Sherlock Fanfiction: Live Wire
Title: Live Wire
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary: AU, slash, S/My/J, strung between the two of them, he feels like a live wire.
Rating: R
Warnings: Alternate Universe- vampire, threesome/moresome, incest, slash, bloodplay, fingering, kissing, biting, hurt/comfort.
Pairings/Characters: Sherlock Holmes /Mycroft Holmes/John Watson; Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson
Word Count: 1,181
Author's Note: This actually may become a small mini-series, probably just a bunch of random ficlets in the same ‘verse.
xXx
All is quiet as the two Holmes brothers return, neither speaking nor looking at each other. Habits take over, Sherlock unwinding his scarf, slipping his long coat off in a flourish, tossing them onto the coatrack without care that they make it or not. His thoughts are already elsewhere, most likely on his most recent case.
Mycroft on the other hand goes through his rituals with a bit more courtesy to them, slipping his jacket and waistcoat off with ease of practice, folds them and hangs them over the back of a nearby chair to be put away at a later date. His thoughts are also elsewhere as he deftly unhooks his cufflinks. They click metallically as they settle into the crystal bowl.
Both are quiet, around them; the large flat they share is quiet. Quiet enough to warrant a frown from them, though only Sherlock actually shows the expression. Outside, the sun is rising, signaling a time for sleep for them or at least a time to work on things at home until night falls again. Neither sleeps regularly, often sleeping in shifts.
Sherlock walks over to the mantel, hands sure as he gathers glasses and drinks together. Mycroft knows Sherlock will get him what he wants, but first, to make his rounds. The flat is too quiet to be coincidence. The sight that greets him down the hall where their door is open is a welcome sight. One that leaves a small smile at the corners of his mouth, really, just a shadow of one, but it is there.
He doesn’t have to say a word for Sherlock to appear, glass in hand for him as he takes in the moment presented. Mycroft sips, whisky laced with blood, his blood, and it is addictive in all the right ways.
John is still unaware of their arrival, breathing evenly as he sleeps peacefully. He has required more sleep recently after his ordeal, the puckered, reddened skin just under his collarbone the only evidence left of the damage afflicted on him.
Both had woken up to see such a waste of John’s precious blood all over their bedding. They had made the man pay for his sacrilege, of his most heinous crime. John was theirs, and no one was allowed to spill his blood but them.
Sherlock has already finished his drink and Mycroft drains his, setting them on a convenient table. The bed dips and John slumbers on. He is spread out before them like a most obscene treat, naked with a sheet riding low on his hips.
Even after all this times, he is still all hard, lean lines, muscles shifting subtly under nearly unblemished skin. Sherlock reaches out; tracing a hand along the line of his shoulder, following the curve of defined muscle and John follows his hand subconsciously, pressing into it.
Pulling slowly, Mycroft extracts the sheet from around his legs until he lies completely exposed to them, their John. The same John they found so many years ago, the same John they claimed so easily and deliciously.
‘John.’ Nothing is spoken and yet the word it out there, in the ether, and John reacts as always, eyes fluttering open. They both know the moment he realizes they are there; can almost taste the change in him.
Mycroft does not need to see to know that John’s eyes have darkened, nostrils flaring as he scents the room, always so responsive to them, always to hyperaware of them. He can sense them just as much as they can sense him.
And like this, he quivers, strung between the two of them, he feels like a live wire, like he has somehow connected the two of them together. They are the pure energy and he is nothing but their conduit. The air is charged and John can feel it.
They move him as they see fit, positioning him into the perfect pose, their piece of canvas that they soon plan to paint crimson. John is breathing heavily and his eyes dart between them like he can’t decide who to look at.
John’s breathe hitches before they even touch him, knowledge of what comes next leaving him both tense and relaxed. The moment they touch him, his eyes close as he surrenders to them, as he always surrenders to them. John is a soldier; he knows when to pick his battles. John always was a good soldier.
They touch him and bit by bit, they take him apart, until his pieces are laid before them and they can see everything that makes him function and tick and yet, there is always a piece missing. The one thing that always draws them back, a need to finally figure John out, no matter how many times they have to take him apart to figure it out.
John trembles, slick with sweat, lungs laboring as they give him no respite from their onslaught. His muscles clench and give way for invasion, Sherlock smirking down by his legs, deft hands pulling new sounds, always new sounds, from John’s throat.
Mycroft, for his part, swallows each new sound that emerges, swallows them down greedily with hungry lips and tongue. Sherlock calls him a glutton, but when it comes to John, he can only allow his addiction to take over. Sherlock knows addiction, knows that John has an addictive quality to both of them.
The sun has completely risen outside, but inside, it is dim and humid, and between them John is about to completely come apart at the seams. They position themselves to their nature, Mycroft at the hammering pulse point on John’s neck; Sherlock at pounding pulse in his thigh, both so close to the skin, so close that they can smell John even though he has yet to bleed.
John’s skin is so fragile and is sliced so easily. He is nearly incoherent now; body arching between them and it takes barely anything to fling him over the edge into the abyss. He shudders between them, arching and crying out weakly.
They only take a few mouthfuls, painfully and intimately aware of John’s health. They do not want to cause him anymore harm, any more pain than what is pleasurable. They lick the marks clean; sealing his skin, insuring no blood can be wasted.
John lies between them, broken down and rebuilt, but he is smiling at them. A press of fang to skin has beads of blood welling up and then they press bloody kisses to his mouth, painting his lips red, that he licks away eagerly. His body needs help to heal and they always take care of their possessions and John was always theirs.
He sleeps again and they tuck him back under his sheet, pulling the blanket up as well. They do not plan to sleep today, even with the sun up, but he will need rest, at least for a few hours. They both slip out, heading for their own areas of the flat, minds elsewhere, but between them, Sherlock and Mycroft can still feel the live wire that is John Watson.
End.
Disclaimer: Sherlock is owned by Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, the BBC and other associated parties. Original story belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not make any profit from this story and the plot is purely fiction.
Summary: AU, slash, S/My/J, strung between the two of them, he feels like a live wire.
Rating: R
Warnings: Alternate Universe- vampire, threesome/moresome, incest, slash, bloodplay, fingering, kissing, biting, hurt/comfort.
Pairings/Characters: Sherlock Holmes /Mycroft Holmes/John Watson; Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, John Watson
Word Count: 1,181
Author's Note: This actually may become a small mini-series, probably just a bunch of random ficlets in the same ‘verse.
xXx
All is quiet as the two Holmes brothers return, neither speaking nor looking at each other. Habits take over, Sherlock unwinding his scarf, slipping his long coat off in a flourish, tossing them onto the coatrack without care that they make it or not. His thoughts are already elsewhere, most likely on his most recent case.
Mycroft on the other hand goes through his rituals with a bit more courtesy to them, slipping his jacket and waistcoat off with ease of practice, folds them and hangs them over the back of a nearby chair to be put away at a later date. His thoughts are also elsewhere as he deftly unhooks his cufflinks. They click metallically as they settle into the crystal bowl.
Both are quiet, around them; the large flat they share is quiet. Quiet enough to warrant a frown from them, though only Sherlock actually shows the expression. Outside, the sun is rising, signaling a time for sleep for them or at least a time to work on things at home until night falls again. Neither sleeps regularly, often sleeping in shifts.
Sherlock walks over to the mantel, hands sure as he gathers glasses and drinks together. Mycroft knows Sherlock will get him what he wants, but first, to make his rounds. The flat is too quiet to be coincidence. The sight that greets him down the hall where their door is open is a welcome sight. One that leaves a small smile at the corners of his mouth, really, just a shadow of one, but it is there.
He doesn’t have to say a word for Sherlock to appear, glass in hand for him as he takes in the moment presented. Mycroft sips, whisky laced with blood, his blood, and it is addictive in all the right ways.
John is still unaware of their arrival, breathing evenly as he sleeps peacefully. He has required more sleep recently after his ordeal, the puckered, reddened skin just under his collarbone the only evidence left of the damage afflicted on him.
Both had woken up to see such a waste of John’s precious blood all over their bedding. They had made the man pay for his sacrilege, of his most heinous crime. John was theirs, and no one was allowed to spill his blood but them.
Sherlock has already finished his drink and Mycroft drains his, setting them on a convenient table. The bed dips and John slumbers on. He is spread out before them like a most obscene treat, naked with a sheet riding low on his hips.
Even after all this times, he is still all hard, lean lines, muscles shifting subtly under nearly unblemished skin. Sherlock reaches out; tracing a hand along the line of his shoulder, following the curve of defined muscle and John follows his hand subconsciously, pressing into it.
Pulling slowly, Mycroft extracts the sheet from around his legs until he lies completely exposed to them, their John. The same John they found so many years ago, the same John they claimed so easily and deliciously.
‘John.’ Nothing is spoken and yet the word it out there, in the ether, and John reacts as always, eyes fluttering open. They both know the moment he realizes they are there; can almost taste the change in him.
Mycroft does not need to see to know that John’s eyes have darkened, nostrils flaring as he scents the room, always so responsive to them, always to hyperaware of them. He can sense them just as much as they can sense him.
And like this, he quivers, strung between the two of them, he feels like a live wire, like he has somehow connected the two of them together. They are the pure energy and he is nothing but their conduit. The air is charged and John can feel it.
They move him as they see fit, positioning him into the perfect pose, their piece of canvas that they soon plan to paint crimson. John is breathing heavily and his eyes dart between them like he can’t decide who to look at.
John’s breathe hitches before they even touch him, knowledge of what comes next leaving him both tense and relaxed. The moment they touch him, his eyes close as he surrenders to them, as he always surrenders to them. John is a soldier; he knows when to pick his battles. John always was a good soldier.
They touch him and bit by bit, they take him apart, until his pieces are laid before them and they can see everything that makes him function and tick and yet, there is always a piece missing. The one thing that always draws them back, a need to finally figure John out, no matter how many times they have to take him apart to figure it out.
John trembles, slick with sweat, lungs laboring as they give him no respite from their onslaught. His muscles clench and give way for invasion, Sherlock smirking down by his legs, deft hands pulling new sounds, always new sounds, from John’s throat.
Mycroft, for his part, swallows each new sound that emerges, swallows them down greedily with hungry lips and tongue. Sherlock calls him a glutton, but when it comes to John, he can only allow his addiction to take over. Sherlock knows addiction, knows that John has an addictive quality to both of them.
The sun has completely risen outside, but inside, it is dim and humid, and between them John is about to completely come apart at the seams. They position themselves to their nature, Mycroft at the hammering pulse point on John’s neck; Sherlock at pounding pulse in his thigh, both so close to the skin, so close that they can smell John even though he has yet to bleed.
John’s skin is so fragile and is sliced so easily. He is nearly incoherent now; body arching between them and it takes barely anything to fling him over the edge into the abyss. He shudders between them, arching and crying out weakly.
They only take a few mouthfuls, painfully and intimately aware of John’s health. They do not want to cause him anymore harm, any more pain than what is pleasurable. They lick the marks clean; sealing his skin, insuring no blood can be wasted.
John lies between them, broken down and rebuilt, but he is smiling at them. A press of fang to skin has beads of blood welling up and then they press bloody kisses to his mouth, painting his lips red, that he licks away eagerly. His body needs help to heal and they always take care of their possessions and John was always theirs.
He sleeps again and they tuck him back under his sheet, pulling the blanket up as well. They do not plan to sleep today, even with the sun up, but he will need rest, at least for a few hours. They both slip out, heading for their own areas of the flat, minds elsewhere, but between them, Sherlock and Mycroft can still feel the live wire that is John Watson.
End.