Fic: Underland (Sherlock Holmes / Neverwhere), NC-17 (17/17)
seeing as the last thing on my to-do list for this fic was "gratuitous porn", uh. i gave it a shot. AND IT'S FINISHED. HO' FUCK. i'm gonna go hide from the world now.
Title: Underland
Author: crimson_adder
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes (ACD) / Neverwhere (Gaiman!verse)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing / Characters: Holmes/Watson; Watson,
Word Count: ~ 3100 (HOW? HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?)
Summary: John Watson loses a bet, grants a favour, and finds himself in a world unlike anything he has ever seen before. Except for how it's all the same.
Notes / Warnings: Gratuitous porn, anal, oral, frottage. So this started with my own prompt on shkinkmeme which never got filled, so I decided to do it myself. :D If you see issues with anything, please feel free to tell me.
And...it's over? And there's porn? Goodness gracious, I do feel accomplished today. Hahahaaaaaaa. Hah. I don't think any of you realise just how difficult this was to wriiiiite. My first Victorian/full on smut. I don't think I've spent this much time blushing ever. Just imagine repetitive synthesized music in the background, I'm sure that will make it better.
Underland - Part XVII
-
By unspoken agreement we spend the night as compatriots do, unwilling to separate in the wake of our exhausting victory. I could not linger over Holmes, much as I wished to, for there were many injured to be seen to. Lady Tür and several of the Roman soldiers began moving the less severely wounded back onto the earl's train, while Holmes and the marquis led the rat speakers to gather the dead.
Thirteen of the earl's men - almost half their force - seven rat speakers, and four Romans were counted among the dead. Their bodies were laid in rows to honour their bravery and sacrifice.
The earl himself was unconscious, with a ghastly wound, permanently marring his left eye. I stitched the laceration closed, mopping away the worrying amounts of blood with my shirtsleeve, until my sleeve was soaked and I could do no more. He would never have use of the eye again, and possibly would need an eye-patch, for the scar would no doubt be awful despite my best efforts. I bandaged it, calling over one of his still-standing men, and instructing him on proper care and treatment.
Then I moved on.
The wounds varied in severity from amputation, to a broken finger. One particularly young rat speaker girl was brave and steadfast as I set and bound a broken arm, the hiccups of her tears muffled behind bitten-raw lips. Her brother - I assumed - nursing a mild concussion and several stitches in his upper arm, held her close, whispering calming noises into her hair.
There was only so much I could do with the resources at hand. Stretchers and gurneys had been procured from somewhere, and the able-bodied men began carting the casualties to more roomy cars of the train, setting them up with stabilizers so their injuries would not worsen on the voyage.
Lady Tür came up to me as I fitted a plaster over a man's bleeding leg, and touched me hesitantly on the shoulder.
"My father will welcome you all to his house. We have medical supplies there as well, shouldst you need them."
I gave her my thanks, and she knelt beside me to hold the end of the gauze down so that the wrapping was easier. I remember thinking at the time that her delicate hands were much better suited to medicine than killing.
-
Lord Foris of the House of the Arch welcomed us himself into the House Without Doors. From the entrance hall, an enormous white room decorated with paintings and pictures of other rooms, our troops split. Those already seen to were guided off to different bed chambers, while the wounded in need of more care were taken to what appeared to be a fully functional hospital wing.
An associative house, is what they called it - every room in which was located somewhere else. Lord Foris had developed it, taking old and abandoned rooms and places and using his talents to weave them into the fabric of the house. Each picture on the wall led to a different place.
Only those of the House of the Arch could navigate it, so Lord Foris' children acted as guides, the youngest being a boy named Portico, barely five years old.
I saw to each patient once, speaking to those who were awake, before Holmes drew me away, reminding me that there were plenty of able doctors to take my place.
Lady Tür led us through the entrance hall, and stopped before a painting of a quiet room filled with yellow light from a merry fire. She took my hand in hers, gesturing for Holmes to the same, and touched the fingertips of her other hand to the canvas.
Reality twisted.
As soon as Lady Tür left us, I pushed Holmes down to sit on the bed, and kneeled before him to clean the cut on his head. The skin around was bruised deep purple already, and tender to the touch. I placed a clean bandage over it, plastering it down, and laid a soft kiss to the white gauze.
Holmes' waistcoat and shirt were damp and sticky with blood, and my fingers trembled as I unfastened the first few buttons. His cravat I untied and folded, laying it on a chair beside the bed, leaving his collarbones exposed, pale and sharp in the firelight. He slipped the braces from his shoulders as I worked the fastenings of his shirt, and winced when I pulled it from his trousers.
Moving slowly, so as to not aggravate whatever wound he had on his abdomen, I slid the sleeves from his long arms, and eased it over his head, leaving his hair ruffled and untidy.
His lips fell over mine, even as I laughed, tracing his tongue over my teeth and lips until I could only open my mouth and breathe in his scent. Hands trailed feather light across my face to slide into my hair and tug me closer, tilting my head back and to the side as he devoured the inside of my mouth.
I dropped my hands to his legs, smoothing up the fabric on his thighs, spreading his knees to fit my self between them. He gave a full body shudder, and broke the kiss to watch my hands with darkening grey eyes, sucking his lower lip into his mouth to bite. Never before have I been so envious of another person's body part. I wanted to be that lip, I wanted to be those teeth, so that I might have Holmes' taste in my mouth for the rest of my life - for the rest of eternity.
The skin over his ribs was blossoming in dark plum bruises, but running my fingers over them gently proved them to be superficial, likely to heal up within the week. I bent over his lap to press an open-mouthed kiss to the marks, letting my hands fall once more to unfasten the front of his trousers and peel the flaps aside.
His breath hitched, fingers tightening in my hair momentarily, before they consciously relaxed, combing through the shorter strands, fingernails scratching just barely against my scalp.
The male form is, unsurprisingly, a great source of arousal to me. As a professional, it is no great difficulty to handle the most embarrassing of cases that require men - young and old - to be entirely unclothed in my consulting room, and only once or twice have I reacted to their naked bodies.
Holmes though - Holmes could have me hard as marble in a moment. With his eyes and his hands and his long, lithe body. He is unconsciously sensual, my Holmes, though thankfully it takes a practised eye to see it. The way he speaks, the smooth roll of vowels and consonants across his lips, the crisp delivery of words, all too often have had me aching in my trousers in the most inconvenient of times.
I trailed kisses down his stomach, into the dip between narrow hipbones. It was with relish that I learned his cries of pleasure were just as appealing to my ears, when I drew the head of his erection into my mouth, probing the slit with the tip of my tongue.
I used one hand to delve deeper into his trousers, cupping his sac as the other fisted the base of his cock. Holmes' hands grasped my neck and his hips gave a violent twitch that he struggled to restrain as I slid my mouth up and down his length, using my tongue and lips and the hollows of my cheeks to the best advantage.
"Temple and Arch, Watson! Aah - "
I pulled off with a wet, sucking noise that made my whole body flush. Holmes gave a low groan and drew my head up to kiss me again, licking the tang of himself from my lips and tongue.
"Will you let me?" he asked into my mouth, "Will you let me have you?"
"Yes, a thousand times yes," I sighed and he immediately set about undressing me, pushing my braces from my shoulders and tugging aside my collar to fasten his mouth against my neck, kissing and biting, making me moan as he staked his claim into my flesh. The emerald tie pin he had given me he set aside with my ruined tie. The sleeves of my shirt were stiff with dried blood, and needed much effort to unfasten the cuffs and remove them from my upper body.
Holmes stood, dragging me with him, so that he could wrestle it over my head, and kissed me again as soon as it was out of the way, tossing it aside somewhere, followed shortly by my undershirt. His hands ran over my chest, firm and confident, digging into the muscle of my back, nails scraping across the sensitive skin of my stomach, and down to cup me through my trousers, squeezing and stroking with the dexterity I had come to expect from him.
I placed one hand on his sharp jaw line, and the other over his, guiding his rhythm, until I was no longer kissing him, but panting into his mouth, my hips grinding into the steady press of his hand.
I pushed him back, slowly and carefully, mindful even then of his bruised side, to the bed, never parting our lips or relenting my direction of his hand. I spread my knees to straddle his thighs, holding my self up on one elbow, suspended over him. His prick rubbed insistent and wet against my stomach, leaving slick trails over my skin.
His free hand on my shoulder, pushing me back, disoriented me, causing me no little distress that I was overstepping my bounds in this new facet of our relationship. But he only smiled, breathless, and opened my trousers, pushing them and my drawers off my hips and as far down my thighs as would allow without having to separate further. His sharp grey eyes darkened even more, as his fingers drew patterns over my pelvis, delving behind me to dig into the flesh of my backside.
I felt raw and exposed, flayed open, beneath his gaze. Those keen eyes that can tell a man's life by the knees of his trousers, focused so intently on me, ordinary as I was, made me tremble. He lingered only briefly on the scar across my shoulder, much more intent on examining the aching stiffness of my erection, heavy between my legs.
He took a moment to help me adjust my bad leg into a more comfortable position, and then used the grip he had on my arse to draw me inexorably down. We were pressed so close together that it seemed nothing could get between us, and his hands flexed and pulled on my hips, beginning a slow, relentless grind between our bodies. My prick slid hot and wet against his, sending tremors up my spine and down my legs. The rolling thrust of my hips against his may have been the most erotic of my not-inconsiderable experiences, but then all those others had not been with Holmes.
Though my body covered his, broad where he was tall, his palms on my tailbone and long fingers dipping between my cheeks to explore, took away whatever control I might have had, leaving me shaking and moaning under his ministrations.
He nudged me head to the side with his nose and brought his mouth back against my neck, up high by my ear, and I gave a gasping moan. So distracted by his lips and the suction he applied to my skin, I barely noticed his fingers leaving me momentarily.
I very much noticed when they returned, gliding slickly over the cleft of my buttocks, and slid smoothly into me, without hesitation.
Holmes' fingers are thin, but long, and if I must say, remarkably skilled at whatever he endeavours to do.
First one, then another. His other hand ran up and down the sweaty skin of my back, and he abandoned marking my neck to breathe soft words into my ear, aiding me in relaxing through the penetration. It had been a disappointingly long time since I had last received such attentions, but my body accepted him with little resistance, much to my relief. The pads of his probing fingers sought out the nub of tissue that was my prostate, and he teased it, brushing back and forth across it, until I jerked in his arms at every pass.
"Oh, God, Holmes," I groaned. "Please - aah - please, n-now."
He withdrew his fingers and flipped us over in a remarkable move, our boots knocking against each other. Not stopping to remove his trousers farther than his knees, he rolled me onto my stomach, dragging his short nails down my spine.
He paused long enough for me to turn my head, worried. Never before had I seen the man so caught up in observing - and that was saying something. His eyes were riveted to the sweat dampening my hair, the raised welts of his nails on my back, the star-burst of scar tissue that covered my shoulder-blade, the dimples at the swell of my buttocks.
"You're perfect," he whispered, almost reverently, and my hips flexed into the blankets without my permission at the low husk in his voice. "Truly, John, you're - "
Breaking off his words, he ducked his head down to run his tongue along my spine, lapping up the pooling moisture and sucking more marks into the meat of my arse.
When his tongue ventured lower, just barely brushing against my entrance, I almost howled.
"No! No, no, no, Holmes, please - please, I can't - enough!"
He took pity on me, much to my consolation, for I was much closer to completion that I had any right to be, and coated his fingers in more of the oil he had used on me. He slicked it over his erection, visibly repressing his instinct to thrust into his fist.
Then he laid his body over mine, hot and firm and mine, lining himself up with my entrance, and pushed into my body, overwhelmingly slow, opening me in the most intimate of ways.
When he was seated inside me to the base, he rested, head hung low, harsh breaths ghosting across the back of my neck, letting me adjust to the intrusion.
His lips met my throat in a gentle kiss, and then he was drawing back, pulling out, and rocking forwards, and out, and in, and again and again, until I could do no more than breathe and moan and meet his every thrust. The blunt head of his prick grazed my prostate every other push in, the width of it filling me completely, sparking lines of blissful fire through my nerves, consuming my very being.
I'm sure I spoke, unable to keep my tongue to my self, but I have no notion of anything meaningful. My inane babble must have been pleasing to him though, for his hands grasped my hips, dragging them up, and the roll of his thrusts grew fiercer, harder, pounding with my heartbeat, forcing me inevitably to my climax. I thrust one hand beneath me, fisting my self, stripping my prick raw in time with his rhythm.
His trousers scraped against the tender flesh of my inner thighs, and it only heightened my arousal until I gave over, senseless and crying out, squeezing down on his erection as I spent my self into my hand.
My climax triggered his, and he thrust deep into me one last time, his entire body twitching, filling my insides.
He collapsed against my back for a long moment, warm and reassuring as we came off the high of orgasm, and withdrew carefully. He smoothed one hand across my heaving shoulders as he fished over the side of the bed for his shirt to use as a rag. Careful, tender swipes across my backside, and I offered him my soiled hand as well, which he cleaned with a low laugh.
I rolled onto my back, legs still tangled in my trousers, and gave him what was possibly the most saccharine smile I have ever managed, exhausted from the fight and the stress and the intense bout of lovemaking. He indulged me with a smile back, and kissed me softly, barely a brush of his lips against mine.
I was already partially asleep, but Holmes had enough presence of mind to strips us both of our shoes and trousers, leaving them in a crumpled heap by the side of the bed, before he curled against my side.
"Good night, dear Watson," he murmured into my shoulder.
I highly doubt I managed to answer him, but I'm sure he understood my sentiments.
-
Holmes has not retired, thankfully, but limits his crime-fighting to the Upworld, coming to the aid of Scotland Yard whenever they need him. We have take up our old residence in 221b Baker Street, but in a most peculiar manner, one to only be found in London Below.
Lady Tür had taken a liking to me, and by extension Holmes, and had persuaded her father, Lord Foris to allow us short-term residence in the House Without Doors.
Short-term extended to temporary, to semi-permanent, until Lord Foris asked whether we had any preferences as to a particular room we wished to add on to the House.
I had always had good memories of Baker Street, and was attached to the sentimentality of it. Holmes, though he muttered some nonsense about there being plenty of better flats in London that we could choose, was just as excited to see our old rooms on the wall of the entrance hall. We were fashioned keys that would allow us in and out of the House - more magic that I still do not fully understand - and we live together in London Below.
People come to me for doctoring, for healing, and I have begun to master the magic gifted to me by this world. It is very much like my old practise, except that not all my patients are - entirely human.
I have seen the marquis once or twice at the Floating Market, and he winks and me and smiles his toothy grin, and then flits off into his own world, as is his nature.
This adventure was nothing of the same calibre of the ones I had with Holmes prior to my descent, but I must say -
I would not change it for the world.
-
| Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X |
| Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV | Part XVI || Part XVII||
-
~ fin ~
-
Title: Underland
Author: crimson_adder
Fandoms: Sherlock Holmes (ACD) / Neverwhere (Gaiman!verse)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing / Characters: Holmes/Watson; Watson,
Word Count: ~ 3100 (HOW? HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?)
Summary: John Watson loses a bet, grants a favour, and finds himself in a world unlike anything he has ever seen before. Except for how it's all the same.
Notes / Warnings: Gratuitous porn, anal, oral, frottage. So this started with my own prompt on shkinkmeme which never got filled, so I decided to do it myself. :D If you see issues with anything, please feel free to tell me.
And...it's over? And there's porn? Goodness gracious, I do feel accomplished today. Hahahaaaaaaa. Hah. I don't think any of you realise just how difficult this was to wriiiiite. My first Victorian/full on smut. I don't think I've spent this much time blushing ever. Just imagine repetitive synthesized music in the background, I'm sure that will make it better.
Underland - Part XVII
-
By unspoken agreement we spend the night as compatriots do, unwilling to separate in the wake of our exhausting victory. I could not linger over Holmes, much as I wished to, for there were many injured to be seen to. Lady Tür and several of the Roman soldiers began moving the less severely wounded back onto the earl's train, while Holmes and the marquis led the rat speakers to gather the dead.
Thirteen of the earl's men - almost half their force - seven rat speakers, and four Romans were counted among the dead. Their bodies were laid in rows to honour their bravery and sacrifice.
The earl himself was unconscious, with a ghastly wound, permanently marring his left eye. I stitched the laceration closed, mopping away the worrying amounts of blood with my shirtsleeve, until my sleeve was soaked and I could do no more. He would never have use of the eye again, and possibly would need an eye-patch, for the scar would no doubt be awful despite my best efforts. I bandaged it, calling over one of his still-standing men, and instructing him on proper care and treatment.
Then I moved on.
The wounds varied in severity from amputation, to a broken finger. One particularly young rat speaker girl was brave and steadfast as I set and bound a broken arm, the hiccups of her tears muffled behind bitten-raw lips. Her brother - I assumed - nursing a mild concussion and several stitches in his upper arm, held her close, whispering calming noises into her hair.
There was only so much I could do with the resources at hand. Stretchers and gurneys had been procured from somewhere, and the able-bodied men began carting the casualties to more roomy cars of the train, setting them up with stabilizers so their injuries would not worsen on the voyage.
Lady Tür came up to me as I fitted a plaster over a man's bleeding leg, and touched me hesitantly on the shoulder.
"My father will welcome you all to his house. We have medical supplies there as well, shouldst you need them."
I gave her my thanks, and she knelt beside me to hold the end of the gauze down so that the wrapping was easier. I remember thinking at the time that her delicate hands were much better suited to medicine than killing.
-
Lord Foris of the House of the Arch welcomed us himself into the House Without Doors. From the entrance hall, an enormous white room decorated with paintings and pictures of other rooms, our troops split. Those already seen to were guided off to different bed chambers, while the wounded in need of more care were taken to what appeared to be a fully functional hospital wing.
An associative house, is what they called it - every room in which was located somewhere else. Lord Foris had developed it, taking old and abandoned rooms and places and using his talents to weave them into the fabric of the house. Each picture on the wall led to a different place.
Only those of the House of the Arch could navigate it, so Lord Foris' children acted as guides, the youngest being a boy named Portico, barely five years old.
I saw to each patient once, speaking to those who were awake, before Holmes drew me away, reminding me that there were plenty of able doctors to take my place.
Lady Tür led us through the entrance hall, and stopped before a painting of a quiet room filled with yellow light from a merry fire. She took my hand in hers, gesturing for Holmes to the same, and touched the fingertips of her other hand to the canvas.
Reality twisted.
As soon as Lady Tür left us, I pushed Holmes down to sit on the bed, and kneeled before him to clean the cut on his head. The skin around was bruised deep purple already, and tender to the touch. I placed a clean bandage over it, plastering it down, and laid a soft kiss to the white gauze.
Holmes' waistcoat and shirt were damp and sticky with blood, and my fingers trembled as I unfastened the first few buttons. His cravat I untied and folded, laying it on a chair beside the bed, leaving his collarbones exposed, pale and sharp in the firelight. He slipped the braces from his shoulders as I worked the fastenings of his shirt, and winced when I pulled it from his trousers.
Moving slowly, so as to not aggravate whatever wound he had on his abdomen, I slid the sleeves from his long arms, and eased it over his head, leaving his hair ruffled and untidy.
His lips fell over mine, even as I laughed, tracing his tongue over my teeth and lips until I could only open my mouth and breathe in his scent. Hands trailed feather light across my face to slide into my hair and tug me closer, tilting my head back and to the side as he devoured the inside of my mouth.
I dropped my hands to his legs, smoothing up the fabric on his thighs, spreading his knees to fit my self between them. He gave a full body shudder, and broke the kiss to watch my hands with darkening grey eyes, sucking his lower lip into his mouth to bite. Never before have I been so envious of another person's body part. I wanted to be that lip, I wanted to be those teeth, so that I might have Holmes' taste in my mouth for the rest of my life - for the rest of eternity.
The skin over his ribs was blossoming in dark plum bruises, but running my fingers over them gently proved them to be superficial, likely to heal up within the week. I bent over his lap to press an open-mouthed kiss to the marks, letting my hands fall once more to unfasten the front of his trousers and peel the flaps aside.
His breath hitched, fingers tightening in my hair momentarily, before they consciously relaxed, combing through the shorter strands, fingernails scratching just barely against my scalp.
The male form is, unsurprisingly, a great source of arousal to me. As a professional, it is no great difficulty to handle the most embarrassing of cases that require men - young and old - to be entirely unclothed in my consulting room, and only once or twice have I reacted to their naked bodies.
Holmes though - Holmes could have me hard as marble in a moment. With his eyes and his hands and his long, lithe body. He is unconsciously sensual, my Holmes, though thankfully it takes a practised eye to see it. The way he speaks, the smooth roll of vowels and consonants across his lips, the crisp delivery of words, all too often have had me aching in my trousers in the most inconvenient of times.
I trailed kisses down his stomach, into the dip between narrow hipbones. It was with relish that I learned his cries of pleasure were just as appealing to my ears, when I drew the head of his erection into my mouth, probing the slit with the tip of my tongue.
I used one hand to delve deeper into his trousers, cupping his sac as the other fisted the base of his cock. Holmes' hands grasped my neck and his hips gave a violent twitch that he struggled to restrain as I slid my mouth up and down his length, using my tongue and lips and the hollows of my cheeks to the best advantage.
"Temple and Arch, Watson! Aah - "
I pulled off with a wet, sucking noise that made my whole body flush. Holmes gave a low groan and drew my head up to kiss me again, licking the tang of himself from my lips and tongue.
"Will you let me?" he asked into my mouth, "Will you let me have you?"
"Yes, a thousand times yes," I sighed and he immediately set about undressing me, pushing my braces from my shoulders and tugging aside my collar to fasten his mouth against my neck, kissing and biting, making me moan as he staked his claim into my flesh. The emerald tie pin he had given me he set aside with my ruined tie. The sleeves of my shirt were stiff with dried blood, and needed much effort to unfasten the cuffs and remove them from my upper body.
Holmes stood, dragging me with him, so that he could wrestle it over my head, and kissed me again as soon as it was out of the way, tossing it aside somewhere, followed shortly by my undershirt. His hands ran over my chest, firm and confident, digging into the muscle of my back, nails scraping across the sensitive skin of my stomach, and down to cup me through my trousers, squeezing and stroking with the dexterity I had come to expect from him.
I placed one hand on his sharp jaw line, and the other over his, guiding his rhythm, until I was no longer kissing him, but panting into his mouth, my hips grinding into the steady press of his hand.
I pushed him back, slowly and carefully, mindful even then of his bruised side, to the bed, never parting our lips or relenting my direction of his hand. I spread my knees to straddle his thighs, holding my self up on one elbow, suspended over him. His prick rubbed insistent and wet against my stomach, leaving slick trails over my skin.
His free hand on my shoulder, pushing me back, disoriented me, causing me no little distress that I was overstepping my bounds in this new facet of our relationship. But he only smiled, breathless, and opened my trousers, pushing them and my drawers off my hips and as far down my thighs as would allow without having to separate further. His sharp grey eyes darkened even more, as his fingers drew patterns over my pelvis, delving behind me to dig into the flesh of my backside.
I felt raw and exposed, flayed open, beneath his gaze. Those keen eyes that can tell a man's life by the knees of his trousers, focused so intently on me, ordinary as I was, made me tremble. He lingered only briefly on the scar across my shoulder, much more intent on examining the aching stiffness of my erection, heavy between my legs.
He took a moment to help me adjust my bad leg into a more comfortable position, and then used the grip he had on my arse to draw me inexorably down. We were pressed so close together that it seemed nothing could get between us, and his hands flexed and pulled on my hips, beginning a slow, relentless grind between our bodies. My prick slid hot and wet against his, sending tremors up my spine and down my legs. The rolling thrust of my hips against his may have been the most erotic of my not-inconsiderable experiences, but then all those others had not been with Holmes.
Though my body covered his, broad where he was tall, his palms on my tailbone and long fingers dipping between my cheeks to explore, took away whatever control I might have had, leaving me shaking and moaning under his ministrations.
He nudged me head to the side with his nose and brought his mouth back against my neck, up high by my ear, and I gave a gasping moan. So distracted by his lips and the suction he applied to my skin, I barely noticed his fingers leaving me momentarily.
I very much noticed when they returned, gliding slickly over the cleft of my buttocks, and slid smoothly into me, without hesitation.
Holmes' fingers are thin, but long, and if I must say, remarkably skilled at whatever he endeavours to do.
First one, then another. His other hand ran up and down the sweaty skin of my back, and he abandoned marking my neck to breathe soft words into my ear, aiding me in relaxing through the penetration. It had been a disappointingly long time since I had last received such attentions, but my body accepted him with little resistance, much to my relief. The pads of his probing fingers sought out the nub of tissue that was my prostate, and he teased it, brushing back and forth across it, until I jerked in his arms at every pass.
"Oh, God, Holmes," I groaned. "Please - aah - please, n-now."
He withdrew his fingers and flipped us over in a remarkable move, our boots knocking against each other. Not stopping to remove his trousers farther than his knees, he rolled me onto my stomach, dragging his short nails down my spine.
He paused long enough for me to turn my head, worried. Never before had I seen the man so caught up in observing - and that was saying something. His eyes were riveted to the sweat dampening my hair, the raised welts of his nails on my back, the star-burst of scar tissue that covered my shoulder-blade, the dimples at the swell of my buttocks.
"You're perfect," he whispered, almost reverently, and my hips flexed into the blankets without my permission at the low husk in his voice. "Truly, John, you're - "
Breaking off his words, he ducked his head down to run his tongue along my spine, lapping up the pooling moisture and sucking more marks into the meat of my arse.
When his tongue ventured lower, just barely brushing against my entrance, I almost howled.
"No! No, no, no, Holmes, please - please, I can't - enough!"
He took pity on me, much to my consolation, for I was much closer to completion that I had any right to be, and coated his fingers in more of the oil he had used on me. He slicked it over his erection, visibly repressing his instinct to thrust into his fist.
Then he laid his body over mine, hot and firm and mine, lining himself up with my entrance, and pushed into my body, overwhelmingly slow, opening me in the most intimate of ways.
When he was seated inside me to the base, he rested, head hung low, harsh breaths ghosting across the back of my neck, letting me adjust to the intrusion.
His lips met my throat in a gentle kiss, and then he was drawing back, pulling out, and rocking forwards, and out, and in, and again and again, until I could do no more than breathe and moan and meet his every thrust. The blunt head of his prick grazed my prostate every other push in, the width of it filling me completely, sparking lines of blissful fire through my nerves, consuming my very being.
I'm sure I spoke, unable to keep my tongue to my self, but I have no notion of anything meaningful. My inane babble must have been pleasing to him though, for his hands grasped my hips, dragging them up, and the roll of his thrusts grew fiercer, harder, pounding with my heartbeat, forcing me inevitably to my climax. I thrust one hand beneath me, fisting my self, stripping my prick raw in time with his rhythm.
His trousers scraped against the tender flesh of my inner thighs, and it only heightened my arousal until I gave over, senseless and crying out, squeezing down on his erection as I spent my self into my hand.
My climax triggered his, and he thrust deep into me one last time, his entire body twitching, filling my insides.
He collapsed against my back for a long moment, warm and reassuring as we came off the high of orgasm, and withdrew carefully. He smoothed one hand across my heaving shoulders as he fished over the side of the bed for his shirt to use as a rag. Careful, tender swipes across my backside, and I offered him my soiled hand as well, which he cleaned with a low laugh.
I rolled onto my back, legs still tangled in my trousers, and gave him what was possibly the most saccharine smile I have ever managed, exhausted from the fight and the stress and the intense bout of lovemaking. He indulged me with a smile back, and kissed me softly, barely a brush of his lips against mine.
I was already partially asleep, but Holmes had enough presence of mind to strips us both of our shoes and trousers, leaving them in a crumpled heap by the side of the bed, before he curled against my side.
"Good night, dear Watson," he murmured into my shoulder.
I highly doubt I managed to answer him, but I'm sure he understood my sentiments.
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Holmes has not retired, thankfully, but limits his crime-fighting to the Upworld, coming to the aid of Scotland Yard whenever they need him. We have take up our old residence in 221b Baker Street, but in a most peculiar manner, one to only be found in London Below.
Lady Tür had taken a liking to me, and by extension Holmes, and had persuaded her father, Lord Foris to allow us short-term residence in the House Without Doors.
Short-term extended to temporary, to semi-permanent, until Lord Foris asked whether we had any preferences as to a particular room we wished to add on to the House.
I had always had good memories of Baker Street, and was attached to the sentimentality of it. Holmes, though he muttered some nonsense about there being plenty of better flats in London that we could choose, was just as excited to see our old rooms on the wall of the entrance hall. We were fashioned keys that would allow us in and out of the House - more magic that I still do not fully understand - and we live together in London Below.
People come to me for doctoring, for healing, and I have begun to master the magic gifted to me by this world. It is very much like my old practise, except that not all my patients are - entirely human.
I have seen the marquis once or twice at the Floating Market, and he winks and me and smiles his toothy grin, and then flits off into his own world, as is his nature.
This adventure was nothing of the same calibre of the ones I had with Holmes prior to my descent, but I must say -
I would not change it for the world.
-
| Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Part VIII | Part IX | Part X |
| Part XI | Part XII | Part XIII | Part XIV | Part XV | Part XVI || Part XVII||
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~ fin ~
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