Fic: A Satisfactory Arrangement (Elementary: Joan/Sherlock, NC-17)
title: A Satisfactory Arrangement
author: Fannishliss
Fandom: Elementary
Pairing: Joan Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Rating: Explicit
words: 2878
Summary: Joan finds that Sherlock's proposals usually work out well in the end.
Author's Notes: I really enjoy Elementary. I don't ship them to the extent that I would want them to be lovers on the show. But it is fun to think about the possibility. :D This is for Porn Battle XV: The Ides of Porn.
Comments are love!
XXX
“Watson,” Sherlock said. He was bouncing a little on his toes with his usual nervous energy.
“Yes?” I answered, suspicious. His bright eyes darted to mine and then away, his mouth opening and closing. I waited. If it was important, he’d eventually get it out.
“I propose,” he said, in his breathless way, “a matter of simple mutual benefit.”
“Okay?” I said. Despite how off-putting many people found him, his proposals to me usually worked out pretty well, all things considered. After all, I was now living in his enormous brownstone and practicing his trade by his side with some proficiency. Of course I’d done a lot of good as a sober companion, but it had never challenged me to my full capacity the way detecting did. Sherlock had seen that potential in me right away, and he had not allowed my doubts to get the better of me. So I felt like I owed it to him to take his proposals seriously.
“I propose that we engage in sexual intercourse. Hear me out!” he silenced my objections with one long finger. His enormous eyes were wide and serious and he was vibrating at a fascinating rate. As a sober companion I had learned to read the body language of addicts when their cravings threatened to overwhelm them. This was something like that. Sherlock craved, he wanted, but he had come too far to fall back on the heroin (at least, we both trusted that he had). But his hyperactive, addictive personality wanted something. Apparently, that something was me.
“Sherlock, I-“
He interrupted me, of course. “Watson, I have too much respect for you than to think that you would allow sex between us to seriously damage our rapport. Hmm?” His gaze pinned me. I could hardly imagine what sex with him would even be like. He was fit, he smelled good (living with him, I could hardly escape knowing what he smelled like!). I knew that the women who came and went from his rooms left satisfied. I had seen the evidence with my own eyes.
“It’s not that simple. Having sex changes things,” I asserted.
“Does it? Tell me, Watson, did it change things so very much between you and my brother?”
I blushed. It had been an impulse, and I can’t say that I hadn’t regretted it. Anyone who’s ever met either of the Holmes brothers knows the weight of their regard. Their attentions, whether welcome or unwelcome, can’t be simply ignored. When Mycroft made overtures, I accepted. It was a good experience, for what it was worth - I couldn’t imagine a Holmes doing anything poorly - but it was a momentary whim and I wouldn’t do it again. I had hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t find out, but I regretted that it had hurt him when he did.
“Sherlock, the relationship or lack thereof between me and your brother is my business, not yours, no matter how proprietary you may feel towards him.”
“Or you,” he interjected.
“What?” I said.
“I may be feeling a bit proprietary towards you.” He coughed, uncomfortable. “Or if not proprietary, well, interested. You are a free woman, Watson. You may come and go as you please. That has always been our agreement. But I have grown rather fond of you. I feel that we could come to a satisfactory arrangement. You would not be disappointed in me; my skills are highly regarded. It makes little sense for either of us to expend our energies in futile courtship behaviors outside this brownstone.”
“Futile courtship behaviors?” I said. Really, I just wanted him to lay out his reasoning. It never ceased to amaze me how many women were satisfied with his no-strings offer.
And, I’d be lying if I tried to claim that after so many months living in close proximity with such an extraordinary human being, I was not the least bit curious.
In fact, my curiosity was at a fever pitch, and I was shocked it had taken him so long to notice, and grateful that he had couched his offer so graciously. Despite his many flaws as a flatmate, he could be very gentlemanly, even sweet, when the rare mood took him.
He darted a little closer, leaning forward from the waist. “Come, Watson,” he said. “Don’t lie to me, even if you insist upon lying to yourself. You’re not looking for anything permanent at this time. You’ve even been thinking of deleting your dating profile.”
“What makes you think so?” I said.
“When your friend first set up the profile, you eagerly read each response. Now, you barely react. It’s been quite some time since a response merited a date with you, or even coffee.”
Sherlock was right, of course. I was tired of the endless stream of dates. I met plenty of nice men, but hardly ever felt the spark of interest. Furthermore, practicing Sherlock’s methods of deduction had changed me. I knew too much about men before they even opened their mouths. Their tells screamed out as they tried to gloss over their faults, and their exaggerations when they tried show themselves in the best light were glaringly obvious. That kind of dating just wasn’t fun anymore.
“I accept,” I said.
“What?” he said, taken aback.
“I accept your proposal,” I said, smiling to myself at his surprise.
“Your conditions?” he responded, regaining his composure.
“Condoms, of course. No unsafe practices: asphyxiation and bloodplay are out. And if you have any requirements along the spectrum of BDSM, we’ll need safewords and a more extensive interview.”
Sherlock swallowed once or twice and the tips of his ears went red. “Yes. Yes, very sensible, Watson.”
He whirled on his heel and made for the French doors. I followed.
“Not now, Watson, it’s ten in the morning!” he shouted over his shoulder and the door slammed behind him.
I laughed to myself, unexpectedly delighted at how this was going.
Three days later, we helped Captain Gregson and Marcus Bell solve a crime ring involving crooked nannies and blackmail. I got to tackle a bad nanny and Sherlock got to comfort a crying little girl. It was a good day. Gregson was pleased with our work, and Marcus had a nod of approval for Sherlock. We went back to the brownstone together.
“Tonight would be very appropriate for the commencement of our arrangement, Watson, if you have no objections?”
I had none, except I was feeling a little sweaty from the chase.
Sherlock leaned in and gave me a deliberate smelling over. “You need not fear, Joan,” he said, “you smell delectable. But by all means, I’d prefer for you to be comfortable.”
His use of my first name made me smile. He did use it from time to time, but it was always an indicator that he was feeling particularly informal. It meant, to him, that the two of us were more than partners. We were friends.
I washed up and was back downstairs in no time. Somehow I preferred for this to be in his space, on his terms. He had already deduced as much, no doubt from subtle signals in my body language that I wasn’t even aware of.
He’d placed several candles around the room and lit a fire. It was very pleasant.
I let him take the lead. He always enjoyed an opportunity to show off.
“Your shower has deprived me of the opportunity to undress you,” he complained.
“Would you like me to undress you?” I asked. Fancy lace and lingerie was uninteresting to me, and if he liked those sorts of things, he’d have to let me know. After my shower, I’d put on one of my everyday nightshirts, just as he’d seen me in countless times when he’d broken into my room, and pulled on a silk robe and slippers against the chill.
“Yes, please,” he said. I undid the cuffs of his dress shirt. He was always so tightly buttoned up when we were working. I loved seeing his casual side at home in the brownstone, even when he was just pulling on a tee shirt after one of his dates was leaving. Undoing the buttons on his shirt, one by one, felt so significant. I could feel his heart pounding so close to my hand. Impulsively I leaned forward and kissed his chest right over the beating heart.
“You mean a lot to me,” I whispered.
He laid a finger on my lips. “No need for protestations of affection, Joan. We know each other very well, by now.”
It was true, and the moment felt heavy to me. I had slept with this man’s brother on a whim - a man I barely knew. Sherlock, however, was a man I regularly trusted with my life. He knew secrets about me that I’d entrusted to no one. I had thought that it would feel odd to go to bed with my colleague, transgressive, or at least a little awkward, but it didn’t.
Sherlock was always a guarded person. He’d been hurt too many times in his life by people he should have been able to trust. I was determined not to be one of those people.
“Ask me for whatever you want,” I said. “I’m game,” I said. Something inside me was ready - ready for the adrenaline rush I so often got from him - the thrill of breaking into a crime scene, the fiery triumph of out-thinking a cunning criminal mind.
“You were right before, Watson,” he said. “We’ll not do anything too exotic this first time. Just, just let me touch you. Let me, let me at you.” He stuttered a little sometimes, in moments of stress, when things were very important to him, when it was vital to get it right. He was thinking of me as his partner right then and he cared a great deal about getting it right.
I felt a huge rush of affection for him. That was nothing new. He had gotten under my skin almost immediately after I took him on as a client. Our cases together and our life together in the brownstone, all that I had learned about his tragic, destructive affair with Moriarty and his estrangement from his family - everything I knew about Sherlock, even his addiction and his struggle with recovery - I felt for him, very deeply. It was not going to be easy, making love with him, to keep myself from falling in love with him. But I would do my best.
“Show me, Sherlock,” I said, smiling. “Show me those mad skills.”
He huffed a breath. I’d unbuttoned his shirt, but he didn’t shrug it off. “Give me your hand,” he said, in his soft, rough voice.
He took my hand and pressed it against his chest. “Biofeedback,” he said. “My heart pounds, and this excites you, because you know my heart is pounding because you excite me. An excellent loop, don’t you think?”
“Can’t you see the arousal in my eyes, Sherlock?” I asked.
“Yes, yes, I can,” he murmured. Leaning closer, he whispered in my ear. “Your arousal is apparent in the dilation of your eyes, yes, but also in the flush of your upper chest, the way you sway toward me, the shallowness of your breathing - and I’m beginning to detect its faintest aroma.” He breathed deeply as he pulled away slightly, closing his eyes. “Breathtaking,” he said.
We stood together for what felt like a long time, touching each other, learning each other’s bodies in the one way we hadn’t yet. He smiled, and I smiled back, and we were happy. It was the happiest sex I think I’ve ever had. I thought he would be prideful in bed, but he wasn’t. He constantly observed, adjusting the intensity of his touches to what I needed most at that very moment. He seemed somehow innocent in his delight, even though I knew for a fact he was nothing of the sort.
Sherlock touched me, and it was almost like a dance. He was so graceful. He led, and I followed. He pushed the silk robe off my shoulders, I slid my hands under his shirt, feeling the human warmth of his sides. Touching him was intoxicating, feeling his smooth skin under my hands, tracing the patterns of his ink and the marks of his needles. I knew him so well, and he was naked before me.
He touched me so delicately. I guess I’d formed an impression, based on the very first time we met, when he was saying goodbye to a domme. (I later came to suspect that he’d planned that encounter at least in part as a test for me.) Still, I figured Sherlock would like it rough. I wasn’t expecting this reverence, this whole-hearted attention, this absolute devotion to my pleasure, my responses. I’ve always been a little competitive in bed, wanting to show that I can give as good as I get, but with Sherlock, something was different. He wasn’t performing, he was simply himself: naked, marked, scarred, broken, beautiful.
He led me to his bed. “Will you lie down for me, Joan?” he said. His soft voice was mesmerizing. I wondered if hypnosis was part of his skillset.
“Of course I’m not trying to hypnotize you,” he muttered; “we haven’t negotiated that yet.”
I laughed and suddenly I felt very lucky. I might have gone for years without this experience, if he hadn’t taken the chance to break through my inhibitions. I lay back, and he lay down next to me.
“Your breasts are lovely,” he said, stroking one and leaning down to suckle at the other. I arched up into him, loving the sensation of his mouth on my nipple. “Sensitive,” he remarked, switching sides. As he suckled, I felt an ache begin to grow between my legs. He chuckled.
“No need to worry, Watson. I’ll take care of you.”
“Mmm,” I said, just enjoying the feeling of his mouth on me. His hand slid down, to stroke me there, gently, undemanding.
“Open up to me, Joan,” he said, and my legs fell open in surrender to his easy touch. I knew he played the violin, though I’d rarely heard him, and I did feel as though he was playing me, running his fingers so lightly through my slickness, teasing out my responses, listening to my sighs and my cries of delight, as he wound me up into screams.
He’d brought me to orgasm twice already with his hands. “I’d love to use my mouth on you,” he whispered. “You smell absolutely delicious. But we agreed no unsafe practices. Maybe next time,” he said.
“I’m not complaining,” I gasped.
“I didn’t think you would be,” he responded. “Now, my dear, please kneel up for me. This is a little athletic, but I think we’re up to it.”
He knelt behind me and put on the condom, then guided me slowly down onto his erection. He felt so good, fitting inside me so deeply. I groaned in pleasure.
And then he began to move, thrusting up gently into me, stroking me in places that felt incredible.
“Oh, Joan, yes,” he moaned. He wrapped one arm around me, and his right hand dove back between my legs, just touching me enough to drive me crazy, it felt so good, with his slow luxurious thrusts and his fingers dancing across my clit.
He held me there, thrusting at leisure, driving me higher and higher into ecstasy. I’d guessed from his parade of pleased women that he was good, but I’d never suspected he was this good. He held me against him, fucking me, frigging me, taking me higher than I’d ever been before. I didn’t know it could be so good. I couldn’t even scream, I couldn’t breathe, I just hung there, panting, shaking, coming. It didn’t stop, and it felt so good.
“Joan, Joan,” he moaned. “May I?”
I would’ve let him do anything at that point, but all he wanted was to pound me into the mattress. He lay me down on my stomach, pulled my ass up a little, and just let himself go. I grabbed two wads of sheet in my fists and hung on, presenting myself to him the best I could. When he finally came, he was so deep inside me, I could feel every pulse, and he howled my name, “Joan, Joan!” as he shook and emptied himself.
It took me a while to stop shaking. He left and came back with a warm, wet cloth and softly cleaned me up.
I wondered if he would want me to leave and go up to my room. I wondered at myself, too, but I didn’t want to move. He got up again, blew out all the candles, and checked the fire. Then he came back to bed and snuggled himself in beside me. He was skin and bones and lean muscle, but he snuggled up well.
“A satisfactory arrangement, wouldn’t you say, my dear Watson?” he chuckled in my ear.
“I should go upstairs,” I mumbled.
“I’d rather you stay here, so that I may observe you while you sleep,” he said, lightly.
“Okay,” I said. After all, his proposals usually did work out pretty well.