Fiction: Luxurious Things
Title: Luxurious Things
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: John/Sherlock
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1,150 ish
Summary: Written fast and late. John and Sherlock find themselves in a fur vault. And then there's the bit about John's dream.
Luxurious Things
"Sherlock," said John in a harsh whisper, "I thought you said we had the owner's permission to be here."
It was just after midnight, and it started to seem to John that the "quick look around" the luxury clothing store was going to cut into his sleep time after all.
For they'd only just arrived when, hearing footsteps and the jangling of keys, Sherlock had dragged him into the only reasonable hiding place, a five meter by seven meter fur vault. Well at least it was winter so they were appropriately dressed for the 7 degree C temperature inside.
"One owner gave us permission. The other is a suspect, hence the late visit. And there's no need to whisper. The walls of this vault are solid concrete and the steel door is over eight centimeters thick. We could say….or do… just about anything without any fear of detection."
The twinkle in Sherlock's eyes, the mischievous smile on his lips; John knew that look. He usually liked that look, even lived for that look. But because they were, at that moment, surrounded by two rows of furs; mink, sable, ermine, and fox; all property of their client and all worth more than he made in three months working at the clinic, that look made John nervous.
"And if whoever's in the shop decides to come in here?" John asked, trying to look cool and collected even though his voice of reason had come out sounding a mite breathless.
With a self-satisfied smirk, Sherlock took a simple rubber shim from his pocket and wedged it beneath the door.
"Taken care of. You know, John, I've always liked luxury furs. Mummy used to let me try on hers." Sherlock's voice was a low, wistful purr.
John arched his eyebrows and grinned, amused at the mental picture of his sweetheart's early adventure in cross-dressing. Sherlock ignored him and began inspecting the coats.
"I was quite young and, purportedly, stubborn. The only way she could get me to bathe was to let me try on her mink coat afterwards. And that, John,is how I came to learn how uniquely wonderful fur feels against bare skin." Eyes half-closed, Sherlock ran a plush mink sleeve across his cheek.
John couldn't decide if it was right to be turned on as he watched Sherlock begin to disrobe, slowly, as he walk up and down between the lines of coats, stroking them appreciatively with those long, exquisite fingers. One of the reasons their romantic relationship worked was that they never let it interfere with a case. Or at least that was always the intention. Once in a while one of them would slip, but so far the other had always caught him. Finding himself in the roll of the "catcher", John began giving himself a silent stern talking-to about the value of delayed gratification and the all-importance of Sherlock's work. However he found his inner voice stuttering with distraction as Sherlock, now dressed only in pants, let out a low groan of appreciation as he pulled a snow-white floor-length ermine coat off its hanger. John may have groaned too as, seconds later, the pants were discarded and Sherlock and coat were one.
"We can't." John shook his head and held his hands out in a gesture of helpless appeasement as Sherlock, all mischief and desire, advanced on him in the dimly lit vault. Those black curls and ice blue eyes seemed to hover above the soft flutter of white fur.
"Can't what, John?"
The mere question immediately brought three favorite positions (his and Sherlock's) to mind, each made that much more tempting by the addition of the long, luxurious fur.
It was clear to John that Sherlock was not to be diverted from his purpose of driving John so insane with want that, very shortly, John would have little choice but to agree to an act (or two) of carnal knowledge within this secluded fur-lined heaven. And John had no illusions-he would give in. Now, while his mind was still relatively clear, was the time to shift his focus to damage control as even the smell of the pelts, a pleasant, sensual musk, was starting to get to him. John figured he had about a minute before he stopped giving a damn. Grabbing the most persuasive weapon at his disposal, John took control.
"Condoms, love. That's all I ask. And this (John held up Sherlock's discarded purple shirt.) for when things get messy. The rest, I'll let you decide. Just watch the merchandise, eh?"
"Oh, I will," said Sherlock, his eyes fixed on John's lips, now moist from an anticipatory lick.
John found the events of his evening to be soft and warm, a little tickly, but quite wonderful. And, thanks to his moment of forethought, pleasantly but not pervasively wet.
It was three AM before John and Sherlock rolled into bed back at Baker Street. John let out a deep, satisfied sigh as his head hit the pillow.
"Goodnight, Sherlock," John murmured as he felt beneath his t-shirt those familiar hands, large and restless, sweep small circles across his skin. It had taken a while, months, for John to get used the fact that, even in his sleep, Sherlock investigated.
"Oh well", John though, sleep closing in fast, "at least he doesn't snore."
In no time at all, John was dreaming. Not about Afghanistan and the war. No, it was a delightful, whimsical dream, the kind he was having more often now that he and Sherlock were sharing a bed.
In the dream John was sleeping in his bed, as he really was, but he was not with Sherlock. Joining him instead were two snow-white ermine, miniature ones with beautifully almond shaped ice-blue eyes that padded about in constant motion, exploring different areas of his person and talking non-stop about where they should den up for the night.
"Mmm, this part's soft."
"Not enough room."
"Did you notice that he's warmer up there?"
"Yes, of course I did. He's toasty up there, like a furnace."
"Not too bright, is he?"
"No, but he's soft. Did you visit his middle? It's lovely. Like a plush featherbed over a taught, firm mattress."
"Oh, yes. Very comfortable, that area."
"So, no experiments tonight?"
"No. Tomorrow perhaps. Let's kip here."
"Shall I groom him?"
"No, no, he might wake up, and he needs lots of sleep or he'll get stroppy. And remember, he's not that bright. Needs to be firing on all cylinders to keep up."
"Yes. But I like him."
"Me too. He's lovely."
"And he smells nice."
"Yes, very nice. Budge over."
"Ah, soft!"
Before drifting deeper, beyond the reach of dreams, John felt the two creatures settle in, lightly, softly, one on his chest and the other under his chin, their fragile little hearts finding comfort as they slept in the strong, steady beat of his own.
-fin-
Author's note: I, myself, am not into furs and what's done to the animals to get them. But I do understand how people can get very excited by fur garments as they do feel marvelous. Apologies to any reader who was offended by this story.