like i remember you: 1/?astudyinchuckJune 28 2011, 21:00:08 UTC
Mycroft hears it most nights.
First is the tapping. It only usually takes one. The noise is a small stone hitting Sherlock's window-pane. The glass rattles in the frame, and wakes all in range. Of course, Mycroft can't understand why the window is even closed. The summer nights are unbearable, the humidity keeping every window open.
But not Sherlock's.
Mycroft listens as he rouses slowly, muttering to himself, and pushing up the glass. He leans from the sill (Mycroft knows because he's seen, and he's kept quiet about it) to hear a voice. The voice of his little blonde paramour.
"I can't keep you long," He says, and there's passion and soul and anticipation fizzing up in that voice, waiting to burst free. "Three hours, at most, but I have to work-"
"Ugh, work. Make it clear which you value more," Mycroft hears Sherlock climb out of the window, deft and precise. He hears the rattle of the gutter against the brickwork, and then the swish of the grass as feet pad across it.
Then, there's the soft, wet sounds of kissing that no brother should have to hear most nights. Sherlock's paramour brings a light, and a coat. They continue down the ground, Sherlock in a nightshirt and coat, and John wrapped up, ready as ever to be at Sherlock's side. Mycroft hears them laugh, and he hears them joke.
What he does not hear is the want and lust in the cherry orchard. Where Sherlock gasps against the tree bark and wails as if he's in pain, and God, he nearly is, by the way john's pretty little mouth works, in the subtleties of the tongue and of the lips...the warmth of the throat.
It's in the disused boathouse that the trouble really starts. Sherlock remembers the first time.
He'd said 'eyes on me', and that's just what John had done, removing his jumper slowly, and then his trousers, until he stood proud, naked in the dim of a lamp. it was strange, because Sherlock just looked at him for the longest time. As if he'd every idea what to do, but not the foggiest how to begin.
So John walked over in the dim, eyes on Sherlock, and unbutton the nightshirt, eyes on Sherlock. Until Sherlock was also clothes-less in the dusty air. The boathouse was cold.
"Eyes on me," John murmured, before he put that clever little mouth of his back to work. And Sherlock? Sherlock choked.
The first time was in June. It's the heat of July now.
Some hours later, Mycroft stirs again to the noise of voices, and to the faint shining light. Mussed, sated, Sherlock rattles back up the drainpipe and in through the open window. He falls into a dreamless sleep with a faint smile playing upon his lips. It's not as if Mycroft is a fool, he knows what has occurred, just as he sees it all over Sherlock's posture, in the little marks on his throat. Marks that other seventeen-year-old private students have much less of.
The first time Mycroft realized that, a thought had sprung to mind. He wondered what John would look like naked. In his dreams he saw the blonde adolescent standing in the doorway to his room, completely naked, and glowing against the darkness, eyes on Mycroft. He rolled over, back to the doorway. And let the illusion be.
Re: like i remember you: 1/?astudyinchuckJune 28 2011, 21:17:59 UTC
I'm so excited that you're filling this! I tracked the prompt earlier today, hoping someone would be interested. Then, you claimed it and I was all wobbly with expectation. I never hoped a first part would come this soon and wow, what a first part!
I loved Mycroft's POV and I loved 'eyes on me'. And the cherry orchard. In fact, I loved everything you've written so far and please be careful not to trip on my camping tent because I'm not moving away from here until you're done.
Re: like i remember you: 1/?sherlockygalxJune 29 2011, 01:34:12 UTC
Oh my God! I love this! I wasn't expecting anything, if anything at all, to come this quickly and especially nothing THIS good. I cannot wait for what else you will have to write! :)
like i remember you: 2/?astudyinchuckJune 30 2011, 10:29:10 UTC
Police Constable Lestrade cannot complain about his job. It pays well, it keeps the peace, n it's something he does enjoy. No, the worst part of the job is the location. A sleepy little village in the north of Hertfordshire.
And the worst crime is stealing.
For some kids, that's sweets and games and things of a kind of value. He understands. Sometimes, you have to steal to eat, and he's a soft spot for them.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't steal because he's hungry. He steals because John is. They go together, around the countryside, and they never take any more than a few apples or so. Lestrade can't understand that, and he's never caught up with either to ask them.
John isn't from a family like Sherlock's. He's hungry more often, he's cold more often. So they steal together: John does it to eat, Sherlock is hungry for the thrill. The fences are high and some are barbed wire. If you can't scale a fence, and you can't keep up, you're supposed to be left behind. But Lestrade's seen it.
It was Hurst's farm they'd taken to, and were still picking from the tree when the farmer began shouting. He watched in amusement as they scrambled, Sherlock is one swift movement, up and over the fence, John looking helpless on the other side.
It was right when Sherlock turned and looked at him. As if he were contemplating the notion of leaving. It was in that second Lestrade found tat the Holmes were human.
Over the fence Sherlock went. Then, back over with John.
"Don't," Sherlock insisted, when they were a comfortable distance away. But he was smiling, and had let his eyes betray his heart. John could not thank him, and so kissed him instead.
Lestrade hadn't the heart to arrest either of them.
Re: like i remember you: 2/?astudyinchuckJuly 2 2011, 11:39:06 UTC
Molly Hooper always fancied herself as a pleasant soul. No, she didn't claim to be very interesting, or very much to look at or talk to, but she was kind, and she was gentle. And when she sets her heart on something, there's nought that can be done.
Molly works in the shop, nothing special, but it funds her little fancies, and it pleases her even more when pretty little things like Sherlock Holmes find themselves in need of something. He's a funny creature, she thinks, with such a perfect face and these bright eyes that look right through you. They're so pretty, but so cold. Sherlock looks at her, and Molly wants to hide in a jumper, into the warm.
She can't afford to be discrete, because Sherlock doesn't see, and he doesn't want to see. So, whenever the chance arises, Molly gazes desperately into his eyes, and jokes about tedious subjects. Anything to keep him talking, keep him there, for as long as possible.
It July, Molly takes the latests shifts and walks through the park to get home. The evenings are warm, and the village is safe, only petty theft ever livening up the streets. She hasn't anything particular on her mind when she hears it.
And right away knows it's him.
From the other side of the hedges by the cherry orchard, he's groaning.
"Shh! --Sherlock, I'm-" Curiously enough, she hears laughter, and words on top of Sherlock's strange, wanton noises. Though, as Molly draws closer though the leaves, something snaps underfoot and she stays for the longest time, just listening. She keeps wondering, did he know she was there? Was he waiting.
"Please, hurry --I c-can't," Sherlock's gasping, and Molly has never heard him sound so needy --so human in all his life. She didn't think it were possible. Adjusting still, she can spy them better through a gap in the foliage.
Sherlock, and his paramour (John,, she thinks that's it)are both naked against the evening air, stark against the green grass, stuck together like bad glue on a get-well card. What makes her swallow a gasp is that John had two of his nimble fingers in Sherlock, and Sherlock can't handle it.
He's feral and his pupils are blown, wriggling like a live wire, making little animalistic noises. It would seem that even the tiniest curl of John's fingers proves too much, and Sherlock sobs, and thrashes, tugging John's dishwater hair in his fists.
"Someone's going to hear us!" He protests, but he's just as wrapped-up, just as obsessed and involved with Sherlock's tight little ass, and his wailing. John looks as if he knows better, knows he should know better and wants to resist. But even Molly can't look away. Can't stop staring as Sherlock squirms some more.
"Christ, fucking-" He's babbling, thrashing wildly and right before her eyes he loses it, blowing his load in a few hot bursts. Sherlock is taught as a bowstring, his face flushed with colour. He looks human, even.
like i remember you 4/?astudyinchuckJuly 5 2011, 19:28:03 UTC
Mycroft always has silly themes for his birthday parties. He studies law, and sociology, and literature. And he just loves the written word. The theme is characters.
Sherlock doesn't care. He's deleted most of the books he's ever read, and nobody he really cares for will be there. Certainly, John wasn't invited. Mycroft is dull in that respect; how he pines so pathetically for that dark-haired constable, but will never admit it. It's ridiculous and stubborn to judge by class. Sherlock has known many wealthy ladies and lads, and none are as fine as John Watson.
They lack honour, and decency.
Alas, the celebrations are held at home, and Sherlock is forced to attend. Given his knowledge of literature, or lack thereof, Mother dresses him in some horrifying linen, and then with leaves. Sherlock doesn't know literature, but he briefly remembers history. And Julius Caesar at any rate.
The night will be long and he knows it, and so it's a good thing John's so brilliant. He climbs over the garden wall, high as it is, in a costume of sorts. It's a tight chainmail shirt, making him look like a less-ridiculous night.
"That's a high wall," Sherlock says slowly, watching John catch his breath n the hall. John grins.
"with love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls," He says, straightening himself up. But the reference is wasted on Sherlock, who looks blankly at him.
"What-?"
"Never mind," John follows them down into the main hall, where a sea of Hatters and Hares and Alices and Angels talked and laughed. Sherlock has no interest in them or this place. He wishes to be outside in the heat, the air that tastes like acid before a storm, and kiss John with all the passion that the sulphurous atmosphere demands.
He is snatched up before he can protest.
John, ever a soldier, he follows, watching the reds and golds of Sherlock's reluctant Caesar costume disappear behind peter pans and cleopatras. He follows, but he's soon lost, and fights his way to get back to the stairs. If he can reach the top of the stairs, he can spot Sherlock. Getting there is the difficult part.
His sleeve is tugged, and he turns to see a glum-looking Eve. "Have you seen Raphael?" She asks, and then shoves him to get to here Adam. John isn't making any more progress towards the stairs, getting forced back by the sea of people. He can scarcely hear over the music.
Suddenly, in his defeated state, he sees a flash of redcurrant, and the shine of hair like a ravens wing, and he shoves a few more privately educated quests.
"Sherlock!" He calls out, but is drowned by the noise. "Sherlock!" he calls again, lunging forward and snatching a handful of his robe.
Sherlock does not turn fully, but he grasps John's wrists and tugs them both through the crowd, avoiding guests and glasses of red wine on his already-crimson toga. The night is hot, warm, sweltering and john has never cared for parties or people or the upper-class, its only ever been Sherlock and the heat is driving him mad he can only think to say-
They find solace on the balcony. Sherlock slams the doors, and crushes John's lips in a kiss. They smooth eachother over in the depth of the kiss.
"If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this" Sherlock's eyes light up, because he knows this, he's heard it and the irony is delicious. "My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." It means that he wants Sherlock. he wants him and he'll take him now is he has to, all sweat and touches on the stone f the balcony. John relishes the image of fucking Sherlock over the rail.
He goes in for a kiss, but is denied by Sherlock's hand.
"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims-" Sherlock nearly goes off on one, but John shoves him over the rail and forces kisses on his pretty little mouth, trailing down his neck. It's hot, too hot, and John has never thought in this way before, all he can think of is Sherlock like an angel, radiant in his colour. Sherlock, who wants John with equal fervour.
First is the tapping. It only usually takes one. The noise is a small stone hitting Sherlock's window-pane. The glass rattles in the frame, and wakes all in range. Of course, Mycroft can't understand why the window is even closed. The summer nights are unbearable, the humidity keeping every window open.
But not Sherlock's.
Mycroft listens as he rouses slowly, muttering to himself, and pushing up the glass. He leans from the sill (Mycroft knows because he's seen, and he's kept quiet about it) to hear a voice. The voice of his little blonde paramour.
"I can't keep you long," He says, and there's passion and soul and anticipation fizzing up in that voice, waiting to burst free. "Three hours, at most, but I have to work-"
"Ugh, work. Make it clear which you value more," Mycroft hears Sherlock climb out of the window, deft and precise. He hears the rattle of the gutter against the brickwork, and then the swish of the grass as feet pad across it.
Then, there's the soft, wet sounds of kissing that no brother should have to hear most nights. Sherlock's paramour brings a light, and a coat. They continue down the ground, Sherlock in a nightshirt and coat, and John wrapped up, ready as ever to be at Sherlock's side. Mycroft hears them laugh, and he hears them joke.
What he does not hear is the want and lust in the cherry orchard. Where Sherlock gasps against the tree bark and wails as if he's in pain, and God, he nearly is, by the way john's pretty little mouth works, in the subtleties of the tongue and of the lips...the warmth of the throat.
It's in the disused boathouse that the trouble really starts. Sherlock remembers the first time.
He'd said 'eyes on me', and that's just what John had done, removing his jumper slowly, and then his trousers, until he stood proud, naked in the dim of a lamp. it was strange, because Sherlock just looked at him for the longest time. As if he'd every idea what to do, but not the foggiest how to begin.
So John walked over in the dim, eyes on Sherlock, and unbutton the nightshirt, eyes on Sherlock. Until Sherlock was also clothes-less in the dusty air. The boathouse was cold.
"Eyes on me," John murmured, before he put that clever little mouth of his back to work. And Sherlock? Sherlock choked.
The first time was in June. It's the heat of July now.
Some hours later, Mycroft stirs again to the noise of voices, and to the faint shining light. Mussed, sated, Sherlock rattles back up the drainpipe and in through the open window. He falls into a dreamless sleep with a faint smile playing upon his lips. It's not as if Mycroft is a fool, he knows what has occurred, just as he sees it all over Sherlock's posture, in the little marks on his throat. Marks that other seventeen-year-old private students have much less of.
The first time Mycroft realized that, a thought had sprung to mind. He wondered what John would look like naked. In his dreams he saw the blonde adolescent standing in the doorway to his room, completely naked, and glowing against the darkness, eyes on Mycroft. He rolled over, back to the doorway. And let the illusion be.
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I loved Mycroft's POV and I loved 'eyes on me'. And the cherry orchard. In fact, I loved everything you've written so far and please be careful not to trip on my camping tent because I'm not moving away from here until you're done.
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And the worst crime is stealing.
For some kids, that's sweets and games and things of a kind of value. He understands. Sometimes, you have to steal to eat, and he's a soft spot for them.
Sherlock Holmes doesn't steal because he's hungry. He steals because John is. They go together, around the countryside, and they never take any more than a few apples or so. Lestrade can't understand that, and he's never caught up with either to ask them.
John isn't from a family like Sherlock's. He's hungry more often, he's cold more often. So they steal together: John does it to eat, Sherlock is hungry for the thrill. The fences are high and some are barbed wire. If you can't scale a fence, and you can't keep up, you're supposed to be left behind. But Lestrade's seen it.
It was Hurst's farm they'd taken to, and were still picking from the tree when the farmer began shouting. He watched in amusement as they scrambled, Sherlock is one swift movement, up and over the fence, John looking helpless on the other side.
It was right when Sherlock turned and looked at him. As if he were contemplating the notion of leaving. It was in that second Lestrade found tat the Holmes were human.
Over the fence Sherlock went. Then, back over with John.
"Don't," Sherlock insisted, when they were a comfortable distance away. But he was smiling, and had let his eyes betray his heart. John could not thank him, and so kissed him instead.
Lestrade hadn't the heart to arrest either of them.
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Molly works in the shop, nothing special, but it funds her little fancies, and it pleases her even more when pretty little things like Sherlock Holmes find themselves in need of something. He's a funny creature, she thinks, with such a perfect face and these bright eyes that look right through you. They're so pretty, but so cold. Sherlock looks at her, and Molly wants to hide in a jumper, into the warm.
She can't afford to be discrete, because Sherlock doesn't see, and he doesn't want to see. So, whenever the chance arises, Molly gazes desperately into his eyes, and jokes about tedious subjects. Anything to keep him talking, keep him there, for as long as possible.
It July, Molly takes the latests shifts and walks through the park to get home. The evenings are warm, and the village is safe, only petty theft ever livening up the streets. She hasn't anything particular on her mind when she hears it.
And right away knows it's him.
From the other side of the hedges by the cherry orchard, he's groaning.
"Shh! --Sherlock, I'm-" Curiously enough, she hears laughter, and words on top of Sherlock's strange, wanton noises. Though, as Molly draws closer though the leaves, something snaps underfoot and she stays for the longest time, just listening. She keeps wondering, did he know she was there? Was he waiting.
"Please, hurry --I c-can't," Sherlock's gasping, and Molly has never heard him sound so needy --so human in all his life. She didn't think it were possible. Adjusting still, she can spy them better through a gap in the foliage.
Sherlock, and his paramour (John,, she thinks that's it)are both naked against the evening air, stark against the green grass, stuck together like bad glue on a get-well card. What makes her swallow a gasp is that John had two of his nimble fingers in Sherlock, and Sherlock can't handle it.
He's feral and his pupils are blown, wriggling like a live wire, making little animalistic noises. It would seem that even the tiniest curl of John's fingers proves too much, and Sherlock sobs, and thrashes, tugging John's dishwater hair in his fists.
"Someone's going to hear us!" He protests, but he's just as wrapped-up, just as obsessed and involved with Sherlock's tight little ass, and his wailing. John looks as if he knows better, knows he should know better and wants to resist. But even Molly can't look away. Can't stop staring as Sherlock squirms some more.
"Christ, fucking-" He's babbling, thrashing wildly and right before her eyes he loses it, blowing his load in a few hot bursts. Sherlock is taught as a bowstring, his face flushed with colour. He looks human, even.
She can't look at him in the same way again.
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Sherlock doesn't care. He's deleted most of the books he's ever read, and nobody he really cares for will be there. Certainly, John wasn't invited. Mycroft is dull in that respect; how he pines so pathetically for that dark-haired constable, but will never admit it. It's ridiculous and stubborn to judge by class. Sherlock has known many wealthy ladies and lads, and none are as fine as John Watson.
They lack honour, and decency.
Alas, the celebrations are held at home, and Sherlock is forced to attend. Given his knowledge of literature, or lack thereof, Mother dresses him in some horrifying linen, and then with leaves. Sherlock doesn't know literature, but he briefly remembers history. And Julius Caesar at any rate.
The night will be long and he knows it, and so it's a good thing John's so brilliant. He climbs over the garden wall, high as it is, in a costume of sorts. It's a tight chainmail shirt, making him look like a less-ridiculous night.
"That's a high wall," Sherlock says slowly, watching John catch his breath n the hall. John grins.
"with love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls," He says, straightening himself up. But the reference is wasted on Sherlock, who looks blankly at him.
"What-?"
"Never mind," John follows them down into the main hall, where a sea of Hatters and Hares and Alices and Angels talked and laughed. Sherlock has no interest in them or this place. He wishes to be outside in the heat, the air that tastes like acid before a storm, and kiss John with all the passion that the sulphurous atmosphere demands.
He is snatched up before he can protest.
John, ever a soldier, he follows, watching the reds and golds of Sherlock's reluctant Caesar costume disappear behind peter pans and cleopatras. He follows, but he's soon lost, and fights his way to get back to the stairs. If he can reach the top of the stairs, he can spot Sherlock. Getting there is the difficult part.
His sleeve is tugged, and he turns to see a glum-looking Eve. "Have you seen Raphael?" She asks, and then shoves him to get to here Adam. John isn't making any more progress towards the stairs, getting forced back by the sea of people. He can scarcely hear over the music.
Suddenly, in his defeated state, he sees a flash of redcurrant, and the shine of hair like a ravens wing, and he shoves a few more privately educated quests.
"Sherlock!" He calls out, but is drowned by the noise. "Sherlock!" he calls again, lunging forward and snatching a handful of his robe.
Sherlock does not turn fully, but he grasps John's wrists and tugs them both through the crowd, avoiding guests and glasses of red wine on his already-crimson toga. The night is hot, warm, sweltering and john has never cared for parties or people or the upper-class, its only ever been Sherlock and the heat is driving him mad he can only think to say-
They find solace on the balcony. Sherlock slams the doors, and crushes John's lips in a kiss. They smooth eachother over in the depth of the kiss.
"If I profane with my unworthiest hand, this holy shrine, the gentle fine is this" Sherlock's eyes light up, because he knows this, he's heard it and the irony is delicious. "My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss." It means that he wants Sherlock. he wants him and he'll take him now is he has to, all sweat and touches on the stone f the balcony. John relishes the image of fucking Sherlock over the rail.
He goes in for a kiss, but is denied by Sherlock's hand.
"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this; for saints have hands that pilgrims-" Sherlock nearly goes off on one, but John shoves him over the rail and forces kisses on his pretty little mouth, trailing down his neck. It's hot, too hot, and John has never thought in this way before, all he can think of is Sherlock like an angel, radiant in his colour. Sherlock, who wants John with equal fervour.
Mycroft has brilliant themes for his parties.
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