Fic: "The Straw Man Fallacy" (Crossover: Sherlock/The Wicker Man), Chapter 6/7
Title: The Straw Man Fallacy
Fandoms: Sherlock/The Wicker Man (1973)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other Characters: Lord Summerisle, Miss Rose, Willow MacGregor, Alder MacGregor, Mr. Lennox, The Librarian, other Summerisle villagers and OCs
Rating: NC-17/explicit
Summary:
“Mr Holmes, I'm not in the habit of approaching . . . consultants. But you are correct. I have great faith in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. And until recently, I also had faith in the rule of law. Only the second one has wavered. Three years ago my fiancé, Sgt. Neil Howie of the West Highlands Constabulary, went to investigate an anonymous report of a missing child in a remote place called Summerisle. He never communicated with me while he was there, and he never returned.”
Summerisle is not a welcoming place to visitors, but it shows its best face at May Day. For ulterior motives.
Chapter 6, Sumer is Icumen In
Summerislanders will be talking about this one for decades.
“You'd kill me that way - and defile the rite?” said this masked woman called Hazel.
“No more than you already have,” said Miss Rose, sidling forward.
John was unwilling to move his eyes even a little from Hazel, and from Sherlock in her grip, but the hair on the back of his neck was rising. Miss Rose's voice, from behind and close above him - did not sound natural. Or rather, it did. Terrifyingly natural. And it resonated like not one woman's voice, but many.
“Then I might as well kill him, and be killed,” Hazel said. God, her voice was familiar. John looked into her cold, compassionless eyes through the mask, and then he remembered.
Oh God, he thought, we really walked right into this one. He risked a half-glance at Sherlock, who seemed as calm as any man can be when he's just had his very first blowjob interrupted by a madwoman with a knife and murder on her mind.
Her wrist holding the sickle twitched, and Sherlock gave a quick little gasp. John's finger tightened on the trigger. Thoughts rocketed through his mind while he stayed deadly still and his body felt steady, stable, almost calm. Was this how Sherlock felt in the grip of a deduction?
If I shot at this range, I wouldn’t miss, John thought. But a fatal head shot causes convulsions. One twitch in her hand could jerk the blade through Sherlock’s jugular vein and/or carotid artery, or even just his trachea or larynx. A remote chance, but possible. And to cause her violent death in front of witnesses, definitely trouble. Death by gunshot probably not ritually-approved. What would happen then? Not sure.
Hope to distract her then. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John, wide and frightened. Not who he should be watching so closely. He should be studying Hazel for the slightest hint of a chance to escape.
Miss Rose stepped forward, and her face was fearful to look upon. “That is not the sacrifice She desires this night. You would ruin it all for your pride. The pride of a traitor with a false name and a selfish plan.”
“My pride?” Hazel cried bitterly. “My pride. I gave up my pride two years ago, when I came here and fell on my knees before the Old Gods and confessed I had been fooled by a false faith all my life. I gave up my pride when I realized that my love died nobly and for the best of reasons.”
“He died screaming and cursing us all,” Miss Rose said coldly. “His curse had no effect. He was weak.”
“I am not weak,” Hazel said feverishly. “You have become weak and soft - you offer this watered-down sacrifice, all pleasure and no pain, all seed and no blood. Lord Summerisle has gone soft-hearted. A change must come. The gods will laugh at you before they smite you and starve you. I will see this done the right way. And a new age will come. I hear what the gods command, and I will give it to them. And I don't stand alone, and I will take your place.”
“You betrayed your own god. Why should ours trust you?” said Miss Rose.
“Howie died because he was a fool, in every sense of the word. Holmes will survive because he is clever,” Lord Summerisle said. “And because he is loved.”
“Howie was loved,” Hazel cried.
“Was he? Really?” Miss Rose said, coolly.
Why was Lord Summerisle being so useless? John wondered. The man had power, why wasn't he using it? Was he waiting to see how this would play out? He did seem to believe in fate, after all.
Lord Summerisle seemed unable to take his gaze from Miss Rose. The way she carried herself now was unlike any way John had seen her before. She was more than regal - in her anger, she was royal.
John could see that Hazel was trembling at Miss Rose's words, and occasionally glancing back at John, and her hands shook and her arms tightened. There was a thin red line on Sherlock's throat - just a pressure line, no blood yet, but John was watching in increasing terror. Hazel still showed no signs of releasing him.
John might really have to do it then, take the risk. His gun hand held steady. He hated the thought of it, she was obviously ill. But no one, nothing, not on this earth or outside of it, was going to take Sherlock away from him again. Not after what they'd already been through. Not after John had had a brief taste of his heart's desire.
Sherlock's sharp grey eyes moved. He hadn't been staring at John at all. He'd been staring behind him.
In the crowd around then was a sound of clinking, some muttering, a scuffle, and John saw them out of the corner of his eye - the masked swordsmen, moving into position. Not all of them. Three, not six.
Immobile as he was, all John could do was wait until the felt the pressure of a blade against his neck.
Well shit, he thought.
“Just so you know,” John said quietly, defiantly. “I'm definitely not a virgin.”
He probably couldn't strike off my head with one blow, John thought wildly, not at that angle, that only works in the movies. And on 'Highlander.' A strong man could strike deep enough to cause fatal bleeding or paralysis on the first blow and death on the next, though.
“Drop the gun, Dr. Watson,” said the voice behind him.
“Why would I do that? You're going to kill us anyway.”
Sherlock was really looking at John now, trying to communicate something with his eyes. He made the smallest gesture with his hand, tried in vain to tilt his head.
He heard something. Listen. John stilled the rush of his breath and blood and thoughts for just a second, and then he heard it too.
Miss Rose lifted her eyes up to the sky, acknowledging the sound they'd all been hearing - a deep, multivoiced buzz. It would be ambient noise in London - traffic, trains, busses - but here, it was a new sound, and it was growing louder. With her multivoiced voice, Miss Rose cried out in delight: “She comes! The Queen of the orchards and her thousand daughters! Be still! She comes!”
It happened as quick as anything. A brown, clustered mass was rising up over the craggy hill and flying low over the gathered crowd.
It changed shape. First it was a blob and then an oval - next a rod and then a cloud again.
Miss Rose stood up and stretched out her hands, and it surrounded her, buzzing so very loud, clearly now a group of thousands of individuals - a hivemind, literally.
“Make your choice, my Queen,” Miss Rose said authoritatively, once the cloud was around her head. She had no fear, only joy.
Hazel was shaking in terror, obviously wanting to flee but unwilling to give up her death grip on Sherlock. Her hands shook. She pulled his hair. A very fine line of blood swelled around the knife, and John was just about to pull the trigger. But then Hazel was enveloped by the cloud of honeybees. She screamed and swatted at them, and John didn't like being so close to them either, but he almost crumpled in relief as Lord Summerisle's sickle finally fell from Hazel's stung, swelling hand as she screamed and screamed, a horrible sound of agony and animal panic.
“Vatican cameos,” Sherlock said quietly, barely a vibration in his lightly bleeding throat, and John moved - suddenly, fluidly, dodging the sword blade and jerking his head up, driving his antlers into the groin and belly of the swordsman standing behind him.
There was a grunt of shock and pain and an attempt to grab the antlers, but then another cry of pain as Sherlock's bare foot lashed out and swiped into the swordsman's wrist. Hard. The blade dropped, John grabbed it and passed it, and in an instant, Sherlock was up off the ground with the sword in his hand - still more naked than not, white robe flying behind him like his coat. The sword flashed bright in his hand as another masked man came at him.
Sherlock knew how to use it - of course he did - and John just wanted to get into a defensive position where he wouldn't have to actually shoot anyone, and maybe get everyone subdued enough that he could pay attention to Hazel, whose hands and feet and probably the rest of her that he couldn't see, had swollen up appallingly. Her screams had stopped, and now she had stopped twitching, and lay so terribly still that the wounded swordsman now ran to her aid.
He pulled off her mask to check her breathing, and her dead swollen face lolled in the firelight on a limp neck. Martha Hazel Lithgow. Deathly allergic to bee stings, severe anaphylactic shock. Probably beyond emergency help. Does nobody in this crowd carry an epi-pen, John thought wildly. And would they have helped her if they did? Maybe not. The swordsman bent over her body with his sword held out, to defend her against all comers.
There was no real threat now - the other two men had given up and tried to slink away through the crowd.
But Lord Summerisle turned on that young man with a sword he'd grabbed from one of the others, roaring in rage, and chased him down until he had him backed up against the pedestal of kindling that supported the wicker man, a sharp blade pressed at his heart.
“Tell me why I shouldn't,” he bellowed. “Give me one good reason.”
“No,” said Miss Rose quietly, horrified.
“No!” yelled another woman from the crowd. “Don't, please don't!” Her voice was strained and cracked, but John thought it sounded familiar. Again. “I'll never forgive you. You'll never forgive yourself.”
Lord Summerisle suddenly, inexplicably, laughed. The fury seem to drain from him, and the nearly-speared prisoner dared to look up at his face in hope. “Ah, little Blossom,” Lord Summerisle said. “I could never break your heart like that. Or my own.”
It was the slim woman in the foxface mask, and as she ran towards them, she shed a pair of beekeeper's gloves.
“Why? How are you here?” asked the prisoner. She stepped up to him, right beside Lord Summerisle, and snatched off his mask. It was Branch Burns. The woman slapped him.
“What, a Summerisle girl can't come home for the holidays? Sing some songs, get laid, drink some mead, see the procession?” She laughed. Then she got angry again. “I'm here because my brother is an idiot, and my employer’s brother isn't!”
She stood there trembling and shaking her head, and laid her hand on Lord Summerisle's arm. “I'm sorry. No, I'm not sorry. I'm glad I came when I was called.”
Lord Summerisle looked at her fondly, and at Branch only slightly less so. “I'm glad you did too. It could have been so much worse.”
Miss Rose stepped up to them. “What will you do?” she asked.
“Bind him,” Lord Summerisle said. “For the time being. Then banish him for five years. He needs to see the world.”
Miss Rose sighed with relief. The big bearded man who'd worn the hobby horse stepped up.
John and Sherlock watched everything warily, back to back, protecting each other, gun and sword at the ready.
But there was an odd reverence and calm to the proceedings now.
Fox-mask - Blossom-- slinked back into the crowd. Miss Rose and Lord Summerisle allowed Branch to remove the mask from Hazel's dead face - Martha Lithgow, looking so different from that late afternoon at Baker Street. Branch kissed her forehead and her lips, and then stood aside in acceptance as the big dragon man gently carried her body up the wooden ladder and placed it inside the wicker man.
John started to protest - he wanted to examine her, make sure she was beyond help - but Sherlock grabbed his arm and stayed him.
The deep drums began to beat again slowly, and men came forward with flaming pitch torches, and set fire to the oil-covered base of the wicker man. The scent of burning wood and oil rose to the heavens as the flame took and heated and crackled.
John turned and smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back. “Well,” John said quietly. “That worked for you, right? Your plan?” He laughed a little. “Damn, you timed it all so well. Imagine if we'd actually had to have sex in front of all these people. I mean, we definitely need to talk about the fact that we would have done, but . . . “
Lord Summerisle and Miss Rose were now intently focused on John and Sherlock again. Lord Summerisle bowed his head slightly and said, “I do apologise for the interruption.”
“Let the sacred offering continue,” Miss Rose said. She took a white handkerchief from Lord Summerisle and dabbed gently at Sherlock's neck, wiping up a little streak of blood. It was only a shallow surface cut, nothing to worry about. But it still was a fearful reminder of a horrible possibility, narrowly averted.
The people of Summerisle were crowding in around for a better look.
The fox-masked woman stepped up to John and held out her hand.
“Give her your gun and your holster. We can trust her,” Sherlock said.
John read Sherlock's expression carefully, and then, reluctantly, did so.
“Take that gun away from here and keep it safe, Blossom. Give it back to Dr. Watson tomorrow,” Lord Summerisle said.
She shook her head. “I'll keep it safe, but I'm staying right here. I'm not going to miss this.”
Lord Summerisle chuckled. “Very well. So be it. That's my girl.”
Sherlock set his sword down on the ground and pressed up behind John, sliding his hands around John's waist and speaking low into his ear. “We have to finish what we started now.”
By reflex, John slid his hands behind him, up the outside of Sherlock's legs. “Oh, so your plan didn't work?”
“It worked almost perfectly,” Sherlock said, licking John's earlobe.
“It didn't get us out of having to do . . . this.”
“I never meant it to,” Sherlock admitted.
“Oh,” John said, surprisingly unsurprised. “So I still have to take your virginity in front of everyone.”
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said. “The interruption was just that, from a ritual point of view. We consented and agreed and we'd started; we can't renege now.”
John sank his head back against Sherlock's shoulder, and, for just a moment, submitted to the sensation of Sherlock's hands sliding down his waist, down his hips and legs, low enough to push up his kilt. Now Sherlock's hands were on his legs, pulling him close, and he could feel Sherlock's cock pressing into his sacrum.
Oh god oh god, had Sherlock been half-hard the whole time? John certainly had been.
The scents of Sherlock were amazing - the oils he'd been anointed with; forest scents like cedar and moss, undertones of musk, so mammalian and male; his natural sweat from the fight for their lives. God, yes. John turned around in Sherlock's arms so they were face to face, and he gripped Sherlock by the hair to pull him down for a kiss.
“You smell so good, John,” Sherlock said.
“I do?” John asked. “Really? Me?”
Sherlock folded down into his kiss - and oh, this one was so different, so hot and deep and wild. It went on and on. It had a rhythm. Their tongues lifted and rose and tasted each other. All of Summerisle was watching, and they just didn't care, licking the insides of each other's mouths with wild abandon.
John slid his hands down Sherlock's back under the robe until he reached the rich, plush arse he'd been admiring for too long, and claimed it with a possessive squeeze. Sherlock gasped, just a hint of a cry under his breath.
“You want this. You really do,” John said.
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“All right then,” John said, standing on his toes to murmur in Sherlock's ear. “Anything for you. Absolutely anything. You know that, don't you?”
“I . . .” Sherlock gave up on a reply to that and turned his head, lips parting for John to take. John throbbed his tongue slow and deep inside Sherlock's mouth, suggesting ways he was planning to move another part of him later, and Sherlock moaned softly, clutching at John's jumper and lifting the kilt, running his hand up the side of John's thigh and clasping his arse firmly, pressing his thigh against the scratchy wool of John's kilt.
“Off?' John whispered.
“I want to see you. I want to touch you all over, but . . .”
John bit at Sherlock's jaw impishly. “But I'd have to take the antlers off to get the jumper off. And you want me to keep them on, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You're keeping that crown too. Queen of the May.”
“Holly King,” Sherlock corrected as he went on his counterattack, grabbing John by the nape and nipping his throat.
“Both,” John moaned. “Oh god, that --”
He'd done enough to Sherlock by now that Sherlock had a good idea of behaviour to mirror and themes to improvise on. Sherlock bent him backwards and slid his hand across John's chest beneath the jumper, teasing nipples - oh god, when he splayed his hand wide he could almost touch both at once, why was that so hot? Looking into Sherlock's eyes John saw delight every time John moaned or shivered or pressed harder against him or responded in any way, and then he couldn't help but give himself over for a few moments, absorbing Sherlock's kisses and caresses into his skin to keep them forever.
Then John remembered that he was supposed to be leading this show, and he opened Sherlock's robe all the way, pressing against him, pulling back to look at him - beautiful, strong, and his to caress and touch, his to pleasure and tease. His responsibility to care for. Reverently he caressed Sherlock's chest and belly, bending to kiss him all over, spending extra time and tongue and teeth on each pink peak of nipple until Sherlock began to pant and writhe and tremble. John sank to his knees slowly as Sherlock bent down over him, trying to catch John's mouth for a kiss.
And then a tine of John's antlers got tangled in Sherlock's flower-and-holly crown. They laughed quietly, shoulders shaking as they untangled. “Careful now, don't stick me,” Sherlock muttered.
“I've got something better to stick you with,” John leered. Sherlock laughed. Once freed, John continued downward, trailing his lips and his nose down Sherlock's belly, pausing to lap at his navel, which made Sherlock twitch and squeak. Ticklish. Very important information there, John thought as he sank to his knees. From the grass he ran his hands slowly up and down the mesmerising length of Sherlock's legs, feeling the strength in them and the way they quivered now, mapping every inch and curve of ankle and shin and calf and knee and thigh. He buried his nose in the dark hair at Sherlock's groin and breathed deep the dusky animal scent of him, nuzzling teasingly at his blood-hot cock, long and thick and fully erect, slick head emerging from delicate skin.
“John, please,” Sherlock managed to breathe out.
“Pick up where I left off?” John said as he let his hot, heavy breath flow into the heat of Sherlock. He parted his lips and ran his tongue down the side of Sherlock's shaft, and heard a strangled, pleading sound above him. Wrapping a hand around it loosely, John mouthed gently at the head of it, flicking his tongue beneath and around and over the salt-flavoured slit, before taking mercy and enclosing Sherlock’s cock as far as he could, beginning to suck him slowly, increasing the pressure bit by bit. He moved both his hands to claim Sherlock's plush, obscenely round arse again, teasing the crease at the tops of his thighs, squeezing both cheeks and parting them slightly, worshipping him at back with his fingers and at the front with his mouth. He dared to gently work his fingertips down the cleft of Sherlock's arse, giving a teasing, testing brush against that tight, sensitive little pucker of muscle he'd be opening up like a gift soon enough . . .
Sherlock twitched and cried out and thrust his hips helplessly. John felt one of those beautiful hands petting his hair before taking hold of one of his antlers to guide him. Oh fuck that's hot, John thought, trying to show Sherlock he could use that as a handle all he wanted. He turned his eyes up to see that Sherlock's other hand was playing with his own nipple, and Sherlock's head was thrown back in unabashed abandonment, and the whole fucking village was watching him, and every fucking one of them, whether they were usually into men or not, was going to have to be going a little bit hard or wet or both at the sight, how could you not. . .
“John,” Sherlock said. “I have to - I can't - I might,”
“Mmm?” John asked, unwilling to take his mouth away.
“I . . . I can't stand up anymore. I'm going to fall if you keep that up, it's too good, god, you’re going to make me come that way.”
“We don't want that. Not yet,” John said fondly. He slowed his long pulls on Sherlock's cock before pulling off entirely and leaning back, making space for Sherlock to sink to his knees before him, and drew him close, kissing him again and again and feeling Sherlock sampling his own flavour in John's mouth. Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's shoulders and bent him backwards and John braced his hands on the ground as Sherlock stretched himself out and down, and pushed up John’s kilt past his waist, exposing him to the air.
At least one person in the crowd gave an appreciative cheer at the sight of John’s cock that was loud enough to be heard over the roar and crackle of the flames, the throbbing drumbeat, the rushing in John's head as Sherlock bent and took him in his mouth, playing back the movements John had made as he licked and sucked and hummed in pleasure, causing delicious vibrations.
God, he's brilliant, John thought - when I was sucking him I did all the things I like when someone's doing it to me and now he's doing that to me, and oh, all the buildup and tension and terror and adrenaline were doing something to him, building up a fire and tightness in his bollocks, which Sherlock was now caressing and cupping and rolling and stroking. “Stop!” John cried, pulling on Sherlock's hair. Sherlock jerked his head up quickly - fuck, those dilated eyes and slick, swollen lips of his.
“Did I do it wrong?” Sherlock looked almost hurt.
“No, fuck no,” John said, panting, closing his eyes. “It was too good. I was about to . . .” He caught his breath, barely. “. . . ruin everything.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said. His face flushed even further and his mouth quirked into a shy, proud smile as he looked down for a moment. He pressed a hand to John's chest and leaned away. “Then you should get your cock inside me as soon as possible.”
“Shouldn't rush,” John said. “The anticipation is important.”
“Do you think I haven't had enough anticipation?” Sherlock demanded. He lay back slowly on the grass, shrugging his robe from his shoulders to his elbows, spreading his legs to give everyone a lewd display. His cock was red and desperate, leaking a thick clear drop, his balls looked big and full, and his luscious little hole looked eager, if it could be said to have an emotion. John lunged over him on hands and knees, pure instinct, kissing him again, and Sherlock's legs encircled his waist.
“Guess so,” John gasped into Sherlock's mouth. “You want it this way? Might be easier if I'm behind you.”
“No. I want to see your face. Want you to see mine.”
“Okay, yes, um, that's . . . good. You could be on top, you could ride me, then you could have more control.”
Sherlock smiled, running his hands down John's back, hoisting up John's kilt to present his arse to all of Summerisle. “For once, I want you to be in control.”
“I want to record you saying that,” John said, softly biting Sherlock's shoulder. “Use it as my ringtone.”
“I would call you hundreds of times a day,” Sherlock said. “Get you too worked up to work.”
John laughed and closed his eyes, and did that imply that this might not be the only time he would get to . . . ? Was that too much to hope for? “You do that anyway,” John murmured and propped himself up on the ground with one hand as Sherlock took the other and guided it down between his thighs, letting John grasp teasingly at this cock and balls, moaning as John's fingers caressed his perineum, and enjoying the look on his face when John touched his entrance again, with more pressure and intent, the pad of his finger indenting him.
Sherlock scrabbled above his head for the little bottle of lube, found it without looking, and laid it down beside them.
“It's okay if you don't like this,” John said. “Some people don't, you better tell me if you want to stop, all right?” When he applied more pressure he froze for a moment. Sherlock wasn't as tight as he'd expected, already a little slick and loose at his rim, and - oh god, had he?
Sherlock slicked his fingers and seductively slid his hand down beside John's. John gasped as Sherlock quickly jammed two of his long, longer fingers into himself, deep, to his second bony knuckle, thrusting and teasing. “Willow . . . had a lot of helpful suggestions,” Sherlock said, his voice deep and low and insinuating. “How to prepare. How to . . . practise.” That last sound was a delicious hiss.
“Oh God,” John moaned as mental images battered him.
“You've done it before, haven't you?” Sherlock said, almost accusingly. “With women.”
“Yeah, it's a body part that doesn't change much,” John said.
“But I have a prostate gland,” said Sherlock - proudly, like it was an accomplishment.
“Oh yes you do,” John said and pushed, wriggling. Sherlock threw his head back and moaned and that sound went straight to John's core, where he was nearly humping the air as he knelt over Sherlock. Sherlock filled his hand with more lube and wrapped it around John's cock with a filthy squelching sound.
“Fuck. Me. Now.” Sherlock pulled his other hand free of his arse and grasped John's hip hard under the kilt. Imperious, demanding, irresistible.
John sank down, spreading his knees to align with Sherlock, who lay spread out and wanton on white robe and green grass. Taking himself in hand he teased Sherlock's sensitive hole with his cockhead for a moment before the first careful, gentle push.
Sherlock moaned again, a hoarse and breathy quality to this one. John felt his legs tighten around him as he leaned in, feeling the muscle part slowly to accept him - slowly, so slowly, closing his eyes for a second to calm down from the clenching grip of it, then opening them again to see Sherlock arch his back off the ground in his eagerness, grey eyes gone dark and desperate, muscles straining. “John,” he cried, drawing the one syllable out and making it sing.
John thrust further and Sherlock bucked his hips up to meet him, taking him deeper. “Oh, fuck, fuck, Sherlock, you feel incredible, that's amazing, you . . .” God. The sky and the sea and the smoke - the smell of burning meat, for fuck's sake, and he hoped it was just the animals he was smelling - the drumbeats, the singing, the whole village watching his arse and thighs moving as he began to move with slow, rocking thrusts, encouraged by Sherlock's cries. Taking him, fuck, he'd done it, they were doing it, Sherlock isn't a virgin anymore, and Sherlock was blissed out, lightly sheened in sweat, savouring every second of his new status in life. He was tightening his legs and clenching his arse with deliberate purpose, drawing John into him harder, deeper, making John gasp and moan his name.
Who's really in charge here? John wondered and then didn't wonder anymore as Sherlock bore down and canted his hips up, taking John in balls-deep and shaking in ecstasy. “More,” he said, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “I can take it. Thrust upward just a little - oh.”
“There - that it, that's the spot?” John growled through gritted teeth as he gave it to Sherlock good and hard.
“Yes - yes. Oh, oh, stop.”
“Fuck.” John stopped. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Sherlock said, suddenly keen-eyed and alert. “Change positions. Get behind me. Let them see me.”
“Oh . . . okay,” John said, pulling out slowly and reluctantly, chuckling a little as Sherlock pulled him back in for a moment, then gasped as the head of John's cock tugged his rim a little on the way out. He kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose, impulsively. Sherlock shrugged the robe the rest of the way off his arms and down on the ground.
They rearranged themselves on their knees, John behind Sherlock, Sherlock sinking slowly back against John's thighs until John was deep inside him again. That accursed height difference - John couldn't see anything but Sherlock's back, but that was alright, he didn't need to. Closing his eyes, he felt his way around Sherlock's body as Sherlock moved up and down on him, pinching his nipples hard to hear a high-pitched cry, taking Sherlock's cock in his hand and pumping in counterpoint to each thrust inside. Sherlock's weight kept the strokes fast and tight and sharp, and soon Sherlock was panting hard, his body tightening, every muscle in his long back and lean hips straining and going taut. He jerked and twitched so hard, with a sharp shout, and it was all John could do to hold onto Sherlock as he came, shaking and nearly sobbing. Creamy wet heat spattered his hand as Sherlock convulsed for a shockingly long time, digging his nails into the side of John's thigh. John couldn't see, but the Summerislanders could, and he could feel and hear and, oh god, smell him.
John wrapped both arms around Sherlock's waist and clutched him tight, fucking him with quick, ruthless strokes until the knot of pleasure deep in him burst and spread, and he filled Sherlock up with it - moaning his name, burying his face between Sherlock's shoulderblades, biting one of them hard.
“Oh, oh, wow,” was all John had to say as they came down from such cosmic heights.
Sherlock lay back against John's chest and slithered downward to the ground, sweaty and shaking and clutching at John's legs with a death grip.
“Good?” John asked, pressing kisses along the side of Sherlock’s wet face. “You all right?”
“So good,” Sherlock whispered. “Extraordinary. Amazing. Brilliant.”
“Mmmm, I know you are but what am I?” John teased, nuzzling him and holding him with a fierce protectiveness. Sherlock might be lying limp and vulnerable and completely on display, but John had him now, and would never let him go.
“Exemplary,” said Miss Rose, stepping forward and smiling. She moved carefully and slowly, reading John's possessiveness in his face, careful not to spook him. With an oddly clinical sort of tenderness, she pulled out the handkerchief that had a little stain of Sherlock's blood, and with it, she wiped a single drop of semen from the head of his cock. Then she moved fast with a little silver knife, and took just one curl of his hair, and wrapped it up. Still smiling fondly, she backed away. And she tossed the little bundle onto the pyre at the base of the creaking, sinking effigy. “Part of you will always be with us now, Sherlock Holmes. You're always welcome to return.”
“Charming,” Sherlock muttered, laughing giddily. Their giggles were nearly lost in the sound of the roaring flames as the wicker man began to crack and bend and bow its flaming head against the setting sun. The crowd was singing as one, a merry song:
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing, cuccu;
Groweth sed
and bloweth med,
And springth the wode nu;
Sing, cuccu!
Entire Story on AO3
Chapter 1 on LJ
Chapter 2 on LJ
Chapter 3 on LJ
Chapter 4 on LJ
Chapter 5 on LJ
Fandoms: Sherlock/The Wicker Man (1973)
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Other Characters: Lord Summerisle, Miss Rose, Willow MacGregor, Alder MacGregor, Mr. Lennox, The Librarian, other Summerisle villagers and OCs
Rating: NC-17/explicit
Summary:
“Mr Holmes, I'm not in the habit of approaching . . . consultants. But you are correct. I have great faith in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. And until recently, I also had faith in the rule of law. Only the second one has wavered. Three years ago my fiancé, Sgt. Neil Howie of the West Highlands Constabulary, went to investigate an anonymous report of a missing child in a remote place called Summerisle. He never communicated with me while he was there, and he never returned.”
Summerisle is not a welcoming place to visitors, but it shows its best face at May Day. For ulterior motives.
Chapter 6, Sumer is Icumen In
Summerislanders will be talking about this one for decades.
“You'd kill me that way - and defile the rite?” said this masked woman called Hazel.
“No more than you already have,” said Miss Rose, sidling forward.
John was unwilling to move his eyes even a little from Hazel, and from Sherlock in her grip, but the hair on the back of his neck was rising. Miss Rose's voice, from behind and close above him - did not sound natural. Or rather, it did. Terrifyingly natural. And it resonated like not one woman's voice, but many.
“Then I might as well kill him, and be killed,” Hazel said. God, her voice was familiar. John looked into her cold, compassionless eyes through the mask, and then he remembered.
Oh God, he thought, we really walked right into this one. He risked a half-glance at Sherlock, who seemed as calm as any man can be when he's just had his very first blowjob interrupted by a madwoman with a knife and murder on her mind.
Her wrist holding the sickle twitched, and Sherlock gave a quick little gasp. John's finger tightened on the trigger. Thoughts rocketed through his mind while he stayed deadly still and his body felt steady, stable, almost calm. Was this how Sherlock felt in the grip of a deduction?
If I shot at this range, I wouldn’t miss, John thought. But a fatal head shot causes convulsions. One twitch in her hand could jerk the blade through Sherlock’s jugular vein and/or carotid artery, or even just his trachea or larynx. A remote chance, but possible. And to cause her violent death in front of witnesses, definitely trouble. Death by gunshot probably not ritually-approved. What would happen then? Not sure.
Hope to distract her then. Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John, wide and frightened. Not who he should be watching so closely. He should be studying Hazel for the slightest hint of a chance to escape.
Miss Rose stepped forward, and her face was fearful to look upon. “That is not the sacrifice She desires this night. You would ruin it all for your pride. The pride of a traitor with a false name and a selfish plan.”
“My pride?” Hazel cried bitterly. “My pride. I gave up my pride two years ago, when I came here and fell on my knees before the Old Gods and confessed I had been fooled by a false faith all my life. I gave up my pride when I realized that my love died nobly and for the best of reasons.”
“He died screaming and cursing us all,” Miss Rose said coldly. “His curse had no effect. He was weak.”
“I am not weak,” Hazel said feverishly. “You have become weak and soft - you offer this watered-down sacrifice, all pleasure and no pain, all seed and no blood. Lord Summerisle has gone soft-hearted. A change must come. The gods will laugh at you before they smite you and starve you. I will see this done the right way. And a new age will come. I hear what the gods command, and I will give it to them. And I don't stand alone, and I will take your place.”
“You betrayed your own god. Why should ours trust you?” said Miss Rose.
“Howie died because he was a fool, in every sense of the word. Holmes will survive because he is clever,” Lord Summerisle said. “And because he is loved.”
“Howie was loved,” Hazel cried.
“Was he? Really?” Miss Rose said, coolly.
Why was Lord Summerisle being so useless? John wondered. The man had power, why wasn't he using it? Was he waiting to see how this would play out? He did seem to believe in fate, after all.
Lord Summerisle seemed unable to take his gaze from Miss Rose. The way she carried herself now was unlike any way John had seen her before. She was more than regal - in her anger, she was royal.
John could see that Hazel was trembling at Miss Rose's words, and occasionally glancing back at John, and her hands shook and her arms tightened. There was a thin red line on Sherlock's throat - just a pressure line, no blood yet, but John was watching in increasing terror. Hazel still showed no signs of releasing him.
John might really have to do it then, take the risk. His gun hand held steady. He hated the thought of it, she was obviously ill. But no one, nothing, not on this earth or outside of it, was going to take Sherlock away from him again. Not after what they'd already been through. Not after John had had a brief taste of his heart's desire.
Sherlock's sharp grey eyes moved. He hadn't been staring at John at all. He'd been staring behind him.
In the crowd around then was a sound of clinking, some muttering, a scuffle, and John saw them out of the corner of his eye - the masked swordsmen, moving into position. Not all of them. Three, not six.
Immobile as he was, all John could do was wait until the felt the pressure of a blade against his neck.
Well shit, he thought.
“Just so you know,” John said quietly, defiantly. “I'm definitely not a virgin.”
He probably couldn't strike off my head with one blow, John thought wildly, not at that angle, that only works in the movies. And on 'Highlander.' A strong man could strike deep enough to cause fatal bleeding or paralysis on the first blow and death on the next, though.
“Drop the gun, Dr. Watson,” said the voice behind him.
“Why would I do that? You're going to kill us anyway.”
Sherlock was really looking at John now, trying to communicate something with his eyes. He made the smallest gesture with his hand, tried in vain to tilt his head.
He heard something. Listen. John stilled the rush of his breath and blood and thoughts for just a second, and then he heard it too.
Miss Rose lifted her eyes up to the sky, acknowledging the sound they'd all been hearing - a deep, multivoiced buzz. It would be ambient noise in London - traffic, trains, busses - but here, it was a new sound, and it was growing louder. With her multivoiced voice, Miss Rose cried out in delight: “She comes! The Queen of the orchards and her thousand daughters! Be still! She comes!”
It happened as quick as anything. A brown, clustered mass was rising up over the craggy hill and flying low over the gathered crowd.
It changed shape. First it was a blob and then an oval - next a rod and then a cloud again.
Miss Rose stood up and stretched out her hands, and it surrounded her, buzzing so very loud, clearly now a group of thousands of individuals - a hivemind, literally.
“Make your choice, my Queen,” Miss Rose said authoritatively, once the cloud was around her head. She had no fear, only joy.
Hazel was shaking in terror, obviously wanting to flee but unwilling to give up her death grip on Sherlock. Her hands shook. She pulled his hair. A very fine line of blood swelled around the knife, and John was just about to pull the trigger. But then Hazel was enveloped by the cloud of honeybees. She screamed and swatted at them, and John didn't like being so close to them either, but he almost crumpled in relief as Lord Summerisle's sickle finally fell from Hazel's stung, swelling hand as she screamed and screamed, a horrible sound of agony and animal panic.
“Vatican cameos,” Sherlock said quietly, barely a vibration in his lightly bleeding throat, and John moved - suddenly, fluidly, dodging the sword blade and jerking his head up, driving his antlers into the groin and belly of the swordsman standing behind him.
There was a grunt of shock and pain and an attempt to grab the antlers, but then another cry of pain as Sherlock's bare foot lashed out and swiped into the swordsman's wrist. Hard. The blade dropped, John grabbed it and passed it, and in an instant, Sherlock was up off the ground with the sword in his hand - still more naked than not, white robe flying behind him like his coat. The sword flashed bright in his hand as another masked man came at him.
Sherlock knew how to use it - of course he did - and John just wanted to get into a defensive position where he wouldn't have to actually shoot anyone, and maybe get everyone subdued enough that he could pay attention to Hazel, whose hands and feet and probably the rest of her that he couldn't see, had swollen up appallingly. Her screams had stopped, and now she had stopped twitching, and lay so terribly still that the wounded swordsman now ran to her aid.
He pulled off her mask to check her breathing, and her dead swollen face lolled in the firelight on a limp neck. Martha Hazel Lithgow. Deathly allergic to bee stings, severe anaphylactic shock. Probably beyond emergency help. Does nobody in this crowd carry an epi-pen, John thought wildly. And would they have helped her if they did? Maybe not. The swordsman bent over her body with his sword held out, to defend her against all comers.
There was no real threat now - the other two men had given up and tried to slink away through the crowd.
But Lord Summerisle turned on that young man with a sword he'd grabbed from one of the others, roaring in rage, and chased him down until he had him backed up against the pedestal of kindling that supported the wicker man, a sharp blade pressed at his heart.
“Tell me why I shouldn't,” he bellowed. “Give me one good reason.”
“No,” said Miss Rose quietly, horrified.
“No!” yelled another woman from the crowd. “Don't, please don't!” Her voice was strained and cracked, but John thought it sounded familiar. Again. “I'll never forgive you. You'll never forgive yourself.”
Lord Summerisle suddenly, inexplicably, laughed. The fury seem to drain from him, and the nearly-speared prisoner dared to look up at his face in hope. “Ah, little Blossom,” Lord Summerisle said. “I could never break your heart like that. Or my own.”
It was the slim woman in the foxface mask, and as she ran towards them, she shed a pair of beekeeper's gloves.
“Why? How are you here?” asked the prisoner. She stepped up to him, right beside Lord Summerisle, and snatched off his mask. It was Branch Burns. The woman slapped him.
“What, a Summerisle girl can't come home for the holidays? Sing some songs, get laid, drink some mead, see the procession?” She laughed. Then she got angry again. “I'm here because my brother is an idiot, and my employer’s brother isn't!”
She stood there trembling and shaking her head, and laid her hand on Lord Summerisle's arm. “I'm sorry. No, I'm not sorry. I'm glad I came when I was called.”
Lord Summerisle looked at her fondly, and at Branch only slightly less so. “I'm glad you did too. It could have been so much worse.”
Miss Rose stepped up to them. “What will you do?” she asked.
“Bind him,” Lord Summerisle said. “For the time being. Then banish him for five years. He needs to see the world.”
Miss Rose sighed with relief. The big bearded man who'd worn the hobby horse stepped up.
John and Sherlock watched everything warily, back to back, protecting each other, gun and sword at the ready.
But there was an odd reverence and calm to the proceedings now.
Fox-mask - Blossom-- slinked back into the crowd. Miss Rose and Lord Summerisle allowed Branch to remove the mask from Hazel's dead face - Martha Lithgow, looking so different from that late afternoon at Baker Street. Branch kissed her forehead and her lips, and then stood aside in acceptance as the big dragon man gently carried her body up the wooden ladder and placed it inside the wicker man.
John started to protest - he wanted to examine her, make sure she was beyond help - but Sherlock grabbed his arm and stayed him.
The deep drums began to beat again slowly, and men came forward with flaming pitch torches, and set fire to the oil-covered base of the wicker man. The scent of burning wood and oil rose to the heavens as the flame took and heated and crackled.
John turned and smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back. “Well,” John said quietly. “That worked for you, right? Your plan?” He laughed a little. “Damn, you timed it all so well. Imagine if we'd actually had to have sex in front of all these people. I mean, we definitely need to talk about the fact that we would have done, but . . . “
Lord Summerisle and Miss Rose were now intently focused on John and Sherlock again. Lord Summerisle bowed his head slightly and said, “I do apologise for the interruption.”
“Let the sacred offering continue,” Miss Rose said. She took a white handkerchief from Lord Summerisle and dabbed gently at Sherlock's neck, wiping up a little streak of blood. It was only a shallow surface cut, nothing to worry about. But it still was a fearful reminder of a horrible possibility, narrowly averted.
The people of Summerisle were crowding in around for a better look.
The fox-masked woman stepped up to John and held out her hand.
“Give her your gun and your holster. We can trust her,” Sherlock said.
John read Sherlock's expression carefully, and then, reluctantly, did so.
“Take that gun away from here and keep it safe, Blossom. Give it back to Dr. Watson tomorrow,” Lord Summerisle said.
She shook her head. “I'll keep it safe, but I'm staying right here. I'm not going to miss this.”
Lord Summerisle chuckled. “Very well. So be it. That's my girl.”
Sherlock set his sword down on the ground and pressed up behind John, sliding his hands around John's waist and speaking low into his ear. “We have to finish what we started now.”
By reflex, John slid his hands behind him, up the outside of Sherlock's legs. “Oh, so your plan didn't work?”
“It worked almost perfectly,” Sherlock said, licking John's earlobe.
“It didn't get us out of having to do . . . this.”
“I never meant it to,” Sherlock admitted.
“Oh,” John said, surprisingly unsurprised. “So I still have to take your virginity in front of everyone.”
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said. “The interruption was just that, from a ritual point of view. We consented and agreed and we'd started; we can't renege now.”
John sank his head back against Sherlock's shoulder, and, for just a moment, submitted to the sensation of Sherlock's hands sliding down his waist, down his hips and legs, low enough to push up his kilt. Now Sherlock's hands were on his legs, pulling him close, and he could feel Sherlock's cock pressing into his sacrum.
Oh god oh god, had Sherlock been half-hard the whole time? John certainly had been.
The scents of Sherlock were amazing - the oils he'd been anointed with; forest scents like cedar and moss, undertones of musk, so mammalian and male; his natural sweat from the fight for their lives. God, yes. John turned around in Sherlock's arms so they were face to face, and he gripped Sherlock by the hair to pull him down for a kiss.
“You smell so good, John,” Sherlock said.
“I do?” John asked. “Really? Me?”
Sherlock folded down into his kiss - and oh, this one was so different, so hot and deep and wild. It went on and on. It had a rhythm. Their tongues lifted and rose and tasted each other. All of Summerisle was watching, and they just didn't care, licking the insides of each other's mouths with wild abandon.
John slid his hands down Sherlock's back under the robe until he reached the rich, plush arse he'd been admiring for too long, and claimed it with a possessive squeeze. Sherlock gasped, just a hint of a cry under his breath.
“You want this. You really do,” John said.
“Yes,” Sherlock said.
“All right then,” John said, standing on his toes to murmur in Sherlock's ear. “Anything for you. Absolutely anything. You know that, don't you?”
“I . . .” Sherlock gave up on a reply to that and turned his head, lips parting for John to take. John throbbed his tongue slow and deep inside Sherlock's mouth, suggesting ways he was planning to move another part of him later, and Sherlock moaned softly, clutching at John's jumper and lifting the kilt, running his hand up the side of John's thigh and clasping his arse firmly, pressing his thigh against the scratchy wool of John's kilt.
“Off?' John whispered.
“I want to see you. I want to touch you all over, but . . .”
John bit at Sherlock's jaw impishly. “But I'd have to take the antlers off to get the jumper off. And you want me to keep them on, don't you?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You're keeping that crown too. Queen of the May.”
“Holly King,” Sherlock corrected as he went on his counterattack, grabbing John by the nape and nipping his throat.
“Both,” John moaned. “Oh god, that --”
He'd done enough to Sherlock by now that Sherlock had a good idea of behaviour to mirror and themes to improvise on. Sherlock bent him backwards and slid his hand across John's chest beneath the jumper, teasing nipples - oh god, when he splayed his hand wide he could almost touch both at once, why was that so hot? Looking into Sherlock's eyes John saw delight every time John moaned or shivered or pressed harder against him or responded in any way, and then he couldn't help but give himself over for a few moments, absorbing Sherlock's kisses and caresses into his skin to keep them forever.
Then John remembered that he was supposed to be leading this show, and he opened Sherlock's robe all the way, pressing against him, pulling back to look at him - beautiful, strong, and his to caress and touch, his to pleasure and tease. His responsibility to care for. Reverently he caressed Sherlock's chest and belly, bending to kiss him all over, spending extra time and tongue and teeth on each pink peak of nipple until Sherlock began to pant and writhe and tremble. John sank to his knees slowly as Sherlock bent down over him, trying to catch John's mouth for a kiss.
And then a tine of John's antlers got tangled in Sherlock's flower-and-holly crown. They laughed quietly, shoulders shaking as they untangled. “Careful now, don't stick me,” Sherlock muttered.
“I've got something better to stick you with,” John leered. Sherlock laughed. Once freed, John continued downward, trailing his lips and his nose down Sherlock's belly, pausing to lap at his navel, which made Sherlock twitch and squeak. Ticklish. Very important information there, John thought as he sank to his knees. From the grass he ran his hands slowly up and down the mesmerising length of Sherlock's legs, feeling the strength in them and the way they quivered now, mapping every inch and curve of ankle and shin and calf and knee and thigh. He buried his nose in the dark hair at Sherlock's groin and breathed deep the dusky animal scent of him, nuzzling teasingly at his blood-hot cock, long and thick and fully erect, slick head emerging from delicate skin.
“John, please,” Sherlock managed to breathe out.
“Pick up where I left off?” John said as he let his hot, heavy breath flow into the heat of Sherlock. He parted his lips and ran his tongue down the side of Sherlock's shaft, and heard a strangled, pleading sound above him. Wrapping a hand around it loosely, John mouthed gently at the head of it, flicking his tongue beneath and around and over the salt-flavoured slit, before taking mercy and enclosing Sherlock’s cock as far as he could, beginning to suck him slowly, increasing the pressure bit by bit. He moved both his hands to claim Sherlock's plush, obscenely round arse again, teasing the crease at the tops of his thighs, squeezing both cheeks and parting them slightly, worshipping him at back with his fingers and at the front with his mouth. He dared to gently work his fingertips down the cleft of Sherlock's arse, giving a teasing, testing brush against that tight, sensitive little pucker of muscle he'd be opening up like a gift soon enough . . .
Sherlock twitched and cried out and thrust his hips helplessly. John felt one of those beautiful hands petting his hair before taking hold of one of his antlers to guide him. Oh fuck that's hot, John thought, trying to show Sherlock he could use that as a handle all he wanted. He turned his eyes up to see that Sherlock's other hand was playing with his own nipple, and Sherlock's head was thrown back in unabashed abandonment, and the whole fucking village was watching him, and every fucking one of them, whether they were usually into men or not, was going to have to be going a little bit hard or wet or both at the sight, how could you not. . .
“John,” Sherlock said. “I have to - I can't - I might,”
“Mmm?” John asked, unwilling to take his mouth away.
“I . . . I can't stand up anymore. I'm going to fall if you keep that up, it's too good, god, you’re going to make me come that way.”
“We don't want that. Not yet,” John said fondly. He slowed his long pulls on Sherlock's cock before pulling off entirely and leaning back, making space for Sherlock to sink to his knees before him, and drew him close, kissing him again and again and feeling Sherlock sampling his own flavour in John's mouth. Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's shoulders and bent him backwards and John braced his hands on the ground as Sherlock stretched himself out and down, and pushed up John’s kilt past his waist, exposing him to the air.
At least one person in the crowd gave an appreciative cheer at the sight of John’s cock that was loud enough to be heard over the roar and crackle of the flames, the throbbing drumbeat, the rushing in John's head as Sherlock bent and took him in his mouth, playing back the movements John had made as he licked and sucked and hummed in pleasure, causing delicious vibrations.
God, he's brilliant, John thought - when I was sucking him I did all the things I like when someone's doing it to me and now he's doing that to me, and oh, all the buildup and tension and terror and adrenaline were doing something to him, building up a fire and tightness in his bollocks, which Sherlock was now caressing and cupping and rolling and stroking. “Stop!” John cried, pulling on Sherlock's hair. Sherlock jerked his head up quickly - fuck, those dilated eyes and slick, swollen lips of his.
“Did I do it wrong?” Sherlock looked almost hurt.
“No, fuck no,” John said, panting, closing his eyes. “It was too good. I was about to . . .” He caught his breath, barely. “. . . ruin everything.”
“Oh,” Sherlock said. His face flushed even further and his mouth quirked into a shy, proud smile as he looked down for a moment. He pressed a hand to John's chest and leaned away. “Then you should get your cock inside me as soon as possible.”
“Shouldn't rush,” John said. “The anticipation is important.”
“Do you think I haven't had enough anticipation?” Sherlock demanded. He lay back slowly on the grass, shrugging his robe from his shoulders to his elbows, spreading his legs to give everyone a lewd display. His cock was red and desperate, leaking a thick clear drop, his balls looked big and full, and his luscious little hole looked eager, if it could be said to have an emotion. John lunged over him on hands and knees, pure instinct, kissing him again, and Sherlock's legs encircled his waist.
“Guess so,” John gasped into Sherlock's mouth. “You want it this way? Might be easier if I'm behind you.”
“No. I want to see your face. Want you to see mine.”
“Okay, yes, um, that's . . . good. You could be on top, you could ride me, then you could have more control.”
Sherlock smiled, running his hands down John's back, hoisting up John's kilt to present his arse to all of Summerisle. “For once, I want you to be in control.”
“I want to record you saying that,” John said, softly biting Sherlock's shoulder. “Use it as my ringtone.”
“I would call you hundreds of times a day,” Sherlock said. “Get you too worked up to work.”
John laughed and closed his eyes, and did that imply that this might not be the only time he would get to . . . ? Was that too much to hope for? “You do that anyway,” John murmured and propped himself up on the ground with one hand as Sherlock took the other and guided it down between his thighs, letting John grasp teasingly at this cock and balls, moaning as John's fingers caressed his perineum, and enjoying the look on his face when John touched his entrance again, with more pressure and intent, the pad of his finger indenting him.
Sherlock scrabbled above his head for the little bottle of lube, found it without looking, and laid it down beside them.
“It's okay if you don't like this,” John said. “Some people don't, you better tell me if you want to stop, all right?” When he applied more pressure he froze for a moment. Sherlock wasn't as tight as he'd expected, already a little slick and loose at his rim, and - oh god, had he?
Sherlock slicked his fingers and seductively slid his hand down beside John's. John gasped as Sherlock quickly jammed two of his long, longer fingers into himself, deep, to his second bony knuckle, thrusting and teasing. “Willow . . . had a lot of helpful suggestions,” Sherlock said, his voice deep and low and insinuating. “How to prepare. How to . . . practise.” That last sound was a delicious hiss.
“Oh God,” John moaned as mental images battered him.
“You've done it before, haven't you?” Sherlock said, almost accusingly. “With women.”
“Yeah, it's a body part that doesn't change much,” John said.
“But I have a prostate gland,” said Sherlock - proudly, like it was an accomplishment.
“Oh yes you do,” John said and pushed, wriggling. Sherlock threw his head back and moaned and that sound went straight to John's core, where he was nearly humping the air as he knelt over Sherlock. Sherlock filled his hand with more lube and wrapped it around John's cock with a filthy squelching sound.
“Fuck. Me. Now.” Sherlock pulled his other hand free of his arse and grasped John's hip hard under the kilt. Imperious, demanding, irresistible.
John sank down, spreading his knees to align with Sherlock, who lay spread out and wanton on white robe and green grass. Taking himself in hand he teased Sherlock's sensitive hole with his cockhead for a moment before the first careful, gentle push.
Sherlock moaned again, a hoarse and breathy quality to this one. John felt his legs tighten around him as he leaned in, feeling the muscle part slowly to accept him - slowly, so slowly, closing his eyes for a second to calm down from the clenching grip of it, then opening them again to see Sherlock arch his back off the ground in his eagerness, grey eyes gone dark and desperate, muscles straining. “John,” he cried, drawing the one syllable out and making it sing.
John thrust further and Sherlock bucked his hips up to meet him, taking him deeper. “Oh, fuck, fuck, Sherlock, you feel incredible, that's amazing, you . . .” God. The sky and the sea and the smoke - the smell of burning meat, for fuck's sake, and he hoped it was just the animals he was smelling - the drumbeats, the singing, the whole village watching his arse and thighs moving as he began to move with slow, rocking thrusts, encouraged by Sherlock's cries. Taking him, fuck, he'd done it, they were doing it, Sherlock isn't a virgin anymore, and Sherlock was blissed out, lightly sheened in sweat, savouring every second of his new status in life. He was tightening his legs and clenching his arse with deliberate purpose, drawing John into him harder, deeper, making John gasp and moan his name.
Who's really in charge here? John wondered and then didn't wonder anymore as Sherlock bore down and canted his hips up, taking John in balls-deep and shaking in ecstasy. “More,” he said, his voice hoarse and wrecked. “I can take it. Thrust upward just a little - oh.”
“There - that it, that's the spot?” John growled through gritted teeth as he gave it to Sherlock good and hard.
“Yes - yes. Oh, oh, stop.”
“Fuck.” John stopped. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Sherlock said, suddenly keen-eyed and alert. “Change positions. Get behind me. Let them see me.”
“Oh . . . okay,” John said, pulling out slowly and reluctantly, chuckling a little as Sherlock pulled him back in for a moment, then gasped as the head of John's cock tugged his rim a little on the way out. He kissed the tip of Sherlock's nose, impulsively. Sherlock shrugged the robe the rest of the way off his arms and down on the ground.
They rearranged themselves on their knees, John behind Sherlock, Sherlock sinking slowly back against John's thighs until John was deep inside him again. That accursed height difference - John couldn't see anything but Sherlock's back, but that was alright, he didn't need to. Closing his eyes, he felt his way around Sherlock's body as Sherlock moved up and down on him, pinching his nipples hard to hear a high-pitched cry, taking Sherlock's cock in his hand and pumping in counterpoint to each thrust inside. Sherlock's weight kept the strokes fast and tight and sharp, and soon Sherlock was panting hard, his body tightening, every muscle in his long back and lean hips straining and going taut. He jerked and twitched so hard, with a sharp shout, and it was all John could do to hold onto Sherlock as he came, shaking and nearly sobbing. Creamy wet heat spattered his hand as Sherlock convulsed for a shockingly long time, digging his nails into the side of John's thigh. John couldn't see, but the Summerislanders could, and he could feel and hear and, oh god, smell him.
John wrapped both arms around Sherlock's waist and clutched him tight, fucking him with quick, ruthless strokes until the knot of pleasure deep in him burst and spread, and he filled Sherlock up with it - moaning his name, burying his face between Sherlock's shoulderblades, biting one of them hard.
“Oh, oh, wow,” was all John had to say as they came down from such cosmic heights.
Sherlock lay back against John's chest and slithered downward to the ground, sweaty and shaking and clutching at John's legs with a death grip.
“Good?” John asked, pressing kisses along the side of Sherlock’s wet face. “You all right?”
“So good,” Sherlock whispered. “Extraordinary. Amazing. Brilliant.”
“Mmmm, I know you are but what am I?” John teased, nuzzling him and holding him with a fierce protectiveness. Sherlock might be lying limp and vulnerable and completely on display, but John had him now, and would never let him go.
“Exemplary,” said Miss Rose, stepping forward and smiling. She moved carefully and slowly, reading John's possessiveness in his face, careful not to spook him. With an oddly clinical sort of tenderness, she pulled out the handkerchief that had a little stain of Sherlock's blood, and with it, she wiped a single drop of semen from the head of his cock. Then she moved fast with a little silver knife, and took just one curl of his hair, and wrapped it up. Still smiling fondly, she backed away. And she tossed the little bundle onto the pyre at the base of the creaking, sinking effigy. “Part of you will always be with us now, Sherlock Holmes. You're always welcome to return.”
“Charming,” Sherlock muttered, laughing giddily. Their giggles were nearly lost in the sound of the roaring flames as the wicker man began to crack and bend and bow its flaming head against the setting sun. The crowd was singing as one, a merry song:
Sumer is icumen in,
Lhude sing, cuccu;
Groweth sed
and bloweth med,
And springth the wode nu;
Sing, cuccu!
Entire Story on AO3
Chapter 1 on LJ
Chapter 2 on LJ
Chapter 3 on LJ
Chapter 4 on LJ
Chapter 5 on LJ