sherlock/John. Post-Reichenbach. Feels. Handcuffs. No Mary.
Pisco sour is pisco (a clear South American liquor), egg white, lemon juice, and sugar.
To all my gentle readers, 'tis the season and all autumnal/pumpkin spice/Halloween prompts are WELCOME.
“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.
“We are going to need to coordinate.”
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.
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.
Chapter 30: Stinger (Janine/Sally. Corsets.)
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.”
“The corset’s not the surprise.”
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?”
“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 31: Pumpkin Spice Frappuccino. Flirty pre-Mystrade. No smut.
Cheeky flirty pre-Mystrade at Starbucks. POV Mycroft. No smut.
Good Lord. Good. Lord.
“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.”
“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—
Good Lord, I’m not the headmaster! Not even in my untoward fantasies!
“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 32: Hard Apple Cider. (Sherlock/John. Sex in an orchard. Romantic.)
Sherlock/John in an apple orchard. Romantic. Public sex. Manual masturbation and anal sex.
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.
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?”
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.
John rolled from underneath Sherlock. “I suppose one of the farmhands could come along and catch us.”
Sherlock shook his head. “Barometer’s dropping.”
A gust howled through the trees. Sherlock threw himself on John, covering him as golden fruit rained down around them.
Chapter 33: Vampire Kiss (John/Vampre!Sherlock. Alt First Meet.)
'Dracula won't stop hitting on me at this costume party' AU. John/Vampire Sherlock. Alternate first meeting. All dialogue. Cheeky banter, but no actual smut.
For a LJ 1_million_words Weekend prompt. A Vampire Kiss Martini is vodka, champagne, and Chambord in a red-sugar rimmed martini glass.
“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—“
“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.”
“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.”
“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!”
“Ah, John, so this is where you’re hiding!”
“NOT IF I FEED FIRST, SHERLOCK!”
“Now, John, through his heart with your cane! Quick!”
“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.”
“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.”
“Hee, hee. Vampire’s Kiss. Nothing like the real thing, which was, by the way, extraordinary.”
“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.”
“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?”
“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…”
Chapter 34: Green Ghost (Genderswap. Omegaverse. Sentinelverse. Alt First Meet. H/C)
Sherlock and John meet on Halloween on a crowded tube car. Gender/cisswap. Sentinel!Alpha!Sherlock/Omega!Guide!John. Alternate First Meeting. Hurt/Comfort with cameo by BAMF!Mrs. Hudson at the end.
A green ghost is gin, green Chartreuse, and lime juice.
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.
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.
John was yanked into a stone-walled corridor so narrow she had to pivot sideways to pass.
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.”
Chapter 35: Children of the [Candy] Corn. (MorMor. Crack. Humor.)
Seb's new addiction is contagious. Moriarty/Moran. Crack. Humor.
Children of the Corn is a cocktail made from candy corn-infused vodka, cinnamon syrup, lemon juice, and seltzer. It's also an awful pun on the name of a 1984 horror film.
The next four ficlets are going to be linked by a (thin) plot thread. Here Moriarty mentions a Halloween party that Sherlock and Mycroft are going to attend. The next ficlet is the party and so on.
“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?”
“You know, what I mean?”
“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.”
“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?”
“By the way, where’s my box of candy corn?”
“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!”
“Come back here!”
“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?”
“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—“
“—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 36: Paranormal Activity. (Sherlock/John/Mycroft) No incest. Car sex.
On the way home from the Halloween party. Sherlock/John/Mycroft. No incest. Car sex. Mentions of drugs.
The cocktail a 'paranormal activity' is absinthe, white crème de cacao, coconut milk, and black Sambuca.
“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?”
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.
Who (or what?) is driving the car? Stay tuned to find out. And we will have a 'drugged glitter made them do it' ficlet later.
Chapter 37: Jack O'Lantern (Anthea/Sally. Sex toy.)
A continuation from Chapter 36.
High above the phantom-chauffeured car, two people are giggling. Anthea/Sally. Sex toy.
There are several recipes for a Jack O'Lantern. This is the one I'm referencing: cognac and orange juice with the fun-looking garnish.
She held the speaker to her lips and growled,
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.”
“Oh God! That’s them?”
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.”
“Shit!” Sally grabbed the corner of the tarpaulin and drew it over the two of them.
“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.
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?”
“There’s another remote control I want to show you.”
“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 38: Fright Night in the Grove (Sherlock/John/Mycroft. No incest. Public sex.)
Continuation from Chapter 37.
Drugged glitter is making them do it. Dub-con for drugged sex. Sherlock/John/Mycroft. No incest. Exhibitionism. Public sex.
A 'Fright Night in the Grove' is Jagermeister, tequila, simply syrup and grapefruit juice.
“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.
“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.
“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.
“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.”
“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 39: Blood and Sand. (Sherlock/John/Mycroft. Incest. Dub-con for drugged sex.)
Continuation from Chapter 38. Drugged glitter is still making them do it. Sherlock/John/Mycroft. Incest.
A Blood and Sand is Scotch, cherry brandy, sweet vermouth, and orange juice.
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,
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,
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.”
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.”
I've got ideas for 2 more in this plot thread, but they would technically take place the day after and second day after Halloween so I will save them for early November. Next chapter will be back to stand-alones.
Chapter 40: Halloween Hypnotist. (Sherlock/John. Alt First Meet. No smut.)
John goes to see the worst hypnotist ever. Sherlock/John. Alternate First Meeting. Flirty banter. No smut.
A Halloween Hypnotist is Hypnotiq liqueur, vodka, lemon juice and a blue glow stick.
“Come in. Your first visit, I see. I’m Doctor Mesmer.”
“Really? That’s your name?”
“Well, I suppose you couldn’t go into any other work, could you?”
Grey eyes blinked. “Sorry?”
“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.
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.”
“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?”
“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?”
Chapter 41: Zombie. (Sherlock/John. Alt First Meet. Zombie AU)
The morning after first meeting. Sherlock/John. Post-zombie apocalypse AU. Masturbation.
Recipes differ, but a Zombie is usually dark rum, light rum, and a host of tropical fruit juices (lemon, lime, orange, pineapple, passion fruit, etc.).
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 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.”
“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 42: Wolf Bite (Werewolf John/Human Sherlock. Anal sex. Size kink.)
Sherlock attempts to infiltrate a werewolf gathering. Werewolf!John/Human!Sherlock. Size kink.
A wolf bite is a shooter of absinthe, midori, soda, grenadine, and pineapple juice.
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.”
“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.”
Watch a documentary like everyone else!
“Nothing beats first-hand observation.”
“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.”
“I can! I’ve been preparing myself with larger and larger sized plugs.”
John tilted his head.
“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.
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.
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 43: Black Magic (Sherlock/Moriarty. Demon!Moriarty. Demonic possession.)
Sherlock conjures a demon. Crack. Sherlock/Moriarty. Demon!Moriarty. Demonic possession.
A black magic is black vodka, grenadine, lemon-lime soda, and a cherry.
Sherlock squinted at the near-faded words. “Abracadabra?”
“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.”
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.”
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 44: Candy Appley. (Sherlock/Whomever. Daddy kink)
Sherlock enjoys an autumn treat. Sherlock/Whomever you'd like. Daddy kink. Anal plug.
A Candy Appley is XXX Salted Carmel Corn Whiskey, apple liquer, cranberry juice, sparkling cider, and coconut flakes on the rim (!).
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.
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 45: Vampire Juice. (Mystrade. Vampire Mycroft/Demi-Goblin Lestrade)
Mycroft's sleeping arrangement is unconventional for a vampire. First time Mystrade. Vampire Mycroft/Demi-Goblin Lestrade. Kissing. Mention of exhibitionism, size kink.
A Vampire Juice is a version of a Bloody Mary with vodka, tomato juice, horseradish sauce, steak sauce, and hot sauce. It is garnished with a 'eyeball' (a radish with a pimento-ed green olive in the centre).
So we're going to end the Halloween season where we began: with a sweet bit of Mystrade!
But I'm not completely done. I've still got Dia de los Muertos so the plan is to sneak in at least one more that I didn't have the time or energy to get done in October. Then I'll probably take a bit of break and get the batteries charged for Christmas!
Thanks to everyone who's been reading and commenting! Fifteen ficlets in one month is not bad and you keep me going!
“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.
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.
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 46: The Skeletons in Your Closet. (Sherlock/John. Sherlock in heels)
Sherlock and John celebrate post-case atop a Ouija table. Sherlock in heels. Dirty talk. Masturbation.
For Día de los Muertos. And for gardnerhill, who gave me Sherlock's line at the end.
These are Sherlock's heels.
The Skeletons in Your Closet is a bright green margarita with mango and pineapple juice.
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—“
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 47: Wet Pussy (Sherlock/John. Shapeshifing!John. First time.)
John isn't made of angry kittens, he is an angry kitten. Sherlock/John. Shape-shifting John. Confession. First time. Cute. Crack. Almost no smut.
A 'Wet Pussy' is gin, vodka, peach schnapps, rum, pineapple juice and cranberry juice. Full recipe in the end notes.
“…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 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.
1/2 shot Gin
1 shot Rum, coconut
1 shot Schnapps, peach
1 shot Vodka
3 oz. Cranberry Juice
3 oz. Pineapple Juice
Chapter 48: Remember, Remember. (Mystrade. Guy Fawkes Night.)
Mycroft and Lestrade are unlikely to forget the 5th of November. First time. Implied public oral sex. Sex on the job (Lestrade).
A 'Remember, Remember' is apple brandy, cider, honey, lemon juice, and mulling spices.
“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.
“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.
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.
They both smiled.
“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 49: Moscow Mule (Mystrade + Johnlock. Romantic.)
Mystrade + Johnlock. Romantic. Artful. Fluff. No names so you could imagine any other male slash pairing, if you prefer.
A Moscow Mule is vodka, ginger beer, lime over ice in a copper mug. Also known as a vodka buck.
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.
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 50: Wassail. (Moriarty/Molly/Moran. Car sex)
Post-"A Scandal in Belgravia" Christmas party. Moriarty/Molly/Moran. Car sex. Warning: this is ficlet is NOT kind to Sherlock.
“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!”
“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.”
“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.
“I’d kill them if they weren’t already dead,” grumbled Jim.
Molly lowered the partition. “Barts, Henri?”
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.”
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 51: Hot Buttered Rum (Sherlock/John. John with tentacle cock.)
Bottom!lock, neat, no chaser. Sherlock/John. John with tentacle cock.
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.”
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—
“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,
Chapter 52: Mulled Wine. (Mystrade. First kiss. Fluff.)
Mycroft's been thinking of this for a long time. Mystrade first kiss. Fluff. No smut.
Mycroft knew that timing was everything, and unlike Sherlock, he knew how to wait for the right moment.
“Go!” said Sherlock.
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.
“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.
“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 53: Reindeer Caesar. (Mormor. Breeding stand.)
Moriarty loses a bet and has to wear the antlers. MorMor. Breeding stand. Crack. Humour.
A Reindeer Caesar is Clamato (!) vodka, tabasco, Worchestershire, nutmeg, and lemon juice.
“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.”
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?”
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.”
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?”
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.”
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…
Chapter 54: Candy Cane. (fem!Johnlock. pre-slash. fluff.)
On a whim, John revisits a childhood treat. Fem!Johnlock. Pre-slash. Fluff.
I've seen a few recipes, but usually a Candy Cane has peppermint schnapps and something creamy (like white chocolate liquor).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?”
“So you like…?”
Sherlock returned John’s grin. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”
Chapter 55: Mistletoe Martini (Johnlock & Mystrade & MorMor & Mrs. Hudson/Fireman. Sex pollen.)
Moriarty's plan backfires. Dub-con for mistletoe sex pollen made them do it. Silly crack. Johnlock. Mystrade. Mormor. Mrs. Hudson/Fireman.
There are many recipes for a mistletoe martini, some are green (think midori and pineapple juice) and some are red (cranberry).
“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.”
“Take your mask off, Seb.”
“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.”
“Your Christmas gift.”
“My dear Detective Inspector—“
“What the fuck? That’s…”
“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!"
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 56: Hot Toddy. (Irene/Kate/Sally/Anthea/Molly)
When Ladies Night underwhelms, Irene hosts an impromptu Hot Toddy party. Irene/Kate/Sally/Anthea/Molly. Not Sherlock-positive.
A hot toddy is a hot beverage made of a liquor (usually brandy, rum, or whiskey), lemon, honey, and spices. There are many recipes.
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.
“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—“
“—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.”
“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.”
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 57: Brandy Alexander. (Mystrade. Just sex to sex + feels.)
Mystrade. Just sex to sex + feels
A Brandy Alexander is crème de cacao and brandy.
Last Mystrade of the year! Here's to a bit more together screen-time for our gentlemen in S4!
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Yeah, you know…”
Mycroft’s mouth is moving against the side of his neck. “Take my time? Make you beg?”
“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 58: Pink Champagne (fem!Johnlockstrade)
Sherlock watches John & Lestrade. All gender/cisswap. John/Lestrade/Sherlock.
I've written a lot of femlock, but I don't think I've written these three together (without fem!Mycroft, which I did in Masquerade)
“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.”
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…”
“Gorgeous pink champagne cuddle.”
Chapter 59: Champagne. (Alpha!Sherlock/Omega John. Heat sex)
Champagne intensifies the heat. Alpha!Sherlock/Omega!John. Dub-con warning for heat sex. Omegaverse.
“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.
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?”
Sherlock’s nuzzled, then licked.
“Christ, Sherlock, I’m hard and wet again.”
“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…
That was not John. That was Sherlock. And Sherlock never, ever swore, not even during heat.
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.
“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.”
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.
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 60: Pearl Diver (Stella Hopkins/Sally Donovan)
Stella & the Borgia pearl. Stella Hopkins/Sally Donovan.
A Pearl Diver is a tiki cocktail of rum, lime juice, orange juice, bitters, gardenia mix, served in a glass of the same name and garnished with a banana leaf or similar.
The lingerie inspired by the Agent Provacateur's Teigan bra and knickers.
“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!”
“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.
“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!”
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.”
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.
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.”
“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 61: Ginger Nut. (Mystrade. H/C. Post-TLD. Rating: Mature)
Mystrade. H/C. Post-TLD. Rating: Mature.
The only rule I have about this entire collection is no angst. So why Lestrade is gutted here isn't going to be mentioned. If you want the hurt part of this hurt/comfort, watch the scene from "The Lying Detective" with Lestrade and Culverton Smith confessing. And weep for our favourite silver fox as I did.
A ginger nut is vodka, Frangelico, and ginger beer.
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.”
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.
“Mm? Too long?”
“Not at all. I thought you might appreciate a sugar scrub.”
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.”
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.”
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—“
Chapter 62: Highball. (Mystrade. Cross-dressing Mycroft. TFP noir dialogue. Roleplaying)
Mycroft and Lestrade act out the film noir scene from TFP. Cross-dressing. Role-play. Handcuffs.
From the Relative 'verse.
A highball is whiskey and sode/gingerale and ice in a tall glass.
“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?”
“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.”
Lestrade leaned forward, openly ogling the silk bodice of the gown. “I could just keep you under close watch.”
“Uh-huh.” Lestrade licked his lower lip.
“Shame. I was looking forward to putting myself into the hands of the authorities.”
“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 63: Body Snatcher Fizz. (Mystrade. Fluff. Kissing.)
Mycroft & Lestrade (of the SPLORCH 'verse) have a second date: dinner & a film in Mycroft's home cinema. Fluff. Only a bit of kissing. References to the 1956 film Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
A Body Snatcher Fizz is gin, ginger, cucumbers, and tonic on the rocks. Suggested garnishes mentioned in the ficlet.
I love the idea of Mycroft's home cinema from TFP. There's a lot that can be done with that, fic-wise.
“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.”
“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?”
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.”
“Whenever our bloody worlds allow. Kiss me.”
Chapter 64: Christmas Punch (Moriarty/Mycroft.)
Christmas Day. 5 years ago. Moriarty/Mycroft. Oral sex. A tiny bit of daddy kink/pet kink dirty talk. Light and switchy d/s overtones. Anal sex.
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.
“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 65: Alexander's Big Brother. (Sherlock/Mycroft with John.) Incest. Masturbation
The morning after 'drugged body glitter made us do it.' Sherlock/Mycroft with sleeping John. Incest. Sherlock centric. Masturbation. Dub-con for John.
This is a continuation of Chapter 39 from this collection, Blood and Sand. It references Blood and Sand, but you don't have to have read it. That said, if you like this, you'd probably like Blood and Sand, too.
Alexander's Big Brother sounds like a horribly complicated drink (which is about right) gin, triple sec, blue curacao, egg white, cream, and simple syrup.
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.
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.
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 66: Oscar Wilde. (Sherlock/Mycroft. Oral sex.)
Lady Bracknell night. Sherlock/Mycroft. Incest. Oral sex. Much of the dialogue is lifted from The Importance of Being Earnest
An Oscar Wilde is triple sec and Irish cream garnished with chocolate powder.
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 67: Secretary. (Mycroft/Anthea. Kissing. Rating: Teen)
Lady Smallwood tries to steal Anthea, forcing Mycroft to confess his feelings. Mycroft/Anthea. Kissing. Rating: Teen.
I've seen two recipes for a Secretary. One is vodka citron, pineapple juice, orange juice and cranberry juice on the rocks.
There's a lovely gifset of Mythea images that inspired this, but I can't find it now. I stole the 'it's always been you' line from that. I love my Anthea. I am so sad she didn't return for S4.
“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—“
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.
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.”
She circled the desk.
“It’s you. It’s always been you,” she said.
They kissed again.
He pulled away.
“Good Lord, no. Please, well, I suppose, if you must, but no, damn it!”
He shook his head and looked away. “You cannot possibly feel as I do.”
“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.
Her body was gorgeously swathed in silk undergarments of a cranberry-coloured that was…
“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—“
“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 68: Tsingtao (Mystrade. H/C. Post S4)
Good ol' fashioned Mystrade. Post S4. The 'I'll take care of it' bit. H/C. First time
The hurt part of this hurt/comfort is the brutal whumping our poor British Gov't gets in TFP.
Tsigntao is a Chinese beer.
“I know Chinese place at the end of Baker Street, stays open until two.”
“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.
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.”
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.”
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.’”
Lestrade kissed his lips. “Still hard for me, are you?”
“Want my warm, wet mouth sucking that gorgeous prick?”
Lestrade bent his head, but stopped when Mycroft said,
“Then I would take you 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 69: Courvoisier. (Mycroft/Cake)
Lovers come and go. Cake is forever. Mycroft/Cake.
Mycroft's home cinema. Quotes from the 1946 film The Big Sleep
Cake lover's should check out the recipe (and fic) by Diane Duane of Mycroft's Delight [Double Chocolate Courvoisier Torte with Brandied Buttercream Filling and Brandied Nutella Frosting and Cream Cheese & White Chocolate Ganache Glaze] also references greywash's classic fic the sensation of falling as you just hit sleep.
This is the last chapter of the Mycroft festival. Next up, I'll be switching gears for Femslash February and be celebrating the ladies (and genderswapped ladies). Sad news for some, but I hope a few of you will stick around.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, hmm.”
“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.”
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!
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 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 70: Vespa. (Irene/Molly. D/s. Restraints. Flogging.)
Irene's had a bad day. Irene/Molly. D/s. Flogging. Restraints.
For my LJ 1_million_words BINGO square: Restraints.
“Bad day, was it?”
Irene pushes past Molly. “Drink, then tie me up. No, tie me up, first.”
“What? Oh, okay. Let’s have a drink, then we can have a second go.”
“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.
“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 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!”
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—”
“—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.”
“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.
“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?”
“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?”
A flat hand hits a round buttock.
“Ouch!” Irene looks down and bites her lip. “Sorry. Please?”
Chapter 71: Elderberry Wine. (Mrs. Hudson/Margaret.)
Mrs. Hudson and Martha reunite to go 'kettle shopping.' Sweet crack. Featuring the sex on the bonnet/hood of the Aston Martin. Reference to Agatha Christie's Miss Marple.
“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!”
“Are those young men—?”
“Fleeing the scene of the crime? Yes, please notify the kettle-cide division.” She held up a malodorous specimen.
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.
“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.”
“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 72: Coconut Water. (fem!John/fem!Mycroft. Daddy kink.)
fem!John/fem!Mycroft from Three. Follows on from the last chapter of that fic. Daddy kink. POV Mycroft. One line from Sherlock at the end.
For my LJ 1_million_words BINGO free space square.
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.
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.
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.”
Mycroft eased John off her lap and stood. “At least drink something.”
“There’s a fridge?!”
Mycroft smiled. “Coconut water?”
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 73: Bellini (Stella Hopkins/Sally. Aftercare. Tub sex.)
Stella Hopkins and Sally in a tub. Aftercare. Tub sex. Foot job.
A Bellini is Prosecco & peach juice/nectar.
For my LJ 1_million_words BINGO square: recovery/aftercare.
“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?”
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.”
“—gorgeously sweaty, warrior-strong—”
Sally squeezed a firm hand down Stella’s arm. “Hands?”
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…”
Sally’s fingers continued working until Stella whimpered.
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.
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 74: Ginger beer. (Mystrade. Post-S4)
Lestrade's night off is interrupted. Post-S4. Mystrade. Rating: Mature.
For the LJ 1_million_words comm Weekend 'fortune cookie' prompt.
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.
“I guess it means you,” he said, addressing the bottle. “Not—“
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.
“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 75: Milk. (Johnlock. First time. Oral sex. Masturbation)
Sherlock gets the milk. Johnlock. First time. Oral sex. Masturbation.
For the LJ 1_million_words comm Weekend 'fortune cookie' prompt.
“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.
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.
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 pulled off, and Sherlock decorated the front of a lower cabinet and floor with his come.
Then their eyes met.
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 76: Irish coffee. (Sherlock/Moriarty. Public sex.)
Sherlock/Moriarty. Public sex. Masturbation. Anal sex. Come in coffee.
For Mongoose_Mores. Thanks for the great prompt!
Irish coffee is coffee with Irish whiskey and sometimes sugar and cream.
“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.
“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.
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 77: Blue Moon. (fem!Johnlock)
Sherlock tracks John's cycle. fem!Johnlock.
A blue moon is crème de violette and gin and lemon juice.
For the LJ fffc prompt: Moon.
“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’?”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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 78: Naughty Girl Scout (Mormor. Cracky smut.)
Moriarty decides he wants to be a Girl Scout. Cracky smut.
Because I had an actual dream about the character Moriarty this past weekend and he was very nice.
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.
“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.
“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 79: Princess (Mystrade. Lingerie. Car sex. Light bondage.)
Mycroft celebrates pink princess day. Established Mystrade. Lingerie. Car Sex. Light bondage.
From the Relative 'verse.
A Princess is lemon vodka, sweet and sour mix, 7-up, and cranberry juice.
Lestrade woke with a grunt. “What’s that?”
Mycroft looked down at the billowing layers of tulle stiffly cascading over rings.
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.
“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.
“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 80: Princess Pink Lemonade (Johnlock. Sherlock in heels.)
Sherlock celebrates 'pink princess day.' Johnlock. Sherlock in heels.
From my Relative 'verse
Sherlock's shoes are Jimmy Choo's Dakota 120. A princess pink lemonade is peach vodka, pink lemonade, and maraschino liqueur.
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.
“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.”
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. 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.
“I hate to say it, but…”
“Mycroft’s a bloody genius.”
Chapter 81: Pink Bikini (Molly/Irene. Post-ASiB. 69.)
Irene/Molly. After “A Scandal in Belgravia.” 69. Oral sex. Fingering.
For the fffc comm July Special. I was given the song prompt of Lady Gaga’s “Summerboy.”
A pink bikini is pink lemonade, amaretto liquer, and coconut rum, festively served in a halved coconut shell (with the meat intact).
Irene sat up and squinted, then shielded her eyes with her hand.
“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.”
“What’s the point of a secluded Italian villa if one doesn’t sunbathe topless?” said Irene with a smirk.
“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?”
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—?”
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 82: Ink Bomb. (Mary/Sherlock/John. Mary with tentacles.)
Sherlock/John/Mary. Mary with tentacles. CRACK. Implied Mary’s tentacles/Molly & Mary’s tentacles/Mrs. Hudson. Mention of Rosie.
Happy Birthday, Vulgarweed!
Set in a crack version of Vulgarweed’s Filled Afresh with Each Flow.
An ink bomb is cuttlefish ink, Greek brandy, and sweet and sour mix.
“…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.
“Uh, yes. In the broadest terms, the street value, before any deductions, would be well over—“
“The gross gross?” asked John.
“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.”
“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 83: Long Island Iced Tea. (Johnlock. Drunk sex.)
It's too hot for sex. Johnlock. Drunk sex.
Long Island Iced Tea is, in my humble experience, one of those drinks that goes down so smooth you really don't realize how drunk you are until it's too late. Probably because it's triple sec, rum, vodka, gin, tequila and Coke.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
“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, God, Sherlock, so good.”
“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.
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 84: Tonic Water. (Sherlock/Molly/John)
Sherlock/Molly/John in the morgue freezer. This is a continuation from the previous chapter.
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.
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.”
“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 85: Iced Cascara Coconutmilk Latte. (Moriarty/Molly/Moran)
Moriarty & Seb drop by the morgue. Moriarty/Molly/Moran. Crack.
“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.”
“Oh god, what now? Wait a minute, who knocks on the door of a morgue? Come in!”
“Molly, my dear.”
“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.
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.
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.
“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 86: Little Dragon (Mystrade. No smut.)
Lestrade & Mycroft meet on the way to the morgue. Mystrade. Dialogue only. Meet-cute. Chatting over drinks & getting together. A bit of innuendo but no smut.
Note: this chapter carries forward from the previous three, but Molly isn't part of the pairing. If you haven't read the previous chapters, just know that Molly got shagged in the body freezer by Sherlock & John and then Moriarty & Moran and when Mycroft & Lestrade show up, she mistakenly thinks they want a go too and she'd not having it, 'cause, you know, work to do.
A Little Dragon is gin, lemon juice, simple syrup, and tarragon sprigs.
“Hold that lift! Thanks. Oh, Mister Holmes.”
“Detective Inspector. Are you, in fact, morgue-bound as well?”
“Yes, are we on the same mission?”
“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.”
“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?”
“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.”
“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.”
“Ah, call me Greg.”
“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?”
“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.”
“Gregory, might I be a bit forward?”
“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 87: Rye. (Mystrade. Anal plug)
Lestrade celebrates a Sherlock-less success. Mystrade. POV Mycroft. Anal plug.
At the beep of the front door, Mycroft woke.
He noted the weight of the book on his slipper.
Steps. Shuffling. Sigh.
Cabinet door. A glass. Bottles shifting.
Back of the cabinet?
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.
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.
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…
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.
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.”
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 88: Caipirinha (Jim/Molly. Bondage. Orgasm denial. Men in knickers)
Jim steals Molly's knickers. Molly/Moriarty. Drugged Drink. Bondage. Men in knickers. Orgasm denial. Humour. Crack.
For Spectacular Me. And thanks to the AntiDiogenes Club for help.
One of my favourite cocktails, a caipirinha is cachaça, sugar and lime.
“Wakey-wakey-eggs-and-bakey,” sang Molly.
“Seb taught you that.”
“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 89: Blarney Stone (Mormor. Crack.)
Seb arrives after Molly leaves Jim tied up. Mormor. Sweet cracky smut. Continuation of previous chapter.
A Blarney stone is Jameson, ginger beer, and lime. And Jim is, of course, quoting Yeats. Easter, 1916. Lucky Charms is an American breakfast cereal with a leprechaun on the box.
“Sebby, get me out of here.”
“Tied up, Boss?”
“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.
“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.”
“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.
“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?”
“And thus, ’a terrible beauty is born,’” said Jim.
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.
“You’re going to need a new garrotter.”
“What happened to Vlad?”
“I sent him a cake for his birthday.”
“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 90: Love Potion No. 9 (Mystrade first kiss.)
Sherlock does some match-making. Mystrade first kiss. Cute. No smut. Dialogue only.
Technically this is a songfic, not a drinkfic. The relevant lines of the 1959 song are: I kissed a cop down on Thirty-Fourth and Vine and the final line of an alternate ending (according to Wikipedia) I wonder what'll happen with Love Potion Number Ten?
But Love Potion No. 9 is also the name of a martini using pomegranate juice, Chambord, strawberry vodka, and dry ice.
Written for the 2017 Kinktober Day 1 prompt: aphrodisiacs.
“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!”
“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.”
“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!”
“’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.”
“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 91: Pellegrino. (Alpha!Sherlock/Omega!John. First meet/first time)
Sherlock is 'the Fucking Machine,' an Alpha stud at the St. Bartholomew’s Centre for Secondary Sex Studies. Omegaverse. Alpha!Sherlock/Omega!John. First meet (A Study in Pin AU). Rating: only Mature, sorry, pervs.
For the Kinktober Day 10 prompt: Fucking Machine.
“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.”
Sherlock huffed. “I’m still cut off.”
“Pawn the coat?”
“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.”
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.”
“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.”
“I’ll explain while we fuck.”
Chapter 92: Kahwah. (Alpha!Sherlock/Omega!John. Post-heat cuddle.)
Sherlock the Fucking Machine & John at the end of John's heat. Omegaverse fluff & feels.
For the Kinktober Day 14 prompt: Role Reversal.
Continuation of the previous chapter.
Kahwah is a green tea preparation traditional in Afghanistan and other areas.
“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.”
“I’ll buy us more time. Centre staff pride themselves on catering to Omegas’ unusual cravings.”
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?”
“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.
“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 reached around and stroked Sherlock’s prick.
They came together, Sherlock soiling the sheets and John splashing across Sherlock’s lower back.
“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 93: Old Jamaica Grape Soda. (Alpha!Sherlock/Other. Johnlock feels.)
Sherlock 'The Fucking Machine' gets on with his business, but still can't help thinking of John. Feels. Pining. Sherlock/Other.
For the Kinktober Day 19 prompts: Sex Work & Ofactophilia.
I found the name Old Jamaica Grape Soda on the Tesco website. I don't know if it's the most popular or well-known grape soda. We have Fanta in the US, but I know that Fanta isn't the same around the world.
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.
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…”
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.
Hey does anyone remember 'drugged body glitter made them do it' from last Halloween? It's No. 38 & 39 from this collection? No? Just me? Well, if anyone does, get ready because Sherlock didn't bin that all that glitter when he should have...
Chapter 94: Bee pollen smoothie. (Sherlock/Many. Dream Sex/Mating.)
Sherlock mixes drugged body glitter and a bee pollen smoothie. Dream sex. Sherlock/John & Mycroft & Lestrade & Irene. Warning for incest & drugs & body horror/gore (i.e., what happens to drone bees after they mate with the queen bee).
For the Kinktober Day 16 prompt: pegging.
“Oh, John,” sighed Sherlock, slowing his flight as John filled him.
“My gorgeous Queen,” buzzed John.
“My handsome drone,” replied Sherlock.
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.
“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.”
“Stop! Or I’ll say ‘Stop’ again!” buzzed Lestrade.
“Quite arresting, Detective Inspector,” Sherlock hummed. “Fill me, my drone!”
“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.”
“Pity. I liked him.”
“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.”
“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,
“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 95: Lucozade. (Sherlock/Lestrade/John/Mycroft)
Sherlock throws that damn glitter on everybody. Sherlock/John/Lestrade/Mycroft. Warnings for incest & drugged sex. And sex in a bee costume. :) Oral sex. Rimming. Come play.
For the Kinktober Day 20 prompt: threesome or more.
Lucozade is a UK sports drink. I think like Gatorade, though my knowledgeable readers can educate me on that point.
Three voices yelled.
The coffee table crashed.
“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.
For the last of the three, here's a preview: Sherlock ran into someone at the fancy dress shop. And the problem with glitter is that it's so easily spread. And the problem with high-functioning psychopaths is that they take everything so literally.
Chapter 96: Royal Flush (Mormor. Oral sex. Tower of London.)
Of course the problem with glitter is that it spreads so easily. If Sherlock's a queen bee, then Moriarty's got to be a queen. Mormor. Oral sex in the Tower of London.
For 0foxgiven. The tasty Royal Flush is Crown Royal, peach schnapps, pineapple juice, and cranberry juice. Full recipe in the end notes.
“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—”
“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.”
(make to your taste)
Highball glass or adjust for by the pitcher (recommend one pitcher person)
1 shot of Crown Royal
1 shot of peach schnapps
Cranberry juice (mainly for color, so go light)
Chapter 97: Witches' Brew. (Sherlock/John. Club sex.)
Sherlock & John at the Wanton & Wicked Hallowe'en Ball. Club sex. Oral sex.
A Witches' Brew is cranberry juice, pineapple juice, rum, and something fancy with a strawberry to make it look like blood is dripping in it.
For the Kinktober Day 24 prompt: Exhibitionism/Voyeurism.
“…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.
“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.”
“No, John! It’s called the internet and a lot of money!”
“Don’t screech, my peacock. You’ll moult. Drink?”
“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.
“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.
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.
“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.”
“Huret, the Boulevard Assassin.”
“Let’s go, John.”
“No, Sherlock. He’s too dangerous.”
“That’s why I put your gun in my nest. Come on!”
Chapter 98: Poppy Juice. (Mary/Irene. Prose poem.)
The first half is Irene with Mary in italics and the second half is Mary with Irene in italics.
Poppy juice refers to a common medieval form of taking opium (which I only know about from the TV series Cadfael.
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.
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.
‘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.
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.
Chapter 99: Cinnamon schnapps. (Mystrade. Get-together fluff.)
Mycroft declines Lestrade's invitation to the Scotland Yard holiday party. Mystrade. No smut. POV Mycroft.
Mycroft stared at the lift buttons.
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.”
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.”
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?!”
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 100: Mince Pie Martini. (Johnlock. Get-together H/C fluff.)
John leaves the Scotland Yard holiday party early. H/C fluff. Related to the previous chapter.
Here's the BBC recipe for Mince Pie Martinis.
And we're at 100 chapters! So it seems like a good place to stop for the year. Thank you to everyone for making this my most popular AO3 posting. I want to wish everyone the warmest compliments of the season. Mince pies (and martinis) in all your stockings!
“How’d you find me?”
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.”
“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.”
“That,” said Sherlock, turning to catch John’s gaze lingering on his lips. “Home, John, and let’s not spare the horses.”
Chapter 101: Birthday Cake Martini. (Sherlock/John. Get-together. Oral sex.)
Sherlock's birthday goes quite well. Sherlock/John. Mostly fluff with a tiny bit of smut. Get together. Oral sex.
This is a Birthday Cake Martini. Great birthday or not, I doubt Sherlock Holmes would ever drink one. White chocolate liquor, amaretto, multi-coloured sprinkles on the rim.
“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.”
“Sorry I’m late,” said John. “Did you order that?”
“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!”
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.”
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.
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 102: Donkey Punch (Sherlock/Mycroft. Sex club. Anal.)
Sherlock & Mycroft observe the Feast of Asses. Warning for incest. Anal sex. Faux anonymous sex. Sex club.
Apologies for not being timely. The Feast of Asses was January 14.
Donkey Punch is rum, orange juice, ginger ale, pineapple juice, and Grenadine.
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.
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.
Tight, but not too tight. Deep, beautifully deep. Welcoming, clenching.
Yes, yes, and yes.
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.
Mycroft would’ve liked to spend himself down a throat, but, no.
As soon as he turned, the arse was there.
And he claimed it at once.
“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 103: Chocolate Cherry Cha Cha (Sherlock/John. Tentaclelock. Club sex.)
Sherlock & John at the Cupids and Devils Ball on Valentine's Day. Tentacle!lock. Club sex.
This is a follow-on to the Gen-rated Tentacles are Rather Sweet, John!
A Chocolate Cherry Cha Cha is cherry liqueur, chocolate vodka, coconut rum, and sparking water.
“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?”
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.
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 104: Pink Lady (Mystrade. First time. Oral)
Mycroft and Lestrade get together on National Pink Princess Day. Mystrade. First time. Oral sex. Dick pics.
A pink lady is gin, grenadine, and egg white.
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.
“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.”
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.”
“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 105: Mid-Summer Night's Dream (Lestrade/Sherlock/John. Dub-con warning. Oral)
Dressed as fairies for a case, Lestrade, Sherlock, and John drink something called Love-in-Idleness and sneak off to the forest. Lestrade/Sherlock/John. Dub-con for magical-potion-made-them-do-it. Oral sex.
The last line (and Lestrade's toast) is from the Shakespeare play.
A Mid-Summer Night's Dream is cucumber, mint, gin, pomegranate juice, lime juice, and rose water, garnished with edible pansies and rimmed with pink sugar.
“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.
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.”