Flood Relief Fic - Enigel - 2/2
Title: Like a Cracked Mirror (1/1)
Word Count: 1420
Pairing: Martin Crieff/Sherlock Holmes (Cabin Pressure/Sherlock cross over)
Rating: R18+
Warnings: Sexual aspects, mentions of scars and possible abuse, but not much. Doppelgängers.
Summary: It is said that everyone in the world has a doppelgänger, and that if they were ever to meet, they would both perish instantly. Sherlock never did believe in nonsense like that and spends an afternoon with his.
Extra Notes: Written for enigel who kindly bought two of my one-shots for the Queensland flood relief. This is the second of two stories, requesting narcissistic Sherlock and Martin Crieff (from the BBC's radio series Cabin Pressure) having a bit of a one night stand. I hope I've done it justice.
It hadn't mean to happen, but it had. The young man with the van - Martin - was tracing scars down Sherlock's body where he had been stabbed, shot, punched, kicked, and whatever else the uncreative criminal masses could come up with. They shone faintly, like silver streaks of moonlight, the rest of the man's skin a pearly white compared to his own.
Sherlock could see Martin's own scars from completely different - and mundane - things. Childhood accidents, adolescent bullying, adult mistakes - they were all there. New data, thought Sherlock, pulling Martin closer to him. Fingers carded through the light brown curls of Martin's hair as the man kissed Sherlock's neck. It was strange how Martin revered the consulting detective's body, yet had no interest in his own.
This was the post-coital bliss, with Sherlock's mind quietly humming and newly refreshed, and Martin's shy contemplation of his situation. Wandering lightly, Martin's fingers trailed over the scars before Sherlock took up his hands to examine them, a difficult task without lying sideways or pulling the other onto his lap. He rubbed his thumb over Martin's left.
"Airline pilot. I knew it the moment I saw you, but I wanted to confirm," he explained.
"You didn't rifle through my wallet, did you?" said Martin.
"No."
"Amazing."
"I know. It's also not your primary source of income, but you know that's easy to figure out Captain."
There was a flush of pleasure at being called by rank and Martin ducked his head. Sherlock yanked it back up again, none too roughly.
"There's no need to hide that brilliant smile. I rarely get to see an expression so honest on myself."
His doppelgänger was strange. They looked exactly the same, had the same voice, and the same body frame. Only differences being Sherlock favoured his voice at a lower pitch, Martin having his hair shorter and coloured light brown, and Sherlock having paler skin, although Martin could be that pale if he stayed out of the sun. Yet, by reluctantly asking Mycroft for help, Sherlock had determined that Martin was in no way related to him.
Could one have an identical twin and not be related? It required further investigation. Martin's eyes were more open, more naive than Sherlock's, and they betrayed every emotion that filtered through the pilot. Right now the man was wondering how he'd managed to get himself in bed and have a successful sexcapade with a man like Sherlock. Well he was about to get another.
A smirk appeared on Sherlock's face as he slipped a hand between Martin's legs, stroking the silky skin of his thighs. This earned him a yip of surprise, and Martin tried to pull away a little. Strong hands pushed him under Sherlock's body so the detective was now straddling the captain. Martin scrabbled for Sherlock's hands, but he was beaten as those hands grasped his wrists and trapped them against the headboard. A moment was spent staring at each other, before a kiss was pressed, mouths opening to allow confident and timid explorations of each other's mouths. It was as good as the first time, building up to a slow rut.
Martin gasped as Sherlock moved his mouth to his neck, suckling at it. No doubt there would be a love bite later, something to mark Martin as his for the time being. He had already deduced that Martin liked someone else and had attempted to tell them exactly five times. It didn't matter to Sherlock - after all, this was a one afternoon stand - but marking Martin seemed like the right thing to do. Even when the bite had faded he would still belong to Sherlock for he was an interesting experiment, displaying all of the qualities that Sherlock was not.
"Mine," Sherlock declared in a voice that raised no arguments.
Martin squirmed around a bit, hands still captured, rolling his hips up. Showing no mercy, Sherlock slammed Martin's hips down with his own, pushing into the mattress. The first round had been to get rid of any hesitancy Martin had in bedding his non-blood twin, the second was for close observation. Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock started with Martin's face.
It was less drawn and gaunt than Sherlock's, but a lack of nourishing food in Martin's life indicated he wasn't too far off. The cheekbones were high, prominent even with the thin extra layer of fat. A day's stubble had formed, and this captured Sherlock's attention with it's lightness of colour. It didn't match with his hair. Conclusion: dyed, but heathy and thick. Original colour: vibrant ginger. So the man cared about appearances and would sacrifice food in order to look sensible. He didn't think anyone would take him seriously with red hair.
Of course, Sherlock already knew it was ginger because of the man's body-hair. A trail of it led delicately to his groin. It was still good practice to focus on the facial hair - it wouldn't do to strip suspects down. Lestrade would have a fit. And Sherlock didn't need that.
His eyes were more of a deep forest-grey than Sherlock's ice blue-silver iris'. Boring. Martin should wear green - it would make them pop, and the slightly unusual mixture of shades would have an aesthetic appeal to many. There was no doubt they were pretty, only the man underneath him didn't have the grace or confidence to dominate a room like Sherlock.
Cupid's Bow lips opened in a gasp so soft it could barely be felt or heard. They were stained red from the passionate kisses of earlier and Martin's tongue slipped over them in an anxious and jittery lick. Sherlock knew from his own that they were plump and perfect for both the gentleman's kiss to a lady's hand or for something far more deviant.
When Martin threw his head back, Sherlock could see a thin line from his neck to his collarbone. A knife wound, shallow but difficult to heal with the angle. It was beautiful, a complete story of it's own.
After they finished for the second and final time, Sherlock stood to find a clean towel. They had worn protection, of course, but the sweat generated was unpleasant after a while. He didn't offer one to Martin, however a silent and reluctant permission to use the shower was given.
"Do you normally bed your clients?" asked Sherlock when the man emerged from the bathroom, wet tufts of hair sticking up.
Predictably, Martin's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. That was a "no" then.
"Only if they look like me."
The subject was discussed no more, and Martin set about doing the job - the real job - that he had come there to do. Not that there was much left for him to do - the large and heavy furniture wasn't his area. Besides, he needed extra help to do that and Sherlock certainly wasn't going to help manoeuvre his own fridge into the van.
"The address was 221B Baker Street, right?" asked Martin.
The dark-haired man gave him a look suggesting he was the worst type of idiot he's come across - the type that asked him to repeat himself. Martin gave him a nervous smile and fiddled with his sleeve. Sherlock gave him a blank stare, obviously deep in thought, before realising that Martin was waiting for him.
"Mrs Hudson will let you in, payment is with her. Now, I must fly, Lestrade's texted about a case."
There was a flurry of movement as the expensive coat was thrown on and scarf wound around his neck. Sherlock disappeared out the door, thumped down two stairs, turned and poked his head back into the ratty flat.
"Oh, and by the way, you should really tell your co-pilot that you like him."
He winked and was gone, leaving Martin dazzled, confused, and wondering if the afternoon had all been a strange dream. He did one final check and closed the door to the flat, taking the boxes to Baker Street and scaring the landlady. She was nice, but couldn't believe that he wasn't the man who had employed him until a box popped open and he screamed at the skull in it.
One week later, John Watson walked into Sherlock Holmes' laboratory at Bart's.
The same week, Martin hesitantly admitted to himself that he had a thing for fast-talking, razor sharp men. He then told Douglas of this by an affectionate squeeze of the hand and letting him do both take-off and landing.
Word Count: 1420
Pairing: Martin Crieff/Sherlock Holmes (Cabin Pressure/Sherlock cross over)
Rating: R18+
Warnings: Sexual aspects, mentions of scars and possible abuse, but not much. Doppelgängers.
Summary: It is said that everyone in the world has a doppelgänger, and that if they were ever to meet, they would both perish instantly. Sherlock never did believe in nonsense like that and spends an afternoon with his.
Extra Notes: Written for enigel who kindly bought two of my one-shots for the Queensland flood relief. This is the second of two stories, requesting narcissistic Sherlock and Martin Crieff (from the BBC's radio series Cabin Pressure) having a bit of a one night stand. I hope I've done it justice.
It hadn't mean to happen, but it had. The young man with the van - Martin - was tracing scars down Sherlock's body where he had been stabbed, shot, punched, kicked, and whatever else the uncreative criminal masses could come up with. They shone faintly, like silver streaks of moonlight, the rest of the man's skin a pearly white compared to his own.
Sherlock could see Martin's own scars from completely different - and mundane - things. Childhood accidents, adolescent bullying, adult mistakes - they were all there. New data, thought Sherlock, pulling Martin closer to him. Fingers carded through the light brown curls of Martin's hair as the man kissed Sherlock's neck. It was strange how Martin revered the consulting detective's body, yet had no interest in his own.
This was the post-coital bliss, with Sherlock's mind quietly humming and newly refreshed, and Martin's shy contemplation of his situation. Wandering lightly, Martin's fingers trailed over the scars before Sherlock took up his hands to examine them, a difficult task without lying sideways or pulling the other onto his lap. He rubbed his thumb over Martin's left.
"Airline pilot. I knew it the moment I saw you, but I wanted to confirm," he explained.
"You didn't rifle through my wallet, did you?" said Martin.
"No."
"Amazing."
"I know. It's also not your primary source of income, but you know that's easy to figure out Captain."
There was a flush of pleasure at being called by rank and Martin ducked his head. Sherlock yanked it back up again, none too roughly.
"There's no need to hide that brilliant smile. I rarely get to see an expression so honest on myself."
His doppelgänger was strange. They looked exactly the same, had the same voice, and the same body frame. Only differences being Sherlock favoured his voice at a lower pitch, Martin having his hair shorter and coloured light brown, and Sherlock having paler skin, although Martin could be that pale if he stayed out of the sun. Yet, by reluctantly asking Mycroft for help, Sherlock had determined that Martin was in no way related to him.
Could one have an identical twin and not be related? It required further investigation. Martin's eyes were more open, more naive than Sherlock's, and they betrayed every emotion that filtered through the pilot. Right now the man was wondering how he'd managed to get himself in bed and have a successful sexcapade with a man like Sherlock. Well he was about to get another.
A smirk appeared on Sherlock's face as he slipped a hand between Martin's legs, stroking the silky skin of his thighs. This earned him a yip of surprise, and Martin tried to pull away a little. Strong hands pushed him under Sherlock's body so the detective was now straddling the captain. Martin scrabbled for Sherlock's hands, but he was beaten as those hands grasped his wrists and trapped them against the headboard. A moment was spent staring at each other, before a kiss was pressed, mouths opening to allow confident and timid explorations of each other's mouths. It was as good as the first time, building up to a slow rut.
Martin gasped as Sherlock moved his mouth to his neck, suckling at it. No doubt there would be a love bite later, something to mark Martin as his for the time being. He had already deduced that Martin liked someone else and had attempted to tell them exactly five times. It didn't matter to Sherlock - after all, this was a one afternoon stand - but marking Martin seemed like the right thing to do. Even when the bite had faded he would still belong to Sherlock for he was an interesting experiment, displaying all of the qualities that Sherlock was not.
"Mine," Sherlock declared in a voice that raised no arguments.
Martin squirmed around a bit, hands still captured, rolling his hips up. Showing no mercy, Sherlock slammed Martin's hips down with his own, pushing into the mattress. The first round had been to get rid of any hesitancy Martin had in bedding his non-blood twin, the second was for close observation. Not breaking eye contact, Sherlock started with Martin's face.
It was less drawn and gaunt than Sherlock's, but a lack of nourishing food in Martin's life indicated he wasn't too far off. The cheekbones were high, prominent even with the thin extra layer of fat. A day's stubble had formed, and this captured Sherlock's attention with it's lightness of colour. It didn't match with his hair. Conclusion: dyed, but heathy and thick. Original colour: vibrant ginger. So the man cared about appearances and would sacrifice food in order to look sensible. He didn't think anyone would take him seriously with red hair.
Of course, Sherlock already knew it was ginger because of the man's body-hair. A trail of it led delicately to his groin. It was still good practice to focus on the facial hair - it wouldn't do to strip suspects down. Lestrade would have a fit. And Sherlock didn't need that.
His eyes were more of a deep forest-grey than Sherlock's ice blue-silver iris'. Boring. Martin should wear green - it would make them pop, and the slightly unusual mixture of shades would have an aesthetic appeal to many. There was no doubt they were pretty, only the man underneath him didn't have the grace or confidence to dominate a room like Sherlock.
Cupid's Bow lips opened in a gasp so soft it could barely be felt or heard. They were stained red from the passionate kisses of earlier and Martin's tongue slipped over them in an anxious and jittery lick. Sherlock knew from his own that they were plump and perfect for both the gentleman's kiss to a lady's hand or for something far more deviant.
When Martin threw his head back, Sherlock could see a thin line from his neck to his collarbone. A knife wound, shallow but difficult to heal with the angle. It was beautiful, a complete story of it's own.
After they finished for the second and final time, Sherlock stood to find a clean towel. They had worn protection, of course, but the sweat generated was unpleasant after a while. He didn't offer one to Martin, however a silent and reluctant permission to use the shower was given.
"Do you normally bed your clients?" asked Sherlock when the man emerged from the bathroom, wet tufts of hair sticking up.
Predictably, Martin's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. That was a "no" then.
"Only if they look like me."
The subject was discussed no more, and Martin set about doing the job - the real job - that he had come there to do. Not that there was much left for him to do - the large and heavy furniture wasn't his area. Besides, he needed extra help to do that and Sherlock certainly wasn't going to help manoeuvre his own fridge into the van.
"The address was 221B Baker Street, right?" asked Martin.
The dark-haired man gave him a look suggesting he was the worst type of idiot he's come across - the type that asked him to repeat himself. Martin gave him a nervous smile and fiddled with his sleeve. Sherlock gave him a blank stare, obviously deep in thought, before realising that Martin was waiting for him.
"Mrs Hudson will let you in, payment is with her. Now, I must fly, Lestrade's texted about a case."
There was a flurry of movement as the expensive coat was thrown on and scarf wound around his neck. Sherlock disappeared out the door, thumped down two stairs, turned and poked his head back into the ratty flat.
"Oh, and by the way, you should really tell your co-pilot that you like him."
He winked and was gone, leaving Martin dazzled, confused, and wondering if the afternoon had all been a strange dream. He did one final check and closed the door to the flat, taking the boxes to Baker Street and scaring the landlady. She was nice, but couldn't believe that he wasn't the man who had employed him until a box popped open and he screamed at the skull in it.
One week later, John Watson walked into Sherlock Holmes' laboratory at Bart's.
The same week, Martin hesitantly admitted to himself that he had a thing for fast-talking, razor sharp men. He then told Douglas of this by an affectionate squeeze of the hand and letting him do both take-off and landing.