Bone Fiddle-verse 221B series: "Setting the Tone" (all 5 parts)
Welp, the rating on the Bone-Fiddle-verse drabble collection at AO3 was already Mature, but it's going up!
A continuation of the "Setting the Tone" series of 221B drabbles - around midnight at New Year's Eve, 1973/74. Dedicated to write_out.
Original post of Part 1 is here, but I'm reposting it here for the sake of continuity and easy readability.
I wanted to do a PWP in serial-221B format in five parts, to see if I could get away without it seeming too stilted and stylized. Readers be the judge.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Explicit
Content notes: Appalachian traditions, New Year's Eve, rimming, anal sex, competency kink, display of a firearm, distant explosions.
“John, what are you doing? It’s freezing.”
“Put more wood on the fire then,” John shouted down the stairs. “And don’t close that door. We’ve gotta let all the bad luck out!”
Sherlock stood at the bottom wearing that venomous expression he got when he was personally offended by someone’s stupidity. John turned his back on it and went to open windows in the upstairs bathroom and the dusty bedroom they never used. If Sherlock closed them downstairs, there’d be hell to pay.
Instead, John heard stalking, stomping footsteps behind him as he went to the bedroom they did use (very well). As John hoisted the old wooden windows open, a blast of frigid mountain wind howled in. “New Years Eve, Sherlock. Tradition. We’re having ham and cabbage and greens and black-eyed peas tomorrow too, because that symbolizes money, and Mrs. Hudson will probably put silver in the cabbage, so mind you don’t swallow it.”
“Tradition--” Sherlock said, about to launch into a diatribe.
“Hush,” John said. “You’ll like this one. What you’re doin’ at midnight, you’ll be doin’ all the rest of the year.”
Sherlock looked mutinous.
John looked at the clock and grinned. “You know what I wanna do all year. So take off your clothes and get in bed.”
***
“It’s too cold for this, John,” Sherlock said, shivering and naked with the quilt around his shoulders.
“Yeah?” John asked as he stripped slowly, refusing to cringe from the chill, watching the movements of Sherlock’s eyes down his body. “Really?” He crawled under the covers and ran his hands over Sherlock’s legs. “You sure?” He lay down on his back.
“Still think so,” Sherlock said as he slowly crept over John, bringing blankets with him to tent over them both.
“Even if I tell you I want you to fuck me?” John asked.
Sherlock sucked in breath sharply with a little hiss. “You really did like it, then,” he all but purred as John slid his feet up the back of Sherlock’s calves.
“Sure did,” John said, rocking up slowly and running his hands up Sherlock’s back. “I ain’t gonna lie, that scared me, the first time you told me - ah -” (Sherlock had begun to move slightly, pressing his cock against John’s, panting roughly) “ - that you like it both ways. Didn’t know if I could handle that. But I could. I can handle you just fine.”
John wanted it bad already, Christ.
“You handle me very well,” Sherlock groaned into John’s ear, pausing to lick and bite.
***
“Not Vaseline,” Sherlock said, taking hold of John’s wrist and removing the jar. John groaned softly, because he was just waiting for Sherlock to say it: “I don’t like the taste.”
So John knew he’d wind up on his belly gasping and writhing as Sherlock ate him out with shamelessly wet and hungry fervor, and filthy little grunting noises as he fought for breath in the cleft of John’s ass, slick hot tongue working John's hole open.
John thrust himself against Sherlock’s face, eager to take whatever he could get, and thinking goddamn, if Sherlock went to work like that on a woman, she might die happy, which was a weird thought, but one that almost made him come on the spot, Christ he’d love to watch that someday. “Sherlock, c’mon,” he muttered. “It’s good - I want-”
“What do you want, John?” Sherlock asked, nipping John’s right asscheek hard.
“You- you know - come on, do it.”
“Mmmmm,” Sherlock said into John’s spine as he crept up, kissing all the way with his musky mouth that latched like a leech onto John’s neck, his ear, aiming at his mouth. John just arched his ass up for the feel of Sherlock’s greased cockhead pushing at him, and then in with a stretch and burn.
***
John groaned and pressed up against him, reaching back for Sherlock's leg, to pull him harder in - only the second time he'd done this and he already knew he didn't want Sherlock to be careful or hesitant because that only drew the awkward part out longer.
Sherlock groaned and molded himself against John's back, driving his cock in deep and moving his hips in lascivious circles as he pinned John's wrists to the bed. “So tight. So hot,” he purred. “I'm not cold anymore, are you?”
“No,” John groaned, humping the mattress and pushing his hips against Sherlock's thrusting weight.
“Doors and windows still open downstairs,” Sherlock murmured as he moved, holding John down. “Anyone could walk in. Anyone could see you like this.”
John shuddered as Sherlock's cock bore down inside him, waves of pleasure filling his pelvis. “They could join in if they want.”
“And if they don't?” Sherlock growled in John's ear.
“Then I'll handle it,” John said, reaching under the pillow where he knew that .38 was kept, and nudged up Sherlock's weight enough to place it on the nightstand.
“How good a shot are you with a cock up your ass?' Sherlock chuckled.
“No idea,” John muttered. “Better than you without one, I bet.”
***
That boast did it for Sherlock, for suddenly he was clutching John around the chest with all the force that was in him - and it was a lot, he was strong - and seizing up with a throaty cry as he shook them both hard.
God, John could feel it, deep inside; he squirmed and moaned, shoulder pinched by Sherlock's teeth. “Man, did you just . . .?” John said fondly. “We've gotta work on your endura-aaaaa--”
John's vocabulary shorted out as he was wrenched a little upward to give Sherlock's skillful hand room to work on his cock, pumping and vibrating mercilessly until John came with a broken, breathless shout. The night outside erupted too: celebratory pops and bangs of firecrackers and gunshots. Might have set a vet off in a bad way if he weren't drifting in hormonal bliss beneath Sherlock, who nuzzled him contently.
The grandfather clock downstairs chimed. “Happy New Year, John,” Sherlock murmured, before going tense at a particularly deep explosion. “What was that?”
“Sounds like somebody shootin' anvils,” John said sleepily. “Ain't seen that in years. They go up like 100 feet if you do it right.”
“Of course you'll show me how,” Sherlock whispered, smiling against John's shoulder at a few more distant booms.
~end
Yes, anvil shooting is a real thing! Helpful how-to video!
A continuation of the "Setting the Tone" series of 221B drabbles - around midnight at New Year's Eve, 1973/74. Dedicated to write_out.
Original post of Part 1 is here, but I'm reposting it here for the sake of continuity and easy readability.
I wanted to do a PWP in serial-221B format in five parts, to see if I could get away without it seeming too stilted and stylized. Readers be the judge.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: Explicit
Content notes: Appalachian traditions, New Year's Eve, rimming, anal sex, competency kink, display of a firearm, distant explosions.
“John, what are you doing? It’s freezing.”
“Put more wood on the fire then,” John shouted down the stairs. “And don’t close that door. We’ve gotta let all the bad luck out!”
Sherlock stood at the bottom wearing that venomous expression he got when he was personally offended by someone’s stupidity. John turned his back on it and went to open windows in the upstairs bathroom and the dusty bedroom they never used. If Sherlock closed them downstairs, there’d be hell to pay.
Instead, John heard stalking, stomping footsteps behind him as he went to the bedroom they did use (very well). As John hoisted the old wooden windows open, a blast of frigid mountain wind howled in. “New Years Eve, Sherlock. Tradition. We’re having ham and cabbage and greens and black-eyed peas tomorrow too, because that symbolizes money, and Mrs. Hudson will probably put silver in the cabbage, so mind you don’t swallow it.”
“Tradition--” Sherlock said, about to launch into a diatribe.
“Hush,” John said. “You’ll like this one. What you’re doin’ at midnight, you’ll be doin’ all the rest of the year.”
Sherlock looked mutinous.
John looked at the clock and grinned. “You know what I wanna do all year. So take off your clothes and get in bed.”
***
“It’s too cold for this, John,” Sherlock said, shivering and naked with the quilt around his shoulders.
“Yeah?” John asked as he stripped slowly, refusing to cringe from the chill, watching the movements of Sherlock’s eyes down his body. “Really?” He crawled under the covers and ran his hands over Sherlock’s legs. “You sure?” He lay down on his back.
“Still think so,” Sherlock said as he slowly crept over John, bringing blankets with him to tent over them both.
“Even if I tell you I want you to fuck me?” John asked.
Sherlock sucked in breath sharply with a little hiss. “You really did like it, then,” he all but purred as John slid his feet up the back of Sherlock’s calves.
“Sure did,” John said, rocking up slowly and running his hands up Sherlock’s back. “I ain’t gonna lie, that scared me, the first time you told me - ah -” (Sherlock had begun to move slightly, pressing his cock against John’s, panting roughly) “ - that you like it both ways. Didn’t know if I could handle that. But I could. I can handle you just fine.”
John wanted it bad already, Christ.
“You handle me very well,” Sherlock groaned into John’s ear, pausing to lick and bite.
***
“Not Vaseline,” Sherlock said, taking hold of John’s wrist and removing the jar. John groaned softly, because he was just waiting for Sherlock to say it: “I don’t like the taste.”
So John knew he’d wind up on his belly gasping and writhing as Sherlock ate him out with shamelessly wet and hungry fervor, and filthy little grunting noises as he fought for breath in the cleft of John’s ass, slick hot tongue working John's hole open.
John thrust himself against Sherlock’s face, eager to take whatever he could get, and thinking goddamn, if Sherlock went to work like that on a woman, she might die happy, which was a weird thought, but one that almost made him come on the spot, Christ he’d love to watch that someday. “Sherlock, c’mon,” he muttered. “It’s good - I want-”
“What do you want, John?” Sherlock asked, nipping John’s right asscheek hard.
“You- you know - come on, do it.”
“Mmmmm,” Sherlock said into John’s spine as he crept up, kissing all the way with his musky mouth that latched like a leech onto John’s neck, his ear, aiming at his mouth. John just arched his ass up for the feel of Sherlock’s greased cockhead pushing at him, and then in with a stretch and burn.
***
John groaned and pressed up against him, reaching back for Sherlock's leg, to pull him harder in - only the second time he'd done this and he already knew he didn't want Sherlock to be careful or hesitant because that only drew the awkward part out longer.
Sherlock groaned and molded himself against John's back, driving his cock in deep and moving his hips in lascivious circles as he pinned John's wrists to the bed. “So tight. So hot,” he purred. “I'm not cold anymore, are you?”
“No,” John groaned, humping the mattress and pushing his hips against Sherlock's thrusting weight.
“Doors and windows still open downstairs,” Sherlock murmured as he moved, holding John down. “Anyone could walk in. Anyone could see you like this.”
John shuddered as Sherlock's cock bore down inside him, waves of pleasure filling his pelvis. “They could join in if they want.”
“And if they don't?” Sherlock growled in John's ear.
“Then I'll handle it,” John said, reaching under the pillow where he knew that .38 was kept, and nudged up Sherlock's weight enough to place it on the nightstand.
“How good a shot are you with a cock up your ass?' Sherlock chuckled.
“No idea,” John muttered. “Better than you without one, I bet.”
***
That boast did it for Sherlock, for suddenly he was clutching John around the chest with all the force that was in him - and it was a lot, he was strong - and seizing up with a throaty cry as he shook them both hard.
God, John could feel it, deep inside; he squirmed and moaned, shoulder pinched by Sherlock's teeth. “Man, did you just . . .?” John said fondly. “We've gotta work on your endura-aaaaa--”
John's vocabulary shorted out as he was wrenched a little upward to give Sherlock's skillful hand room to work on his cock, pumping and vibrating mercilessly until John came with a broken, breathless shout. The night outside erupted too: celebratory pops and bangs of firecrackers and gunshots. Might have set a vet off in a bad way if he weren't drifting in hormonal bliss beneath Sherlock, who nuzzled him contently.
The grandfather clock downstairs chimed. “Happy New Year, John,” Sherlock murmured, before going tense at a particularly deep explosion. “What was that?”
“Sounds like somebody shootin' anvils,” John said sleepily. “Ain't seen that in years. They go up like 100 feet if you do it right.”
“Of course you'll show me how,” Sherlock whispered, smiling against John's shoulder at a few more distant booms.
~end
Yes, anvil shooting is a real thing! Helpful how-to video!