Fic. The Painted Lady (Sherlock!fic) Chapter 1/?
Title - The Painted Lady
Author - Tardismate
Rating - Adult
Disclaimer - Not mine. If it was, Sherlock would be forever handcuffed. To me. :O.
Authors Note - My first foray into the world of Sherlock fanfic. Took ages to get the right mindset to write Sherlock and Mycroft...still not sure if I have the voices right yet. Practice makes perfect, so they say... Not Beta'd, therefore all mistakes mine own.
Oh yeah, almost forgot. It's smut. :-D
Chapter 1
Sherlock was bored. Excruciatingly bored.
John and Mary weren’t due back from their honeymoon for another two days (and eight hours, since their return flight would, in fact, be delayed by that amount of time because of the imminent uprising that would occur tomorrow in their honeymoon destination; a deduction made easy by the scarcity of news from that part of the world.) He needed to do something; what, he didn’t know.
Flinging himself restlessly out of his chair, he began pacing around the room, one hand impatiently trying to restrain his over-long curls (Time to visit Mycroft’s barber again, he thought absently) and striding over to the window, picked up his violin and bow, glancing out of the window as he did so.
He noticed the small slender figure looking at the front door of 221B, and dismissed her as just another woman looking to confirm a cheating partner. (Not a husband, no wedding ring)...
Totally absorbed in the creation of his composition, he didn’t hear the doorbell, or Mrs Hudson announce his visitor.
"Mr Holmes?"
The sound of her voice stopped Sherlock. He had never heard such a smooth musical lilt in a female voice before. Turning quickly, his gaze raked her from hair to shoes before he blinked, and spoke in a voice that didn’t quite sound like his; forced through a throat suddenly dry. “Yes. I will take your case.” He stopped abruptly, having taken himself completely by surprise by accepting her as a client. All he had deduced from his rapid scrutiny of her was that she was around 30, she was a natural brunette, she exercised regularly at a small gym, she was not extravagant in her spending habits since the clothes she was wearing were good pieces but not current trends, and that she had the most piercing blue eyes he had ever seen.
And that was not a deduction he expecting. Blinking rapidly, he shook his head slightly to clear it, curls flying waywardly across his forehead, causing the woman now standing only a few feet away from him to make an inexplicable sound. He had the strangest feeling of his life as this sound hit his brain (Butterflies. It’s called butterflies but that’s ridiculous. If your stomach had butterflies in it, they’d be dead because of the hydrochloric acid in there so no movement would be possible) and he absent-mindedly gestured for her to sit as he tried to analyze just why he was reacting this way to her. Unfortunately, due to her proximity, the gesture caused his right hand to brush against her chest, and he felt three things happening simultaneously. His heart rate accelerated rapidly, his face flushed, and most disconcertingly of all, he felt a certain part of his anatomy react quite strongly to all this blood rushing rapidly around his system. Stuttering an apology and quickly sitting down, his brain processed what was happening to him. (Lust. The human body’s chemical reaction to pheromones emitted by the female of the species as a precursor to foreplay and sexual intercourse)
He thought he’d better try speech, just to see if it made any sense, and find out why she had come to him. “Asdkkmbc” he began, before realising he had spoken nonsense, cleared his throat, and tried again.
“What do you want from me?”
The young woman had noticed his reaction to her, and grinned inwardly. Mycroft had been right. She was exactly what he needed. Smiling slightly, she licked her bottom lip, stood, and removed her raincoat. There was nothing underneath it except lightly tanned skin. Sherlock’s mind was racing, trying to keep up with his body’s reactions to the naked female now approaching his chair. He noticed that according to current fashion, she was perfectly proportioned, that she had previously had her appendix removed, that she had a small mole on the left crest of her hip,and that she was most definitely a natural brunette. By the time this had all filtered through, she had reached him, knelt in front of him, taken his hand and placed it on her left breast, holding it in place with her own. As the warmth of her breast filled his hand, Sherlock realised what was happening, but knew he was powerless to stop it. He also realised that he really didn’t want to, closed his eyes, giving in to the wonderful sensations she was creating in him. He sighed and began to move his hand, gently squeezing the flesh that fitted perfectly between his palm and his long fingers.
Removing her hand from on top of his, she brushed her fingers across his jaw before pushing them into his hair and across his scalp. His reaction to this was gratifying to say the least, his moan of intense pleasure and the lifting of his hips happening almost instantaneously. She capitalized on this distraction and ran her hand down his chest to the waistband of his trousers, grinning as she saw the visible evidence of his arousal. She really was going to enjoy this.
All Sherlock could do now was feel. Feel her hand push against his arousal, feel her undo the clasp of his trousers, feel her slide his zip slowly down and then her hand slip inside. He jumped as she touched him, then withdrew her hand, and he opened his eyes to find her staring intently at him. He reached out with his free hand and traced her face with his fingertips before curling his hand behind her head and bringing her face close to his; so close that all he could see were her blue eyes, now almost black as the pupils subsumed them. It was this that broke the dam he had held inside himself for so long; he fastened his mouth to hers, pushing his tongue into her mouth and tasting her, his mind wanting to analyze the taste of smoke and mint and coffee, his body refusing to let him, and he groaned as she reciprocated, flicking her tongue over his teeth and across the roof of his mouth. He pulled her closer, and she over-balanced, breaking the kiss that had gone from exploration to explosion in a heartbeat.
Breathing heavily, she pushed upright, grabbed his now-gaping trousers, urging him to lift his hips and he complied rapidly, his relief at being freed from his discomfort turning to anticipation as she lowered her head and took him into her mouth. Nothing he had ever experienced had prepared him for the intense rush the heat of her mouth gave him, and as she began to move her head, he thought he might actually pass out as all his blood seemed to be headed for his groin. As her tongue swirled around him, he could feel his stomach muscles tighten and he felt an urge to thrust himself into her hot, wet mouth, trying and failing to stop doing just that. Instinct took over; the primeval urge to take her and fuck her until she screamed became his only goal. He wanted her not to stop, but he also wanted to be inside her. The choice was not his to make: she was controlling this, she was doing exactly what she wanted with him, and he decided that was going to stop. It was his turn now. And although new to it, he knew what to do.
Grasping her arms, he pulled her up so that he slipped from her mouth, (not before she had flicked his tip with the tip of her tongue, causing what felt like an electric shock to flash down his spine,) pulling so that she had no choice but to kneel over him. He was so hard he was aching, grasping her hips and urging her down until he felt himself touching her. Moving one hand, he could not resist the need to touch, to discover her. She was burning hot, and slippery there; his fingers pushing through her curls in an unconscious copy of her earlier actions. His questing fingers found what he was searching for, and he began to rub the nub, feeling it expand and grow, her moans almost background noise to him now as he pushed slowly into her as far as he could, savouring the sensation as she tightened involuntarily around him. He set up a rhythm which rapidly inreased in pace; thrusting into her as he pulled her down on to him, then lifting her until he was almost out of her before pulling her roughly back down. He was pounding in and out of her, the room echoing with groans from both of them, then she stiffened and cried out as she came, the clenching of her walls around him forcing him headlong into his own orgasm, crying out as he felt himself spurt inside her.
Trying to catch his breath, he opened his eyes and grinned at her. She grinned back at him, pushed both hands into his hair before pulling him into a searing kiss, then stood gloriously naked before him. “Bathroom?” she asked, still just a little unsteady on her feet. “On the left…” Sherlock said breathlessly, still grinning. As she left the room, Sherlock’s senses were beginning to return to what passed as normal for him. Who was she? What did she want? Who had sent her? He was about to ask these questions as she returned and crossed to pick up her raincoat, but she pre-empted him.
“My name is of no consequence, it isn’t me who is in need of your services…although judging by what just happened I might need to review that statement. I suggest you ask a certain member of the British Government we both know intimately, since he has all the answers”
As she spoke she had pulled on and fastened her coat and headed for the door, only pausing to appreciate the glorious picture he made sitting there, so flushed, bruised-lipped and completely undone. She blew him a kiss, winked at him and left, her heels clicking down the stairs and across the hall, the opening and closing of the door echoing in the sudden silence.
As he heard Mrs Hudson downstairs, Sherlock hurriedly tidied himself away, (he knew if she even had a hint of what had just happened, she’d have ammunition against him enough for years). He wasn’t entirely sure what had just transpired, nor why it had, but he was as sure as hell going to find out.
He reached for his phone, and dialled Mycroft’s number.
Author - Tardismate
Rating - Adult
Disclaimer - Not mine. If it was, Sherlock would be forever handcuffed. To me. :O.
Authors Note - My first foray into the world of Sherlock fanfic. Took ages to get the right mindset to write Sherlock and Mycroft...still not sure if I have the voices right yet. Practice makes perfect, so they say... Not Beta'd, therefore all mistakes mine own.
Oh yeah, almost forgot. It's smut. :-D
Chapter 1
Sherlock was bored. Excruciatingly bored.
John and Mary weren’t due back from their honeymoon for another two days (and eight hours, since their return flight would, in fact, be delayed by that amount of time because of the imminent uprising that would occur tomorrow in their honeymoon destination; a deduction made easy by the scarcity of news from that part of the world.) He needed to do something; what, he didn’t know.
Flinging himself restlessly out of his chair, he began pacing around the room, one hand impatiently trying to restrain his over-long curls (Time to visit Mycroft’s barber again, he thought absently) and striding over to the window, picked up his violin and bow, glancing out of the window as he did so.
He noticed the small slender figure looking at the front door of 221B, and dismissed her as just another woman looking to confirm a cheating partner. (Not a husband, no wedding ring)...
Totally absorbed in the creation of his composition, he didn’t hear the doorbell, or Mrs Hudson announce his visitor.
"Mr Holmes?"
The sound of her voice stopped Sherlock. He had never heard such a smooth musical lilt in a female voice before. Turning quickly, his gaze raked her from hair to shoes before he blinked, and spoke in a voice that didn’t quite sound like his; forced through a throat suddenly dry. “Yes. I will take your case.” He stopped abruptly, having taken himself completely by surprise by accepting her as a client. All he had deduced from his rapid scrutiny of her was that she was around 30, she was a natural brunette, she exercised regularly at a small gym, she was not extravagant in her spending habits since the clothes she was wearing were good pieces but not current trends, and that she had the most piercing blue eyes he had ever seen.
And that was not a deduction he expecting. Blinking rapidly, he shook his head slightly to clear it, curls flying waywardly across his forehead, causing the woman now standing only a few feet away from him to make an inexplicable sound. He had the strangest feeling of his life as this sound hit his brain (Butterflies. It’s called butterflies but that’s ridiculous. If your stomach had butterflies in it, they’d be dead because of the hydrochloric acid in there so no movement would be possible) and he absent-mindedly gestured for her to sit as he tried to analyze just why he was reacting this way to her. Unfortunately, due to her proximity, the gesture caused his right hand to brush against her chest, and he felt three things happening simultaneously. His heart rate accelerated rapidly, his face flushed, and most disconcertingly of all, he felt a certain part of his anatomy react quite strongly to all this blood rushing rapidly around his system. Stuttering an apology and quickly sitting down, his brain processed what was happening to him. (Lust. The human body’s chemical reaction to pheromones emitted by the female of the species as a precursor to foreplay and sexual intercourse)
He thought he’d better try speech, just to see if it made any sense, and find out why she had come to him. “Asdkkmbc” he began, before realising he had spoken nonsense, cleared his throat, and tried again.
“What do you want from me?”
The young woman had noticed his reaction to her, and grinned inwardly. Mycroft had been right. She was exactly what he needed. Smiling slightly, she licked her bottom lip, stood, and removed her raincoat. There was nothing underneath it except lightly tanned skin. Sherlock’s mind was racing, trying to keep up with his body’s reactions to the naked female now approaching his chair. He noticed that according to current fashion, she was perfectly proportioned, that she had previously had her appendix removed, that she had a small mole on the left crest of her hip,and that she was most definitely a natural brunette. By the time this had all filtered through, she had reached him, knelt in front of him, taken his hand and placed it on her left breast, holding it in place with her own. As the warmth of her breast filled his hand, Sherlock realised what was happening, but knew he was powerless to stop it. He also realised that he really didn’t want to, closed his eyes, giving in to the wonderful sensations she was creating in him. He sighed and began to move his hand, gently squeezing the flesh that fitted perfectly between his palm and his long fingers.
Removing her hand from on top of his, she brushed her fingers across his jaw before pushing them into his hair and across his scalp. His reaction to this was gratifying to say the least, his moan of intense pleasure and the lifting of his hips happening almost instantaneously. She capitalized on this distraction and ran her hand down his chest to the waistband of his trousers, grinning as she saw the visible evidence of his arousal. She really was going to enjoy this.
All Sherlock could do now was feel. Feel her hand push against his arousal, feel her undo the clasp of his trousers, feel her slide his zip slowly down and then her hand slip inside. He jumped as she touched him, then withdrew her hand, and he opened his eyes to find her staring intently at him. He reached out with his free hand and traced her face with his fingertips before curling his hand behind her head and bringing her face close to his; so close that all he could see were her blue eyes, now almost black as the pupils subsumed them. It was this that broke the dam he had held inside himself for so long; he fastened his mouth to hers, pushing his tongue into her mouth and tasting her, his mind wanting to analyze the taste of smoke and mint and coffee, his body refusing to let him, and he groaned as she reciprocated, flicking her tongue over his teeth and across the roof of his mouth. He pulled her closer, and she over-balanced, breaking the kiss that had gone from exploration to explosion in a heartbeat.
Breathing heavily, she pushed upright, grabbed his now-gaping trousers, urging him to lift his hips and he complied rapidly, his relief at being freed from his discomfort turning to anticipation as she lowered her head and took him into her mouth. Nothing he had ever experienced had prepared him for the intense rush the heat of her mouth gave him, and as she began to move her head, he thought he might actually pass out as all his blood seemed to be headed for his groin. As her tongue swirled around him, he could feel his stomach muscles tighten and he felt an urge to thrust himself into her hot, wet mouth, trying and failing to stop doing just that. Instinct took over; the primeval urge to take her and fuck her until she screamed became his only goal. He wanted her not to stop, but he also wanted to be inside her. The choice was not his to make: she was controlling this, she was doing exactly what she wanted with him, and he decided that was going to stop. It was his turn now. And although new to it, he knew what to do.
Grasping her arms, he pulled her up so that he slipped from her mouth, (not before she had flicked his tip with the tip of her tongue, causing what felt like an electric shock to flash down his spine,) pulling so that she had no choice but to kneel over him. He was so hard he was aching, grasping her hips and urging her down until he felt himself touching her. Moving one hand, he could not resist the need to touch, to discover her. She was burning hot, and slippery there; his fingers pushing through her curls in an unconscious copy of her earlier actions. His questing fingers found what he was searching for, and he began to rub the nub, feeling it expand and grow, her moans almost background noise to him now as he pushed slowly into her as far as he could, savouring the sensation as she tightened involuntarily around him. He set up a rhythm which rapidly inreased in pace; thrusting into her as he pulled her down on to him, then lifting her until he was almost out of her before pulling her roughly back down. He was pounding in and out of her, the room echoing with groans from both of them, then she stiffened and cried out as she came, the clenching of her walls around him forcing him headlong into his own orgasm, crying out as he felt himself spurt inside her.
Trying to catch his breath, he opened his eyes and grinned at her. She grinned back at him, pushed both hands into his hair before pulling him into a searing kiss, then stood gloriously naked before him. “Bathroom?” she asked, still just a little unsteady on her feet. “On the left…” Sherlock said breathlessly, still grinning. As she left the room, Sherlock’s senses were beginning to return to what passed as normal for him. Who was she? What did she want? Who had sent her? He was about to ask these questions as she returned and crossed to pick up her raincoat, but she pre-empted him.
“My name is of no consequence, it isn’t me who is in need of your services…although judging by what just happened I might need to review that statement. I suggest you ask a certain member of the British Government we both know intimately, since he has all the answers”
As she spoke she had pulled on and fastened her coat and headed for the door, only pausing to appreciate the glorious picture he made sitting there, so flushed, bruised-lipped and completely undone. She blew him a kiss, winked at him and left, her heels clicking down the stairs and across the hall, the opening and closing of the door echoing in the sudden silence.
As he heard Mrs Hudson downstairs, Sherlock hurriedly tidied himself away, (he knew if she even had a hint of what had just happened, she’d have ammunition against him enough for years). He wasn’t entirely sure what had just transpired, nor why it had, but he was as sure as hell going to find out.
He reached for his phone, and dialled Mycroft’s number.