BBC Sherlock- Fic: Like a Candle, Hot and Bothered
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Fem!Watson and mentions of Fem!Sherlock
Rating: NC 17
Summary: Watson gets off at the idea of Sherlock touching her
Notes: AU BBC verse. From this prompt- http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2554070#t2554070
She had only known her flatmate for a few months but it felt like years. The situations she had found herself in were enough to last a lifetime, doubled with her previous experiences in the Afghanistan war. They were the same in a lot of ways; running and blood and death and chaos, but there were vast differences as well. Chasing and clues and deciphering and excitement not caused by fear and Sherlock please this is a crime scene we can’t be giggling. There was way too much, far too much and Joan Watson loved every minute of it. From the first time she had met Sherlock Holmes, that prude and competent being who owned every room and knew the details from a sweeping glance, she knew just those ten minutes were enough to leave a permanent impression. Yet it didn’t end there, and in a whirlwind they were looking at a flat and going on cases together and meeting protective older brothers and running and blood and death and giggling. Joan wanted more.
No, she mused to herself, lifting up a disheveled copy of Casarett & Doull’s Toxicology from the table she had grown accustomed to being cluttered and peeking underneath it, what I want is my fucking jumper. She found it highly amusing how easily she could lose her clothes, when she herself was a large woman and thus owned clothes to fit. It was like Barnum & Bailey losing one of their circus tents, and she laughed aloud at the very thought. Her hand swept across a stack of books and she pushed them to the floor, uncaring of the mess she made, for Sherlock certainly didn’t. So far, her closet had been upturned, her bedroom ripped apart and even the hamper spilled across the bathroom floor in search. The living area would have incurred her wrath had it not already experienced the impending hurricane that was the world’s only consulting detective.
There was only one real answer flickering in her mind at this point. It was very much like those words her flatmate was constantly saying- Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. While it was very unlikely the taller woman would have stolen her clothes- for why would she? They didn’t bloody well fit- it was the only explanation as to why they kept turning up missing. As she thought this, her eyes turned to the closed doorway looming at her from down the hall.
Sherlock’s room was a no-fly zone. She had never even peeked inside it, let alone been within its depths and the thought of doing so sent a small shiver down her spine. There was something ominous and alluring about it. What must be inside? Dark secrets and temptations and emotions seeped into the walls, and hearts bared soul deep through the mirrors. To be inside that room was to be inside Sherlock, to know her better than anyone else and to become exposed to the rawness of her. Or at least the romanticized brain of Joan seemed to think so. But truths be damned, it was her favourite jumper and she really couldn’t afford to buy any more clothes. Even Samuel Sawyer, her boss and fellow doctor at the clinic, seemed to like it and would compliment her when they brushed elbows.
With the slightest hesitation, she moved down the hallway. Sherlock should be gone for a long while still, her special skills required for an adventure Joan wasn’t invited to. She told herself not to get her hopes up, for surely her flatmate thought it wise to lock the door when she wasn’t home? Yet fumbling fingers grasped the knob gently and with a swift turn the door was free, leaving a portal in her wake in which to step forth. She didn’t open the door all the way, keeping a sliver exposed to Joan’s ever inquisitive gaze.
Sherlock would realize she had been in here. The woman was so perceptive she could tell when someone had been fucking the neighbor by the shoes they were wearing and what profession you were by the veins in your hand, over exaggeration intended. There was still time to back away, to simply ask about the missing clothes when her colleague had returned. Then again, she thought to herself, door handle still in a vice-like grip, she would probably ignore the question like she does with anything ‘too boring’ to answer. And when was she ever going to get another opportunity like this, when determination overruled timidity?
Sucking in a breath, Joan wrenched the door wide open, imagining clanging bells in her friend’s head. Sherlock’s spider senses were tingling. Right now, she already knew what Joan had done, the ever-present idea of Sherlock being omnipotent wavering in her mind. Of course, the detective was by no means a higher power, no matter how Goddess-like she could be. She was just one scarily smart woman.
The first thing that struck her was the sight. The bed was rather large with sprawled pillows and a haphazardly thrown comforter, with papers flung about as if ripped from loose leaf books and tossed into the air to land randomly. A smooth wooden trunk was settled at the foot of the bed, piles of clothes stacked on top and weighed down by the Stradivarius case; the violin itself was on the curio, with the bow placed delicately on top of it and sharing space with the lump of rosin as well as a couple tubes of lipstick. Joan found it a point to deem this odd, as Sherlock never wore makeup- her beauty was natural and defined as if she were specifically sculpted. There were desks with flasks and test tubes and other items dedicated to the sciences, and a bookcase much smaller than the one they shared which held spare few hardbacks. The floor was littered with more clothes and odds and ends, and it became apparent she lived in her room much like how she lived in the main room- like a bachelor.
Slowly, carefully, Joan padded barefoot soft upon the floor, making an intricately purposeful dance so as to not disturb anything. The slightest crinkle of paper or roll of the rug would indicate that she had intruded, and one did not easily forget the Blind Banker case, where Sherlock had later explained how she knew the assassin had small feet by the way the rug looked in the flat. She continued her movements- a sidestep here, an arch of the leg there- until she reached the wooden chest with the clothes on top. She made a point to take in the details, (for isn’t that what Sherlock had been trying to convey to her all this time?)to observe every item in how they were placed, to know their order. Sure, maybe she didn’t know their story or what Sherlock had been thinking when she had placed them there, and maybe her memory wasn’t exactly dependable, but she could create synonymous piles in reverse on the bed with as much ease as anyone.
As one by one she removed each article from the trunk, she realized it wasn’t there. Perhaps Sherlock hadn’t taken the jumper after all, or any of her other clothes. After placing each item back as closely to its original spot as possible, she sat on the edge of the bed in contemplation as to her next searchable location could be. And that’s when the second observation hit her.
Sherlock’s scent. It was enough to cause a panic at first. The initial reaction was that her flatmate had returned, and that she had been caught at this horrible invasion. She had jumped up and scattered some of the loose leaf papers, her feet stumbling and skittering the items on the floor. She had turned her head so fast her blonde hair had whipped at her cheeks, and it was then she realized the scent hadn’t pertained to her colleague’s return, but rather it permeated everything in the room. So caught up as she was with her search she hadn’t realized until now, and it was enough to cloud her senses and cause her to fall back onto the bed. There was no point in being careful now. She had already accidentally kicked things across the room and she had no idea where they had been previously. But that scent, oh, that intoxicating scent, like cloves and tart fruit and cinnamon and leaves and chemicals and science and burning. It had reminded her of scenes past, of touches almost there and lingering wafts that infiltrated.
Sherlock had been pacing in the main room, the newest case fresh in their minds and the excitement evident in those ice blue eyes. They danced with her movements, her fast paced talking a bit too much for Joan to comprehend but she caught on when she could. She had been getting better at understanding the intelligent garble that spewed from her friend’s mouth, however rapid it may be. And she was happy for her, for not hours ago she had been slipping into one of her black depressions, the wall possibly thanking her for not shooting it but Joan in turn wishing she would do so instead of laying about the couch and staring at nothing for hours on end.
“Ah, you see!” She had exclaimed, striding ever closer to the good doctor, “I told you my mind rebels at stagnation.” She was closer now, eyes piercing into Joan’s like a soul gazer and noses practically touching. “Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my proper atmosphere.” She had grinned at Joan then, eyes half lidded in a smug stare, and that scent wafted through her, stabbing her, infiltrating her. Sherlock had pulled away suddenly then as if she had not broken the rules of personal boundaries, and while Joan’s military stoicism took hold, the damage was already done and she could feel her palms sweat and her heart palpitate.
She was feeling these things now, the essence of Sherlock unearthing repressed emotions. She had told herself time and time again that she was not like her sister, was not a lesbian in any sense of the word and that she very much liked men. In fact, she had hoped to get off with Samuel and be rid of the whole bundle of ideas. She couldn’t stop, however. Whenever Sherlock deduced something nobody else would get or when they were running for their lives or when she got uncomfortably close the only thing she could think of was oh God please just touch me once touch me TOUCH ME.
Without much conscious thought Joan had started to trail her hand down her slightly exposed stomach, the tickling sensation causing goosebumps. There was no thought process of what she was doing, just that the room was speaking to her, whispering in her ear, slithering inside and thrumming in her head and her body reacted. Splayed fingers inched past the hem of her jeans, and she imagined Sherlock’s long pale digits demanding entry to this world otherwise untouched. Her other hand unfastened the button of her trousers, allowing this real-yet-fictitious hand to explore where it wanted, becoming inquisitive of the female gender.
She rolled onto her belly, finding herself positioned more fully on Sherlock’s bed and the scent of clean sweat and science consumed her again, sending thrills along her body. It became apparent then that she didn’t care if Sherlock found out later. As her hand stroked over her swollen nub previously concealed by flesh and fabric, she became suddenly aware through a gasp muffled by the disheveled comforter that she wanted Sherlock to find out. She wanted her to know that she had been in here, that she had gone through her stuff and sat on her bed and touched herself to the image of that brilliant woman. That she was sweating on the sheets and permeating her own scent to combine with the spice and it was her feet that clung to the floor desperately and it was Sherlock who should have wend her hands in ways not thought possible.
She would have expertise techniques. Movements of fingers like a playlist, from one song to another. Joan’s imagined-but-not hand flicked and rubbed, creating concise circles like a tease around her pleading clit and she would know when enough was enough, when to give in and touch her. She would hover near her opening and she would know the Latin names of her body and would say them in her mind when she touched them, labia minora to glans of clitoris and back again. She would tease, oh how she would tease, sometimes lightly brushing and just waiting for Joan to speak out through her panting, to whisper and moan out to just put your finger inside me already and Sherlock wouldn’t do it at first, oh no, she would continue her movements and relish in her body’s tremors.
Or maybe it would be a sudden bout of lust after a case that caused this happenstance to occur, a nightly stroll home interrupted by Sherlock’s ability to pounce undeterred and claim what was hers. She would pin Joan to the brick wall of an alleyway and she would kiss her with a hunger not seen outside of wolf packs, lips pressing and tongue demanding entrance of which Joan could only comply enthusiastically. She would stray from her mouth, kissing her jaw and stooping down to plant kisses and bites along her neck, branding her with teeth marks and blood and when they next saw Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson they would know, oh yes they would know and Sherlock would give them that smug knowing glance of possessiveness.
And then she would stoop lower, hands curving over bodacious hips until they strayed away only long enough to undo the buttons of Joan’s jeans, pulled down to her knees in a quick movement that broadcasted the urgency and suddenly claimed with a hungry mouth. She would push her way with a skilled tongue and flick her throbbing nub with a precise artist’s flair, her hands squeezing and digging into Joan’s bum as Joan’s hand runs through that mop of curly black hair and presses Sherlock’s head down into her cunny with such urgency just please enter me use me touch me do what you must become entwined with me.
Sherlock would comply then.
Joan had clamped her eyes shut with the images, her mind providing exalting instances enough to be permanently engraved with the rest of the positive memories, even if these ones were fake. She bucked her hips into her fingers, feeling herself rise to the cataclysm and muffled mouth open with one word dangling on those quivering lips. Her face was slicked with sweat and she turned it to the cool air, bucking again and letting that stammered name fly out of her like a phoenix and into the walls to be forever stained. They will hold the memory of what she did, and they will tell the owner for they hold all and no secrets.
She allowed herself to lay there, heart ramming so hard she thought her chest would burst and breath coming in such quivering gasps she wondered if she would breathe properly ever again. There was the brief pondering of bucking again while she was still hot, but logic reminded her that Sherlock could be home soon and she needed a shower to wash away the personal evidence. There was a difference between getting caught in the act, and being found out after. As it were her jeans were clammy with sweat and her pants soaked through and there would be no rid of the evidence completely until wash day. Finally, finally, after laying there and continuously inhaling the mixture of scents, she got herself up and wobbled her way to the shower, shutting Sherlock’s door behind her.
She never realized her missing jumper was inside Sherlock’s pillowcase.
Characters: Fem!Watson and mentions of Fem!Sherlock
Rating: NC 17
Summary: Watson gets off at the idea of Sherlock touching her
Notes: AU BBC verse. From this prompt- http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/2262.html?thread=2554070#t2554070
She had only known her flatmate for a few months but it felt like years. The situations she had found herself in were enough to last a lifetime, doubled with her previous experiences in the Afghanistan war. They were the same in a lot of ways; running and blood and death and chaos, but there were vast differences as well. Chasing and clues and deciphering and excitement not caused by fear and Sherlock please this is a crime scene we can’t be giggling. There was way too much, far too much and Joan Watson loved every minute of it. From the first time she had met Sherlock Holmes, that prude and competent being who owned every room and knew the details from a sweeping glance, she knew just those ten minutes were enough to leave a permanent impression. Yet it didn’t end there, and in a whirlwind they were looking at a flat and going on cases together and meeting protective older brothers and running and blood and death and giggling. Joan wanted more.
No, she mused to herself, lifting up a disheveled copy of Casarett & Doull’s Toxicology from the table she had grown accustomed to being cluttered and peeking underneath it, what I want is my fucking jumper. She found it highly amusing how easily she could lose her clothes, when she herself was a large woman and thus owned clothes to fit. It was like Barnum & Bailey losing one of their circus tents, and she laughed aloud at the very thought. Her hand swept across a stack of books and she pushed them to the floor, uncaring of the mess she made, for Sherlock certainly didn’t. So far, her closet had been upturned, her bedroom ripped apart and even the hamper spilled across the bathroom floor in search. The living area would have incurred her wrath had it not already experienced the impending hurricane that was the world’s only consulting detective.
There was only one real answer flickering in her mind at this point. It was very much like those words her flatmate was constantly saying- Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. While it was very unlikely the taller woman would have stolen her clothes- for why would she? They didn’t bloody well fit- it was the only explanation as to why they kept turning up missing. As she thought this, her eyes turned to the closed doorway looming at her from down the hall.
Sherlock’s room was a no-fly zone. She had never even peeked inside it, let alone been within its depths and the thought of doing so sent a small shiver down her spine. There was something ominous and alluring about it. What must be inside? Dark secrets and temptations and emotions seeped into the walls, and hearts bared soul deep through the mirrors. To be inside that room was to be inside Sherlock, to know her better than anyone else and to become exposed to the rawness of her. Or at least the romanticized brain of Joan seemed to think so. But truths be damned, it was her favourite jumper and she really couldn’t afford to buy any more clothes. Even Samuel Sawyer, her boss and fellow doctor at the clinic, seemed to like it and would compliment her when they brushed elbows.
With the slightest hesitation, she moved down the hallway. Sherlock should be gone for a long while still, her special skills required for an adventure Joan wasn’t invited to. She told herself not to get her hopes up, for surely her flatmate thought it wise to lock the door when she wasn’t home? Yet fumbling fingers grasped the knob gently and with a swift turn the door was free, leaving a portal in her wake in which to step forth. She didn’t open the door all the way, keeping a sliver exposed to Joan’s ever inquisitive gaze.
Sherlock would realize she had been in here. The woman was so perceptive she could tell when someone had been fucking the neighbor by the shoes they were wearing and what profession you were by the veins in your hand, over exaggeration intended. There was still time to back away, to simply ask about the missing clothes when her colleague had returned. Then again, she thought to herself, door handle still in a vice-like grip, she would probably ignore the question like she does with anything ‘too boring’ to answer. And when was she ever going to get another opportunity like this, when determination overruled timidity?
Sucking in a breath, Joan wrenched the door wide open, imagining clanging bells in her friend’s head. Sherlock’s spider senses were tingling. Right now, she already knew what Joan had done, the ever-present idea of Sherlock being omnipotent wavering in her mind. Of course, the detective was by no means a higher power, no matter how Goddess-like she could be. She was just one scarily smart woman.
The first thing that struck her was the sight. The bed was rather large with sprawled pillows and a haphazardly thrown comforter, with papers flung about as if ripped from loose leaf books and tossed into the air to land randomly. A smooth wooden trunk was settled at the foot of the bed, piles of clothes stacked on top and weighed down by the Stradivarius case; the violin itself was on the curio, with the bow placed delicately on top of it and sharing space with the lump of rosin as well as a couple tubes of lipstick. Joan found it a point to deem this odd, as Sherlock never wore makeup- her beauty was natural and defined as if she were specifically sculpted. There were desks with flasks and test tubes and other items dedicated to the sciences, and a bookcase much smaller than the one they shared which held spare few hardbacks. The floor was littered with more clothes and odds and ends, and it became apparent she lived in her room much like how she lived in the main room- like a bachelor.
Slowly, carefully, Joan padded barefoot soft upon the floor, making an intricately purposeful dance so as to not disturb anything. The slightest crinkle of paper or roll of the rug would indicate that she had intruded, and one did not easily forget the Blind Banker case, where Sherlock had later explained how she knew the assassin had small feet by the way the rug looked in the flat. She continued her movements- a sidestep here, an arch of the leg there- until she reached the wooden chest with the clothes on top. She made a point to take in the details, (for isn’t that what Sherlock had been trying to convey to her all this time?)to observe every item in how they were placed, to know their order. Sure, maybe she didn’t know their story or what Sherlock had been thinking when she had placed them there, and maybe her memory wasn’t exactly dependable, but she could create synonymous piles in reverse on the bed with as much ease as anyone.
As one by one she removed each article from the trunk, she realized it wasn’t there. Perhaps Sherlock hadn’t taken the jumper after all, or any of her other clothes. After placing each item back as closely to its original spot as possible, she sat on the edge of the bed in contemplation as to her next searchable location could be. And that’s when the second observation hit her.
Sherlock’s scent. It was enough to cause a panic at first. The initial reaction was that her flatmate had returned, and that she had been caught at this horrible invasion. She had jumped up and scattered some of the loose leaf papers, her feet stumbling and skittering the items on the floor. She had turned her head so fast her blonde hair had whipped at her cheeks, and it was then she realized the scent hadn’t pertained to her colleague’s return, but rather it permeated everything in the room. So caught up as she was with her search she hadn’t realized until now, and it was enough to cloud her senses and cause her to fall back onto the bed. There was no point in being careful now. She had already accidentally kicked things across the room and she had no idea where they had been previously. But that scent, oh, that intoxicating scent, like cloves and tart fruit and cinnamon and leaves and chemicals and science and burning. It had reminded her of scenes past, of touches almost there and lingering wafts that infiltrated.
Sherlock had been pacing in the main room, the newest case fresh in their minds and the excitement evident in those ice blue eyes. They danced with her movements, her fast paced talking a bit too much for Joan to comprehend but she caught on when she could. She had been getting better at understanding the intelligent garble that spewed from her friend’s mouth, however rapid it may be. And she was happy for her, for not hours ago she had been slipping into one of her black depressions, the wall possibly thanking her for not shooting it but Joan in turn wishing she would do so instead of laying about the couch and staring at nothing for hours on end.
“Ah, you see!” She had exclaimed, striding ever closer to the good doctor, “I told you my mind rebels at stagnation.” She was closer now, eyes piercing into Joan’s like a soul gazer and noses practically touching. “Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my proper atmosphere.” She had grinned at Joan then, eyes half lidded in a smug stare, and that scent wafted through her, stabbing her, infiltrating her. Sherlock had pulled away suddenly then as if she had not broken the rules of personal boundaries, and while Joan’s military stoicism took hold, the damage was already done and she could feel her palms sweat and her heart palpitate.
She was feeling these things now, the essence of Sherlock unearthing repressed emotions. She had told herself time and time again that she was not like her sister, was not a lesbian in any sense of the word and that she very much liked men. In fact, she had hoped to get off with Samuel and be rid of the whole bundle of ideas. She couldn’t stop, however. Whenever Sherlock deduced something nobody else would get or when they were running for their lives or when she got uncomfortably close the only thing she could think of was oh God please just touch me once touch me TOUCH ME.
Without much conscious thought Joan had started to trail her hand down her slightly exposed stomach, the tickling sensation causing goosebumps. There was no thought process of what she was doing, just that the room was speaking to her, whispering in her ear, slithering inside and thrumming in her head and her body reacted. Splayed fingers inched past the hem of her jeans, and she imagined Sherlock’s long pale digits demanding entry to this world otherwise untouched. Her other hand unfastened the button of her trousers, allowing this real-yet-fictitious hand to explore where it wanted, becoming inquisitive of the female gender.
She rolled onto her belly, finding herself positioned more fully on Sherlock’s bed and the scent of clean sweat and science consumed her again, sending thrills along her body. It became apparent then that she didn’t care if Sherlock found out later. As her hand stroked over her swollen nub previously concealed by flesh and fabric, she became suddenly aware through a gasp muffled by the disheveled comforter that she wanted Sherlock to find out. She wanted her to know that she had been in here, that she had gone through her stuff and sat on her bed and touched herself to the image of that brilliant woman. That she was sweating on the sheets and permeating her own scent to combine with the spice and it was her feet that clung to the floor desperately and it was Sherlock who should have wend her hands in ways not thought possible.
She would have expertise techniques. Movements of fingers like a playlist, from one song to another. Joan’s imagined-but-not hand flicked and rubbed, creating concise circles like a tease around her pleading clit and she would know when enough was enough, when to give in and touch her. She would hover near her opening and she would know the Latin names of her body and would say them in her mind when she touched them, labia minora to glans of clitoris and back again. She would tease, oh how she would tease, sometimes lightly brushing and just waiting for Joan to speak out through her panting, to whisper and moan out to just put your finger inside me already and Sherlock wouldn’t do it at first, oh no, she would continue her movements and relish in her body’s tremors.
Or maybe it would be a sudden bout of lust after a case that caused this happenstance to occur, a nightly stroll home interrupted by Sherlock’s ability to pounce undeterred and claim what was hers. She would pin Joan to the brick wall of an alleyway and she would kiss her with a hunger not seen outside of wolf packs, lips pressing and tongue demanding entrance of which Joan could only comply enthusiastically. She would stray from her mouth, kissing her jaw and stooping down to plant kisses and bites along her neck, branding her with teeth marks and blood and when they next saw Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson they would know, oh yes they would know and Sherlock would give them that smug knowing glance of possessiveness.
And then she would stoop lower, hands curving over bodacious hips until they strayed away only long enough to undo the buttons of Joan’s jeans, pulled down to her knees in a quick movement that broadcasted the urgency and suddenly claimed with a hungry mouth. She would push her way with a skilled tongue and flick her throbbing nub with a precise artist’s flair, her hands squeezing and digging into Joan’s bum as Joan’s hand runs through that mop of curly black hair and presses Sherlock’s head down into her cunny with such urgency just please enter me use me touch me do what you must become entwined with me.
Sherlock would comply then.
Joan had clamped her eyes shut with the images, her mind providing exalting instances enough to be permanently engraved with the rest of the positive memories, even if these ones were fake. She bucked her hips into her fingers, feeling herself rise to the cataclysm and muffled mouth open with one word dangling on those quivering lips. Her face was slicked with sweat and she turned it to the cool air, bucking again and letting that stammered name fly out of her like a phoenix and into the walls to be forever stained. They will hold the memory of what she did, and they will tell the owner for they hold all and no secrets.
She allowed herself to lay there, heart ramming so hard she thought her chest would burst and breath coming in such quivering gasps she wondered if she would breathe properly ever again. There was the brief pondering of bucking again while she was still hot, but logic reminded her that Sherlock could be home soon and she needed a shower to wash away the personal evidence. There was a difference between getting caught in the act, and being found out after. As it were her jeans were clammy with sweat and her pants soaked through and there would be no rid of the evidence completely until wash day. Finally, finally, after laying there and continuously inhaling the mixture of scents, she got herself up and wobbled her way to the shower, shutting Sherlock’s door behind her.
She never realized her missing jumper was inside Sherlock’s pillowcase.