Fic: Observation (Sherlock Holmes, Holmes/Watson/Mary) (WIP)
ETA 3/28: This story is not abandoned. I'm still actively working on it. It will probably be around 7,000 words. It grew a non-sex part in the middle that took a long time to write.
Posting as I go here because sherlockkink part 1 is almost full.
Title: Observation
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes, based on book canon but movie influenced
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Holmes/Mary/Watson, Watson/Mary
Summary: Prompt: Voyeurism. Mary Watson is jealous of the energy her husband puts into Holmes and his cases, but soon her jealousy transforms into the kind of fixation we slashers all understand.
1.
It began when I noticed the way Holmes looked at him. Or perhaps not the manner of looking, but the basic fact that Holmes was always intent upon him. My own knowledge of the man is quite in keeping with John's portrayal in his accounts of their adventures: Holmes is a genius, and ever observant. But he studies my husband with a singular intensity that he applies nowhere else. After years of cohabitation and an intimacy which I did not achieve with John until long after our engagement, I expected a level of complacency, but it is not so. Surely their every interaction is relaxed with their long familiarity, but Holmes still puts more stock in understanding him than any other person outside of one of his cases. This is how I came to realize that he felt the same tender emotions for our good doctor as do I.
I must admit that I was jealous. Oh, was there ever a wife more jealous. John would run off to be at Holmes' side at a moment's notice. I cannot enumerate the many times he has missed an engagement with myself, or, worse, our peers, in order to have his hand in a thrilling case. My blood boiled at this insufferable man taking my rightful place at John's side. I have only the graces of the fairer sex to draw upon in our contest for his time and consideration, while Holmes is both mentally brilliant and constantly embroiled in excitement. Upon every one of John's returns, I begged him for accounts of their daring attenuation of London's most notorious, or most secret, criminals. With his writerly flair for words, he described the cases in such vivid detail that I could nearly see myself there beside him. I am not proud to admit that I was nurturing an unseemly obsession with their lives in John's days away from our home.
In light of my sentiments and fixation on the matter, it is not surprising that my thoughts often turned to their partnership, and these musings would turn to flights of fantasy. I read deep meaning into every statement John made about Holmes, into every physical gesture between the two of them in the rare times the three of us met. As my jealousy gave way to dangerous fascination, those social engagements came more often. I am sure Holmes observed my declining anger towards him and friendly banter eclipsed the biting insults we had used to exchange.
The smoothing of our public social intercourse was accompanied by my rising private shame. I took to imagining my husband and his partner in ever more compromising positions. First simply the liberties that they as two men may share in lounging about underdressed. I know every inch of John's body but Holmes was constructed whole out of my imagination and observation of the fall of his clothing and those patches of naked skin that public dress affords the world. What a poor world that is left to its imagination! My fantasies grew ever heavier, the caresses they might exchange, palms sliding over skin, mouths meeting in lascivious congress. I am a properly bred woman, but not completely innocent of what passes behind closed doors. John and I are not too shy in our exploration of the carnal bond of marriage. I was lacking in the particulars of the game two men could play in secret, but the generalities I grasped consumed me with a fire I feared I could not long conceal.
2.
When John mentioned that he would be taking the day off from his practice to join Holmes on a case, the steed of my imagination tore from its stable as if beset by demons. I have found nothing that can stop it when hell-bent, so I invented a head-ache and retired to bed for my thoughts to run their course in privacy.
What might they be doing at Holmes' Baker Street lodgings? I had read countless drafts of John's accounts. They might be off the examine the scene of a shocking murder, or tail a suspicious character, or simply remain in the sitting room to research Holmes' vast collection of news clippings. Or. Or perhaps... (I was alone, I could for once permit myself to consider freely...) long, clever fingers making quick work of unbuttoning this, loosening that. Rough hands over heated skin, drawing a ragged gasp. John's lips, which I feel so often upon myself, touching a stubbled jaw, then moving lower. My hand followed, moving lower under the bedclothes. Anything they did must leave no mark on John, but Holmes had no other to see. John might bite, might leave trails of bruises up and down, might suck a nipple between his teeth. It would send a bolt of sensation to his groin, just as it does to me. Yes, the two of them so desperate for each others' touch. They had been separated for weeks, and I could not imagine our sweet marital congress as a replacement for this. John has never scorned a woman's touch, but in my fecund thoughts he wanted a counterpoint. He yearned for dextrous hands to unbutton, untie, peel off until he's exposed. To press him against the wall, jerk him roughly. I wouldn't be strong enough to restrain him, but I was sure Holmes was. John would struggle as he was tormented, until he made that small, desperate sound in his throat. And then Holmes might sink to his knees to take John into his mouth, his unruly hair clutched in John's grip. I still couldn't quite imagine buggery, but I could see Holmes breaching him with slick fingers, fingers that scissored and twisted expertly in time with his hot mouth until I started to come undone under my own fingers, images of John's face in my eyes and guilt in my heart. I knew they were not committing these sins anywhere outside my mind. I thought that Holmes had no sense of decency, but my husband was good and loyal and hardly likely to engage in such depravity. I was not ready to admit to myself that I desired him to.
3.
That was the first time I gave my imagination its head, but not the last. Soon I was not only thinking of it every time I saw Holmes, but also every time John came near me. As you can imagine, I was in a constant state of mental disarray. I knew it must be unhealthy, wrong, but what could I do? Who could I confide in? Which of my proper friends, all wives to equally proper husbands? Or upstanding Mrs. Bell, the wife of my former employer? Never. And certainly not my husband. He married a quiet governess. I was respectable, fashionable but modest in dress, only privately reading the unexpurgated Ovid. He would not willingly consort with the type of harlot who subverted the natural order: man, woman, marriage. A bit of impropriety behind closed doors, between man and wife only - French style, with the mouth (the better to please the patient wife), a bit of wasted seed deposited somewhere other than the fruitful vine. I wanted more, more than I could explain. I wanted most of all to break from rules and strictures, to tear down John's poise and posture and proper behavior, to leave my dear husband privately as debauched as his partner had no fear of appearing in public. To see him play the part of the woman, the object of desire, the tempter. He was clearly my tempter and my temptation. I knew some of what dwelled underneath the shirts I pressed, and I wanted to see what I imagined lay deeper.
After my constant distractions, when I had him under my hands I could no longer resist exploring. He would never need to know what had inspired me. I sucked him slowly and carefully as I often did, drifted downwards to tongue his bollocks. Thinking of the peculiar obsession with hygiene (against common medical opinion) he had picked up in his time rooming with Holmes, I tentatively drifted lower. I felt for the pucker of his roundmouth, flicking my wet tongue in a quick rhythm. He drew in his breath in surprise or excitement at the touch, cried out, "Mary! That is not..."
Perhaps he meant not sanitary, or not expected, or not done. But he was clean, and I was bound and determined to discover all the ways of wringing a reaction from him. I found his entrance with a wet finger, tentatively pushing inside. It was strange, hot, the opening grasping my finger tightly and almost sucking it in further without my initiative. Deeper in he was so soft I was afraid of hurting him. It was fascinating, at once stronger and more delicate than my own notch.
He was moving nervously now, probably caught between my obvious desire to continue, the strangeness of the sensation, and above all the deviance of the act. I, on the other hand, had dwelled on this topic so often in privacy that I was beginning to believe anything might be permitted if done in love in the marriage bed. The feeling of it, moving my finger in and out gently, feeling around and watching for the right reaction... after having experienced it, I knew it would not stop here. John was as undone as I had ever seen him, thrusting his hips in time with my mouth on his cock and the second finger I slipped in his arse. His enjoyment made me bolder, thrusting my fingers harder and crooking them the same way I enjoyed in my own channel. "Mary," he whispered. To speak what we were doing out loud would be too much for him, too crude. All he could do was gasp my name again and again as we went on. My mouth was tiring, I switched to use my hand and then back again, but there was no question in my mind of stopping. The sight of my husband with forbidden pleasure slowly taking him piece from piece was the sweetest drug to me. The feeling of a part of myself inside him was unexpectedly intoxicating. At the moment he finally came to completion, arching off the bed and repeating my name a final time in an exhausted voice, I knew I was hopelessly addicted.
Posting as I go here because sherlockkink part 1 is almost full.
Title: Observation
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes, based on book canon but movie influenced
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Holmes/Mary/Watson, Watson/Mary
Summary: Prompt: Voyeurism. Mary Watson is jealous of the energy her husband puts into Holmes and his cases, but soon her jealousy transforms into the kind of fixation we slashers all understand.
1.
It began when I noticed the way Holmes looked at him. Or perhaps not the manner of looking, but the basic fact that Holmes was always intent upon him. My own knowledge of the man is quite in keeping with John's portrayal in his accounts of their adventures: Holmes is a genius, and ever observant. But he studies my husband with a singular intensity that he applies nowhere else. After years of cohabitation and an intimacy which I did not achieve with John until long after our engagement, I expected a level of complacency, but it is not so. Surely their every interaction is relaxed with their long familiarity, but Holmes still puts more stock in understanding him than any other person outside of one of his cases. This is how I came to realize that he felt the same tender emotions for our good doctor as do I.
I must admit that I was jealous. Oh, was there ever a wife more jealous. John would run off to be at Holmes' side at a moment's notice. I cannot enumerate the many times he has missed an engagement with myself, or, worse, our peers, in order to have his hand in a thrilling case. My blood boiled at this insufferable man taking my rightful place at John's side. I have only the graces of the fairer sex to draw upon in our contest for his time and consideration, while Holmes is both mentally brilliant and constantly embroiled in excitement. Upon every one of John's returns, I begged him for accounts of their daring attenuation of London's most notorious, or most secret, criminals. With his writerly flair for words, he described the cases in such vivid detail that I could nearly see myself there beside him. I am not proud to admit that I was nurturing an unseemly obsession with their lives in John's days away from our home.
In light of my sentiments and fixation on the matter, it is not surprising that my thoughts often turned to their partnership, and these musings would turn to flights of fantasy. I read deep meaning into every statement John made about Holmes, into every physical gesture between the two of them in the rare times the three of us met. As my jealousy gave way to dangerous fascination, those social engagements came more often. I am sure Holmes observed my declining anger towards him and friendly banter eclipsed the biting insults we had used to exchange.
The smoothing of our public social intercourse was accompanied by my rising private shame. I took to imagining my husband and his partner in ever more compromising positions. First simply the liberties that they as two men may share in lounging about underdressed. I know every inch of John's body but Holmes was constructed whole out of my imagination and observation of the fall of his clothing and those patches of naked skin that public dress affords the world. What a poor world that is left to its imagination! My fantasies grew ever heavier, the caresses they might exchange, palms sliding over skin, mouths meeting in lascivious congress. I am a properly bred woman, but not completely innocent of what passes behind closed doors. John and I are not too shy in our exploration of the carnal bond of marriage. I was lacking in the particulars of the game two men could play in secret, but the generalities I grasped consumed me with a fire I feared I could not long conceal.
2.
When John mentioned that he would be taking the day off from his practice to join Holmes on a case, the steed of my imagination tore from its stable as if beset by demons. I have found nothing that can stop it when hell-bent, so I invented a head-ache and retired to bed for my thoughts to run their course in privacy.
What might they be doing at Holmes' Baker Street lodgings? I had read countless drafts of John's accounts. They might be off the examine the scene of a shocking murder, or tail a suspicious character, or simply remain in the sitting room to research Holmes' vast collection of news clippings. Or. Or perhaps... (I was alone, I could for once permit myself to consider freely...) long, clever fingers making quick work of unbuttoning this, loosening that. Rough hands over heated skin, drawing a ragged gasp. John's lips, which I feel so often upon myself, touching a stubbled jaw, then moving lower. My hand followed, moving lower under the bedclothes. Anything they did must leave no mark on John, but Holmes had no other to see. John might bite, might leave trails of bruises up and down, might suck a nipple between his teeth. It would send a bolt of sensation to his groin, just as it does to me. Yes, the two of them so desperate for each others' touch. They had been separated for weeks, and I could not imagine our sweet marital congress as a replacement for this. John has never scorned a woman's touch, but in my fecund thoughts he wanted a counterpoint. He yearned for dextrous hands to unbutton, untie, peel off until he's exposed. To press him against the wall, jerk him roughly. I wouldn't be strong enough to restrain him, but I was sure Holmes was. John would struggle as he was tormented, until he made that small, desperate sound in his throat. And then Holmes might sink to his knees to take John into his mouth, his unruly hair clutched in John's grip. I still couldn't quite imagine buggery, but I could see Holmes breaching him with slick fingers, fingers that scissored and twisted expertly in time with his hot mouth until I started to come undone under my own fingers, images of John's face in my eyes and guilt in my heart. I knew they were not committing these sins anywhere outside my mind. I thought that Holmes had no sense of decency, but my husband was good and loyal and hardly likely to engage in such depravity. I was not ready to admit to myself that I desired him to.
3.
That was the first time I gave my imagination its head, but not the last. Soon I was not only thinking of it every time I saw Holmes, but also every time John came near me. As you can imagine, I was in a constant state of mental disarray. I knew it must be unhealthy, wrong, but what could I do? Who could I confide in? Which of my proper friends, all wives to equally proper husbands? Or upstanding Mrs. Bell, the wife of my former employer? Never. And certainly not my husband. He married a quiet governess. I was respectable, fashionable but modest in dress, only privately reading the unexpurgated Ovid. He would not willingly consort with the type of harlot who subverted the natural order: man, woman, marriage. A bit of impropriety behind closed doors, between man and wife only - French style, with the mouth (the better to please the patient wife), a bit of wasted seed deposited somewhere other than the fruitful vine. I wanted more, more than I could explain. I wanted most of all to break from rules and strictures, to tear down John's poise and posture and proper behavior, to leave my dear husband privately as debauched as his partner had no fear of appearing in public. To see him play the part of the woman, the object of desire, the tempter. He was clearly my tempter and my temptation. I knew some of what dwelled underneath the shirts I pressed, and I wanted to see what I imagined lay deeper.
After my constant distractions, when I had him under my hands I could no longer resist exploring. He would never need to know what had inspired me. I sucked him slowly and carefully as I often did, drifted downwards to tongue his bollocks. Thinking of the peculiar obsession with hygiene (against common medical opinion) he had picked up in his time rooming with Holmes, I tentatively drifted lower. I felt for the pucker of his roundmouth, flicking my wet tongue in a quick rhythm. He drew in his breath in surprise or excitement at the touch, cried out, "Mary! That is not..."
Perhaps he meant not sanitary, or not expected, or not done. But he was clean, and I was bound and determined to discover all the ways of wringing a reaction from him. I found his entrance with a wet finger, tentatively pushing inside. It was strange, hot, the opening grasping my finger tightly and almost sucking it in further without my initiative. Deeper in he was so soft I was afraid of hurting him. It was fascinating, at once stronger and more delicate than my own notch.
He was moving nervously now, probably caught between my obvious desire to continue, the strangeness of the sensation, and above all the deviance of the act. I, on the other hand, had dwelled on this topic so often in privacy that I was beginning to believe anything might be permitted if done in love in the marriage bed. The feeling of it, moving my finger in and out gently, feeling around and watching for the right reaction... after having experienced it, I knew it would not stop here. John was as undone as I had ever seen him, thrusting his hips in time with my mouth on his cock and the second finger I slipped in his arse. His enjoyment made me bolder, thrusting my fingers harder and crooking them the same way I enjoyed in my own channel. "Mary," he whispered. To speak what we were doing out loud would be too much for him, too crude. All he could do was gasp my name again and again as we went on. My mouth was tiring, I switched to use my hand and then back again, but there was no question in my mind of stopping. The sight of my husband with forbidden pleasure slowly taking him piece from piece was the sweetest drug to me. The feeling of a part of myself inside him was unexpectedly intoxicating. At the moment he finally came to completion, arching off the bed and repeating my name a final time in an exhausted voice, I knew I was hopelessly addicted.