FICLET: Wish You Were Here [Lorem Ipsum Snippet], S/J/S, NC-17
Yeah, you're reading that right. My muse decided - almost as soon as the clock ticked over last night - that a GREAT April Fool's Day prank to pull on me would be to make me write something for a series that's supposed to be finished. She thinks she's hilarious.
Consider it a 'deleted scene' from One Day Like This, if you like. :)
Title: Wish You Were Here
Pairing: Sarah/John(/Sherlock)
Spoilers: none?
Rating: NC-17. Flat-out pr0n with no redeeming value whatsoever.
Warnings: PEGGING. Phone sex. Possible public embarrassment.
Summary: Sarah and John are on their honeymoon; Sherlock's in London, en route to a case. They've discovered the present he secretly stowed in their bags and are calling him during its inaugural use.
Series: Lorem Ipsum Series Masterpost
Word Count: ~ 1900.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: No beta, no britpick (because I am awful and don't think I needed to pester the phenomenal caoilin_noir with this foolishness); though I must give thanks to carolyn_claire and mazarin221b for inadvertently inspiring this, andmariemjs who told me it needed it to happen RIGHT NAO THX. Also, The Item In Question is called the Fun Factory Share, in case you're curious.
***
Sherlock's mobile rings. He scowls out the window of the taxi. Probably Lestrade, he thinks, thumbing the switch to ignore the call without looking. I'm on my way; it's not my fault this is taking longer than I expected.
There's a thrill of anticipation running under his skin, heady and welcome. It's been thirty-six hours since Sarah and John went off on honeymoon to some godfosaken cottage on the coast, and Baker Street's been excruciatingly empty without them. Sherlock frowns again, at himself this time.
I've lived and worked alone most of my adult life, he thinks darkly, and in a handful of months, sentiment has undone me.
The phone rings again. He answers it, snapping, "I'm on my way, what on earth-?"
"Sherlock?" Sarah asks breathlessly, a strange hitch in her voice at the end. He sits upright, suddenly alarmed.
"Are you all right?" he asks. If something's happened to them - either of them - then Lestrade can go hang. He considers telling the cabbie to turn around, head towards Luton instead.
"Hah," she pants, "No, no, we're fine. More than fine, actually." Sherlock listens to her gasp again, and realisation dawns.
"This isn't a good time," he says, but she's already talking over him.
"We got the little present you left in John's bag," she says. "We're using it now."
Sherlock hardens, shifting on the seat to make room in his trousers. Christ, he thinks. He can only imagine... but no, she's telling him, "It was tight going in. God, I'm so full with it. It's stretching me out. And. And John. You should see him - no, you've seen him like this, you know what it looks like. He's on his knees." Sherlock can tell from her voice, syrupy-slurred around the edges, that she's had a few drinks. She's worked herself up to doing this, using the toy and calling him during its inaugural run. "I have a cock now, Sherlock, and John's sucking it... jerking it with his hand so I can feel the other end move inside me. God, he looks good from this angle."
Sherlock lets his eyes drift shut, shutting out the sight of the crowded streets, tunes out the sound of honking cars and the crap radio the cabbie's playing. He can picture it vividly, the dual blessing and curse of his quicksilver mind latching on to her panting breath and stuttering words until the sight of them builds behind his eyelids.
Sarah, heels planted wide, the vivid purple of the dildo jutting up from between her legs, the other end disappearing into her cunt. No straps marring her pale skin, simply fine German engineering holding it in place... It had taken Sherlock weeks to find it, surreptitiously searching online, researching all the materials and manufacturers, cross-referencing reviews.
"You're sitting in a chair, aren't you," he says, picturing it from the pitch of her voice. "John's on the floor."
"Y-yes," she says. "We dragged it... from the desk over to... the full-length mirror. John wanted me to see-" She cuts herself off with a moan, then, "Oh, Jesus. Fuck. Oh God, yes, John, just like- there, yes." And the noise she makes has Sherlock biting the inside of his cheek, willing his expression to blankness.
Sherlock hears the familiar, wet sound of John's mouth pulling off, then his voice, faintly, "That good, eh?" Sarah chuckles, low and indolent and blissful. "Here, give me-" A rustle. "Enjoy that, Sherlock?" John's voice is closer, clearer.
"Very much," Sherlock says. He's gripping his mobile so tightly that his knuckles ache, and he's so hard that the zip of his trousers is probably leaving a mark.
"I can't wait till we get home," John says. "I want to see you do that to her. I'm sure I did all right, but you're an artist, Sherlock. Your face... God, it's like you were made to suck cock. Your cheekbones. Your mouth. Jesus, your eyes." Now his breath is catching, and it doesn't take someone with even a fraction of Sherlock's intellect to know what Sarah's doing to him.
Despairingly, Sherlock says, "I'll have you know, I'm stuck in a cab on the way to a crime scene."
John laughs, unsympathetic. "'Stuck'?"
"The traffic is appalling," Sherlock responds. They've barely moved a block since the call began.
"So do you think you have enough time to listen to her fuck me?" John asks.
Sherlock lets his head fall back against the seat and he groans. "If you must," he replies.
"I think I do," John says. He laughs again. "I really, really do. And later, you can tell me how it went. How quick you managed to solve a crime with half your mind on Sarah buggering me to oblivion using this little present of yours." His voice gets higher, breathless. "You're hard right now, aren't you? You got hard listening to Sarah come, I'll wager."
"...yes," Sherlock admits, cheeks blazing. He risks a glance at the cabbie, who is oblivious, muttering under his breath at the bottleneck of cars ahead of them. Sherlock raises his voice, tucking the mobile against his shoulder, "Turn it up. I like this song." The cabbie touches his fingers to his forehead in a little salute and does as asked. Awful pop fills the space, as much privacy as he'll get for this little game of theirs.
"-opening me up with her fingers, just like I showed her to do on you. Smaller hands, though. She might need a third- ah. Yes. Ha. Good dating doctors, isn't it, Sherlock. We know our way around. Bloody hell."
"Put me on speaker phone," Sherlock orders, low but firm. "I want to hear both of you."
There's rustling again, and a cluster of beeps as John fumbles with the phone. Sherlock wraps his coat tighter around his torso, tucking his chin down behind the upturned collar to hide his mouth. Not that anyone bothers to learn lip reading, he thinks. Imbeciles. Still, it affords him a small measure of reassurance.
"Can you hear us, Sherlock?" Sarah calls out. Her voice is quieter, but clear.
"Yes," he says. "Are you still in front of the mirror?"
"Yes," she answers. "John's on hands and knees on the floor, and I'm behind him."
"Good," Sherlock says, clenching one gloved hand into a fist atop his thigh. "I think you should fuck him now."
"Oh, god, yes," John agrees, his voice cracking a little.
"This," Sarah says, huffing a small laugh, "This is strange. I. I haven't ever. John. John, you need to tell me..."
"Yeah, yeah, that's it. You can keep..." And John groans, so distinctly that Sherlock knows what he looks like. His eyes are clenched shut, his mouth open and his head thrown back. "Fuck. Sherlock, I think it's longer than you are. You're thicker, but. Jesus."
"You should see this," Sarah says. "Next time I'll send pictures."
"Stop talking and move," Sherlock says. "Slow and deep to start with. Look for the right angle." John groans again, the sound mingling with Sarah's gasp as the motion tugs on the end of the toy inside her.
Sherlock just listens to them, their erratic breathing and moans, the faint sounds of their movement. He wants nothing more than to be there - or back at Baker Street, ideally in Sarah's bedroom where they keep all the equipment. But he'd be just as happy in his armchair, even with the threat of Mrs. Hudson barging in. Anything would be better than the back seat of a cab in the middle of London, the overpowering sting of industrial disinfectant in his nose.
He drags the heel of his hand up his leg, forcing the angle of his shoulder to look casual even as he cups his groin through the layers of fabric trapping it. He clenches his jaw shut, wanting to moan aloud. There's probably a dark spot of pre-ejaculate on his pants, seeping through to his trousers. He's going to be a mess when he gets to the crime scene.
"There," John says abruptly. "That's it, Sarah, harder, right-" He can hear the impact of their bodies now, a fleshy, filthy slap as her hips and thighs hit his flanks, his arse.
Sherlock shoves up minutely against his hand, but it's not enough. He could weep from the futility of it all. It would only take a minute, probably less, if he could just open up his trousers and take himself in hand.
"Oh my god," Sarah is saying, sounding vaguely shocked. "John."
"Yeah, yeah," John says, more air than words. "Come on, yes, harder."
"Sarah," Sherlock says urgently, "touch him." Because he can hear the edge in John's voice, the raw and blatant need.
She must be doing as he ordered, because now John's shouting so loudly that Sherlock checks again to see if the cabbie can overhear anything. Apparently not, so Sherlock focuses again on his mobile just in time to hear Sarah keen, and John's rhythmic gasps from over-stimulation as she thrusts into him hard a few more times to ride out the tide of her own orgasm. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste blood and grinds his palm down against his prick in despair.
The cab swerves, cutting through a side street with sudden acceleration.
"Sherlock?" Sarah's voice is breathless and giddy. "Are you still there?"
"Yes," he answers between clenched teeth.
"Good," she says. "Thought we lost you."
"Not a chance," Sherlock says as the cab pulls up to his destination. "Hold on a moment, though, if you please." He throws a handful of bills at the man - possibly too much, but it doesn't matter. He keeps his coat wrapped around him and strides up the steps, ducking into the lobby and looking around with focused intent.
There, he thinks in relief, spotting a sign for the restrooms.
"Can I help you?" the receptionist calls.
He shoots her a glare as he passes. "I will speak to you in a moment," he says. It takes forever to cross the distance, but he gets there, just barely. "Get out," he says to the stranger washing his hands at the sink. Something must show on his face, because the man looks almost frightened before bolting out the door.
Sherlock shoves the little rubber doorstop under the edge of the door, effectively locking the room. "Now," he says, turning his attention back to the mobile. "John. Sarah. You are both in a world of trouble for this, I hope you realise." Their laughter chimes in his ear. "And I want to hear how you plan to make it up to me when you return home. In detail."
***
When he arrives at the crime scene, Sherlock looks windblown and flushed. "Sorry I'm late," he says. "Traffic was murder." He looks around and crooks a small smile, the one he uses when he knows no one else will share his sense of humour. "Ah. So to speak."
Donovan and Anderson trade disgusted glances at his unintentional jest. Lestrade simply rolls his eyes and starts outlining the facts of the case.
And, just this once, Sherlock is glad that no one there has any observational skill at all.
This entry was originally posted at my Dreamwidth; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.
Consider it a 'deleted scene' from One Day Like This, if you like. :)
Title: Wish You Were Here
Pairing: Sarah/John(/Sherlock)
Spoilers: none?
Rating: NC-17. Flat-out pr0n with no redeeming value whatsoever.
Warnings: PEGGING. Phone sex. Possible public embarrassment.
Summary: Sarah and John are on their honeymoon; Sherlock's in London, en route to a case. They've discovered the present he secretly stowed in their bags and are calling him during its inaugural use.
Series: Lorem Ipsum Series Masterpost
Word Count: ~ 1900.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: No beta, no britpick (because I am awful and don't think I needed to pester the phenomenal caoilin_noir with this foolishness); though I must give thanks to carolyn_claire and mazarin221b for inadvertently inspiring this, andmariemjs who told me it needed it to happen RIGHT NAO THX. Also, The Item In Question is called the Fun Factory Share, in case you're curious.
***
Sherlock's mobile rings. He scowls out the window of the taxi. Probably Lestrade, he thinks, thumbing the switch to ignore the call without looking. I'm on my way; it's not my fault this is taking longer than I expected.
There's a thrill of anticipation running under his skin, heady and welcome. It's been thirty-six hours since Sarah and John went off on honeymoon to some godfosaken cottage on the coast, and Baker Street's been excruciatingly empty without them. Sherlock frowns again, at himself this time.
I've lived and worked alone most of my adult life, he thinks darkly, and in a handful of months, sentiment has undone me.
The phone rings again. He answers it, snapping, "I'm on my way, what on earth-?"
"Sherlock?" Sarah asks breathlessly, a strange hitch in her voice at the end. He sits upright, suddenly alarmed.
"Are you all right?" he asks. If something's happened to them - either of them - then Lestrade can go hang. He considers telling the cabbie to turn around, head towards Luton instead.
"Hah," she pants, "No, no, we're fine. More than fine, actually." Sherlock listens to her gasp again, and realisation dawns.
"This isn't a good time," he says, but she's already talking over him.
"We got the little present you left in John's bag," she says. "We're using it now."
Sherlock hardens, shifting on the seat to make room in his trousers. Christ, he thinks. He can only imagine... but no, she's telling him, "It was tight going in. God, I'm so full with it. It's stretching me out. And. And John. You should see him - no, you've seen him like this, you know what it looks like. He's on his knees." Sherlock can tell from her voice, syrupy-slurred around the edges, that she's had a few drinks. She's worked herself up to doing this, using the toy and calling him during its inaugural run. "I have a cock now, Sherlock, and John's sucking it... jerking it with his hand so I can feel the other end move inside me. God, he looks good from this angle."
Sherlock lets his eyes drift shut, shutting out the sight of the crowded streets, tunes out the sound of honking cars and the crap radio the cabbie's playing. He can picture it vividly, the dual blessing and curse of his quicksilver mind latching on to her panting breath and stuttering words until the sight of them builds behind his eyelids.
Sarah, heels planted wide, the vivid purple of the dildo jutting up from between her legs, the other end disappearing into her cunt. No straps marring her pale skin, simply fine German engineering holding it in place... It had taken Sherlock weeks to find it, surreptitiously searching online, researching all the materials and manufacturers, cross-referencing reviews.
"You're sitting in a chair, aren't you," he says, picturing it from the pitch of her voice. "John's on the floor."
"Y-yes," she says. "We dragged it... from the desk over to... the full-length mirror. John wanted me to see-" She cuts herself off with a moan, then, "Oh, Jesus. Fuck. Oh God, yes, John, just like- there, yes." And the noise she makes has Sherlock biting the inside of his cheek, willing his expression to blankness.
Sherlock hears the familiar, wet sound of John's mouth pulling off, then his voice, faintly, "That good, eh?" Sarah chuckles, low and indolent and blissful. "Here, give me-" A rustle. "Enjoy that, Sherlock?" John's voice is closer, clearer.
"Very much," Sherlock says. He's gripping his mobile so tightly that his knuckles ache, and he's so hard that the zip of his trousers is probably leaving a mark.
"I can't wait till we get home," John says. "I want to see you do that to her. I'm sure I did all right, but you're an artist, Sherlock. Your face... God, it's like you were made to suck cock. Your cheekbones. Your mouth. Jesus, your eyes." Now his breath is catching, and it doesn't take someone with even a fraction of Sherlock's intellect to know what Sarah's doing to him.
Despairingly, Sherlock says, "I'll have you know, I'm stuck in a cab on the way to a crime scene."
John laughs, unsympathetic. "'Stuck'?"
"The traffic is appalling," Sherlock responds. They've barely moved a block since the call began.
"So do you think you have enough time to listen to her fuck me?" John asks.
Sherlock lets his head fall back against the seat and he groans. "If you must," he replies.
"I think I do," John says. He laughs again. "I really, really do. And later, you can tell me how it went. How quick you managed to solve a crime with half your mind on Sarah buggering me to oblivion using this little present of yours." His voice gets higher, breathless. "You're hard right now, aren't you? You got hard listening to Sarah come, I'll wager."
"...yes," Sherlock admits, cheeks blazing. He risks a glance at the cabbie, who is oblivious, muttering under his breath at the bottleneck of cars ahead of them. Sherlock raises his voice, tucking the mobile against his shoulder, "Turn it up. I like this song." The cabbie touches his fingers to his forehead in a little salute and does as asked. Awful pop fills the space, as much privacy as he'll get for this little game of theirs.
"-opening me up with her fingers, just like I showed her to do on you. Smaller hands, though. She might need a third- ah. Yes. Ha. Good dating doctors, isn't it, Sherlock. We know our way around. Bloody hell."
"Put me on speaker phone," Sherlock orders, low but firm. "I want to hear both of you."
There's rustling again, and a cluster of beeps as John fumbles with the phone. Sherlock wraps his coat tighter around his torso, tucking his chin down behind the upturned collar to hide his mouth. Not that anyone bothers to learn lip reading, he thinks. Imbeciles. Still, it affords him a small measure of reassurance.
"Can you hear us, Sherlock?" Sarah calls out. Her voice is quieter, but clear.
"Yes," he says. "Are you still in front of the mirror?"
"Yes," she answers. "John's on hands and knees on the floor, and I'm behind him."
"Good," Sherlock says, clenching one gloved hand into a fist atop his thigh. "I think you should fuck him now."
"Oh, god, yes," John agrees, his voice cracking a little.
"This," Sarah says, huffing a small laugh, "This is strange. I. I haven't ever. John. John, you need to tell me..."
"Yeah, yeah, that's it. You can keep..." And John groans, so distinctly that Sherlock knows what he looks like. His eyes are clenched shut, his mouth open and his head thrown back. "Fuck. Sherlock, I think it's longer than you are. You're thicker, but. Jesus."
"You should see this," Sarah says. "Next time I'll send pictures."
"Stop talking and move," Sherlock says. "Slow and deep to start with. Look for the right angle." John groans again, the sound mingling with Sarah's gasp as the motion tugs on the end of the toy inside her.
Sherlock just listens to them, their erratic breathing and moans, the faint sounds of their movement. He wants nothing more than to be there - or back at Baker Street, ideally in Sarah's bedroom where they keep all the equipment. But he'd be just as happy in his armchair, even with the threat of Mrs. Hudson barging in. Anything would be better than the back seat of a cab in the middle of London, the overpowering sting of industrial disinfectant in his nose.
He drags the heel of his hand up his leg, forcing the angle of his shoulder to look casual even as he cups his groin through the layers of fabric trapping it. He clenches his jaw shut, wanting to moan aloud. There's probably a dark spot of pre-ejaculate on his pants, seeping through to his trousers. He's going to be a mess when he gets to the crime scene.
"There," John says abruptly. "That's it, Sarah, harder, right-" He can hear the impact of their bodies now, a fleshy, filthy slap as her hips and thighs hit his flanks, his arse.
Sherlock shoves up minutely against his hand, but it's not enough. He could weep from the futility of it all. It would only take a minute, probably less, if he could just open up his trousers and take himself in hand.
"Oh my god," Sarah is saying, sounding vaguely shocked. "John."
"Yeah, yeah," John says, more air than words. "Come on, yes, harder."
"Sarah," Sherlock says urgently, "touch him." Because he can hear the edge in John's voice, the raw and blatant need.
She must be doing as he ordered, because now John's shouting so loudly that Sherlock checks again to see if the cabbie can overhear anything. Apparently not, so Sherlock focuses again on his mobile just in time to hear Sarah keen, and John's rhythmic gasps from over-stimulation as she thrusts into him hard a few more times to ride out the tide of her own orgasm. Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste blood and grinds his palm down against his prick in despair.
The cab swerves, cutting through a side street with sudden acceleration.
"Sherlock?" Sarah's voice is breathless and giddy. "Are you still there?"
"Yes," he answers between clenched teeth.
"Good," she says. "Thought we lost you."
"Not a chance," Sherlock says as the cab pulls up to his destination. "Hold on a moment, though, if you please." He throws a handful of bills at the man - possibly too much, but it doesn't matter. He keeps his coat wrapped around him and strides up the steps, ducking into the lobby and looking around with focused intent.
There, he thinks in relief, spotting a sign for the restrooms.
"Can I help you?" the receptionist calls.
He shoots her a glare as he passes. "I will speak to you in a moment," he says. It takes forever to cross the distance, but he gets there, just barely. "Get out," he says to the stranger washing his hands at the sink. Something must show on his face, because the man looks almost frightened before bolting out the door.
Sherlock shoves the little rubber doorstop under the edge of the door, effectively locking the room. "Now," he says, turning his attention back to the mobile. "John. Sarah. You are both in a world of trouble for this, I hope you realise." Their laughter chimes in his ear. "And I want to hear how you plan to make it up to me when you return home. In detail."
***
When he arrives at the crime scene, Sherlock looks windblown and flushed. "Sorry I'm late," he says. "Traffic was murder." He looks around and crooks a small smile, the one he uses when he knows no one else will share his sense of humour. "Ah. So to speak."
Donovan and Anderson trade disgusted glances at his unintentional jest. Lestrade simply rolls his eyes and starts outlining the facts of the case.
And, just this once, Sherlock is glad that no one there has any observational skill at all.
This entry was originally posted at my Dreamwidth; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.