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.
lke i remember you 5a/?astudyinchuckJuly 11 2011, 21:28:49 UTC
Sherlock Holmes is in old money. John Watson is not. Sherlock studies privately while John takes night classes. John drinks beer while Sherlock smokes his mayfairs.
They're a strange pair and have to play many roles: John is Sherlock's audience, his conscience, his merit. Sherlock isn't anything without John's approval. At the same time, Sherlock must be John's motivation, his fascination, his artistic muse and his lover.
It's terrible, Sherlock thinks, to need and to want. But it's wonderful to be wanted or needed, and the greatest of all to be wanted or needed by John. It gives him purpose and value. It gives him the heart he'd never needed.
The differences between them make some things difficult.
John gets cornered by three local lads on the way home from Sherlock's house. They stand over him with hungry eyes. None were hungry for food.
"John," One of them says, spitting the rods out as if it's bitter-tasting. "I think it's time we had a chat." A wall of bodies seem to build up around him. John looks about, helpless, and feels a little trapped. He has not regrets, nothing to be embarrassed.
"About what?" He tries to sound amiable. Pleasant, even. But the breezy tone he strives for fails. Their eyes turn dark, and the world gets colder when the tallest one speaks.
"Don't think I don't know what you're doing with that Holmes boy." He says, imperiously. The way he regards Sherlock, even just the idea, is with disgust and disdain. Says the name 'Holmes' like it's a secret, and like John should be ashamed. He's in love, he's young, and he's far too proud to care.
But he doesn't say that.
A crooked one breaks down into a snarl. "I bet he pays you to suck him and fuck him." He shove John in the back. "Tenner for sucking him off," Another shove, "Fiver for a jerking him off," The last shove nearly has John over. "Twenty for taking it up the-"
John snaps, and he shoves back, a flash of anger flaring up in his eyes. They mock him, laughing, crowding again. It's claustrophobic, and John needs to get up, get out and get away from this street and this place.
"Who'd have thought it, eh?" One of them spits off to the side, frothy with phlegm, and John winces in disgust. "Good old Mister Watson had such a fluttering little queer," The assault continues, and John can't fight back because he's backed up against brick, and he's surrounded and trapped and can't think of a way to talk his way out.
"I reckon they both have you. How much, then? That Sherlock is stingy. Bet he makes you work for it. Bet me makes you beg and plead for-" John doesn't think, he's blind with anger and strikes him. The dark eyes go wide in shock, and surprise, and then determination.
"Don't you-" John spits at him, and get's a fist for his troubles.
"I'll do as I please," The tallest is practically laughing. he pulls up his sleeves and leans back, keen to start something. "And I'll be pleased when you've given me a little something." He grins, akin to a serpent. John is held against the wall, and then forced to his knees.
"Cor, I bet he loves sucking cock," Squawks the stout one. "Look at the tongue on him," Then, he proceeds to stick a finger in John's mouth, smooth over his lips.
John clamps down viciously and spits out the finger when it's bloody.
"Dumb bitch-" John scrambled to his feet and manages to get free. The stout one remains howling, clutching at his hand.
The sound of his footsteps and the salt of blood in John's mouth drives him home where he's up, and out and away from those who don't understand.
like i remember you 5b/?astudyinchuckJuly 11 2011, 21:29:19 UTC
Later, when he's got a pretty mess of dark hair between his legs, everything is okay. Sherlock makes odd little noises when he works about John's dick, and he draws it out, long and lovely and it' too much, because John's only human and Sherlock looks up. He comes with a hiss.
(They're at John's place, a little attic above Mrs' Hudson's café. Both have to be quiet, because the walls are thin a needles.)
After the sex, they lie next to eachother in the heat of the evening. John drinks his beer, Sherlock smokes his mayfairs. There's a bruise on John's jaw. It's found when Sherlock studies him, crawling all over his lover's body, picking gout freckles and sensitive parts of the flesh.
"That's new," Sherlock says, carefully. He frowns at it. "From a hard surface, but the force wasn't too brutal." John dismisses it.
"I waked into a table." A cloud of smoke is blown into his face. beyond the silver that hangs in the air, Sherlock looks at him with deep eyes.
"Don't lie to me," His tone is grave.
"Walked home," Unsure, John begins. "Didn't have change for the bus, met a few old friends," Sherlock draws back, looking worried. Looking guilty, Christ, he knows, it's John's fault for being so obvious and stupid and infatuated by Sherlock, the beautiful creature sprawled out next to him.
But Sherlock says nothing.
John remembers every moment they lay in that attic on summer nights, and trembling side by side. They were his best days. That would be their year.
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.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
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.
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
thank you very much!
Reply
Reply
They're a strange pair and have to play many roles: John is Sherlock's audience, his conscience, his merit. Sherlock isn't anything without John's approval. At the same time, Sherlock must be John's motivation, his fascination, his artistic muse and his lover.
It's terrible, Sherlock thinks, to need and to want. But it's wonderful to be wanted or needed, and the greatest of all to be wanted or needed by John. It gives him purpose and value. It gives him the heart he'd never needed.
The differences between them make some things difficult.
John gets cornered by three local lads on the way home from Sherlock's house. They stand over him with hungry eyes. None were hungry for food.
"John," One of them says, spitting the rods out as if it's bitter-tasting. "I think it's time we had a chat." A wall of bodies seem to build up around him. John looks about, helpless, and feels a little trapped. He has not regrets, nothing to be embarrassed.
"About what?" He tries to sound amiable. Pleasant, even. But the breezy tone he strives for fails. Their eyes turn dark, and the world gets colder when the tallest one speaks.
"Don't think I don't know what you're doing with that Holmes boy." He says, imperiously. The way he regards Sherlock, even just the idea, is with disgust and disdain. Says the name 'Holmes' like it's a secret, and like John should be ashamed. He's in love, he's young, and he's far too proud to care.
But he doesn't say that.
A crooked one breaks down into a snarl. "I bet he pays you to suck him and fuck him." He shove John in the back. "Tenner for sucking him off," Another shove, "Fiver for a jerking him off," The last shove nearly has John over. "Twenty for taking it up the-"
John snaps, and he shoves back, a flash of anger flaring up in his eyes. They mock him, laughing, crowding again. It's claustrophobic, and John needs to get up, get out and get away from this street and this place.
"Who'd have thought it, eh?" One of them spits off to the side, frothy with phlegm, and John winces in disgust. "Good old Mister Watson had such a fluttering little queer," The assault continues, and John can't fight back because he's backed up against brick, and he's surrounded and trapped and can't think of a way to talk his way out.
"I reckon they both have you. How much, then? That Sherlock is stingy. Bet he makes you work for it. Bet me makes you beg and plead for-" John doesn't think, he's blind with anger and strikes him. The dark eyes go wide in shock, and surprise, and then determination.
"Don't you-" John spits at him, and get's a fist for his troubles.
"I'll do as I please," The tallest is practically laughing. he pulls up his sleeves and leans back, keen to start something. "And I'll be pleased when you've given me a little something." He grins, akin to a serpent. John is held against the wall, and then forced to his knees.
"Cor, I bet he loves sucking cock," Squawks the stout one. "Look at the tongue on him," Then, he proceeds to stick a finger in John's mouth, smooth over his lips.
John clamps down viciously and spits out the finger when it's bloody.
"Dumb bitch-" John scrambled to his feet and manages to get free. The stout one remains howling, clutching at his hand.
The sound of his footsteps and the salt of blood in John's mouth drives him home where he's up, and out and away from those who don't understand.
Reply
(They're at John's place, a little attic above Mrs' Hudson's café. Both have to be quiet, because the walls are thin a needles.)
After the sex, they lie next to eachother in the heat of the evening. John drinks his beer, Sherlock smokes his mayfairs. There's a bruise on John's jaw. It's found when Sherlock studies him, crawling all over his lover's body, picking gout freckles and sensitive parts of the flesh.
"That's new," Sherlock says, carefully. He frowns at it. "From a hard surface, but the force wasn't too brutal." John dismisses it.
"I waked into a table." A cloud of smoke is blown into his face. beyond the silver that hangs in the air, Sherlock looks at him with deep eyes.
"Don't lie to me," His tone is grave.
"Walked home," Unsure, John begins. "Didn't have change for the bus, met a few old friends," Sherlock draws back, looking worried. Looking guilty, Christ, he knows, it's John's fault for being so obvious and stupid and infatuated by Sherlock, the beautiful creature sprawled out next to him.
But Sherlock says nothing.
John remembers every moment they lay in that attic on summer nights, and trembling side by side. They were his best days. That would be their year.
Reply
Reply
And the realisation that they gotta be younger than me... Christ. *shudders*
Reply
in all the best possible ways.
Reply
I hope you plan to keep going ♥
Reply
Leave a comment