“Anything but Mistress.” A beat-their eyes meet, and she knows she doesn’t have to say or doctor. He wouldn’t bring it up. He’s not sensitive, but he’s clever; if he’s looking at her like he looks at his cases, then he can’t have missed something so obvious.
He inclines his head. “Never that fond of Mistress, really. Bit impersonal. Mistress could be anyone. I like to know who’s pulling my hair.”
And that goes right through her, a sudden jolt of heat-down her spine, between her legs. She’s not sure why, only that it strikes some chord, that she wants it. She presses her thighs tighter together, glancing off to the side. With anyone else, she might be able to hide it. Not with him. He grins. “Ah,” he says. “Clay. Please; don’t be embarrassed, I assure you, I find the idea-equally titillating.”
Joan takes a few moments, and then responds with, “We have negotiating to do.”
“So we do. Next point?”
“You still need data?”
“I always need data.”
“Okay.” They watch each other for another moment, and Joan rearranges her thoughts. She knows what she wants to say next, and forces herself to stare at him while she does it. “I don’t know if I want to kiss you, or if I’m just curious.”
“Curiosity’s a want, isn’t it?”
He’d know, she thinks, terribly tenderly. “There’s a difference, Sherlock.”
“No, there’s not. You want to kiss me, you’re just looking for the reason why. Said reason could be curiosity, or it could just be that you want to play tonsil tennis for the game’s own sake.”
“Tonsil tennis. Cute. Thanks; I’m suddenly not curious at all.”
“Any time.”
Joan casts around for more to say. There is more, she knows; there’s are we friends with benefits and what kind of benefits are we even talking about and can I make you make me coffee and you know this isn’t anything like what I did with Ty, right, you know this is going to be all different. There’s how hard do you like your hair pulled. She opens her mouth, and asks, “Can I have some clay?”
Sherlock all but beams. “Miss Watson,” he says, “I would be only too pleased. You remember, I’m sure, my comment on sex?”
“Vividly.”
“It wasn’t crap. Admittedly, I was attempting to make you feel, I suppose, comfortable living with a strange man fresh out of rehab with handcuffs in his sitting room-”
“Oh, come on, you were oversharing. And trying to make yourself look, I don’t know. Invincible.”
“I’m sure you’ll put it all in your notes. But you must understand-you don’t have to touch me. I don’t have to touch you. No orgasm is necessary. And this-whatever we do-will count as sex to me. That’s how I’ll...categorise it.”
“In your attic.”
“Precisely. That’s where it goes. I require something that makes my mind shut down, which is what sex is to me.” He stops, and Joan feels the shape of unsaid words hanging in the air. She’s gotten accustomed to that.
“And?” she asks, gentle. For a moment, he frowns at her like she’s a clue that doesn’t make sense, then relents slightly, wordlessly admits that yes, she’s right.
“And I find,” he says slowly, slightly stiffly, “that...intimacy...is achievable without-” He waves a hand. “All the trimmings.”
“Intimacy,” she half asks and half prompts.
“Gloating really doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not gloating,” Joan says, honestly surprised. Sherlock makes a face, but doesn’t actually argue. “Okay, clarify something for me. I get that actually sleeping together...isn’t necessary. Which is fine. Good for me too. But by not necessary do you mean not happening ever?”
“That depends on you,” he says, looking straight at her.
“I want to wait,” she replies immediately. “I want to know-what this is going to be like before we get into that, if we get into that. Is that-that is possible, right?”
“Having sex without having sex?” he grins. “More possible than you’d think.”
“I found some stuff on the internet about, uh. Non-sexual kink. Domestic stuff.”
Joan swallows hard, sets her jaw, doesn’t look away. The line of her body is almost military; Sherlock, in contrast, is sprawled, but there’s a certain tension in him. She realises, belatedly, that it’s a reaction to her. “Good,” she says. “Because it was hot as hell.”
And then he rockets forwards, scooting closer, one of his knees bumping hers. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, excellent. Thank God. Beyond kissing me, which is frankly vanilla, I’m afraid, that’s the first thing you’ve mentioned wanting to do. Using your words, as opposed to getting hot under the collar and trying to hide it. Tell me more.”
For a moment, she completely forgets everything she’s read about it, everything that lead her to slide her hand down between her legs later that night, everything she couldn’t stop thinking about in the line at the grocery store the next morning. She searches for words. “...Ty used to make me coffee. It’s not-I don’t know, it doesn’t matter what he did, the point was that he did something because I told him to. It was kind of a joke, but we let it go on, I guess. We, uh, had a lot of kitchen sex. Don’t give me that look. There was something like that on this site I found-suggestions for things to do with your sub.” The word doesn’t sound melodramatic this time, not when her voice is so quiet and calm. His eyes are eager, and he’s distinctly close. “Something about-make him make you coffee. Breakfast. Anything. Have him kneel on the floor while you’re at the table.” Her mouth is dry. “I never did that with Ty.”
“But you want to do that with me,” Sherlock says. His voice is hoarse. “That...excites you. The picture of me on my knees. Would you ignore me?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“How good are you at making coffee?”
“For you? Miss Watson, you will never want to visit Starbucks again.”
Joan finds she hasn’t enough breath to laugh, but it’s okay. He’s still looking at her-he looks enthralled, and it’s distracting. There are still things she doesn’t know, she thinks; so many of them. She doesn’t know if they’re friends or roommates or lovers, and she doesn’t know, actually, if a singletail is what he calls the whip he always leaves coiled on the kitchen table, brazen as you like or if he means something slightly different, and she doesn’t quite know what she’s doing, but she suspects it’s a lot of fun. And she knows- “I think I’m ready to see why I want to kiss you.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Sherlock mutters, and they both lean in, which is a bit stupid. Noses bump and get in the way and, as it turns out, he’s a dreadful kisser, clumsy and hungry, and she has to try and get him to slow down, and he tastes of coffee, and absolutely no questions are answered.
“Still not sure,” she says, pulling away. His mouth was warm and his hands were everywhere; she got that right. He looks more shell-shocked than she does. “...But you definitely need to shave.”
“Is that an order?” he inquires.
“Yes,” she says, and he gets to his feet. She watches him go. “In fact-Sherlock, wait. Go sit on the edge of the bath. Don’t start anything.”
He’s at the door when she says that, and turns to frown, questions on the tip of his tongue which he promptly answers for himself when he meets her eye; Joan wonders if this is what he meant by intimacy, looking at someone and knowing they’ve got the same image in mind. And if said image is of him sitting on the edge of the bath, her standing, one knee up on the side, his chin in hand, drawing the razor slowly over his face, and perhaps she’d make him lace his hands behind his back to stop him from distracting her, but after, he could touch her, put his hands at her waist, his face level with her breasts-then that’s still intimate, and that’s still alright.
“Oh,” he says, and he sounds slightly dizzy. He also sounds slightly impressed. “Right. Got it. That is-” He focuses, gets his thoughts straight, and grins. “Yes, Miss Watson.”
This is wonderful. Their voices are so perfect, and it's very sexy -- the hints are somehow better than porn for this, just like they are talking about in their dialogue.
“Anything but Mistress.” A beat-their eyes meet, and she knows she doesn’t have to say or doctor. He wouldn’t bring it up. He’s not sensitive, but he’s clever; if he’s looking at her like he looks at his cases, then he can’t have missed something so obvious.
He inclines his head. “Never that fond of Mistress, really. Bit impersonal. Mistress could be anyone. I like to know who’s pulling my hair.”
And that goes right through her, a sudden jolt of heat-down her spine, between her legs. She’s not sure why, only that it strikes some chord, that she wants it. She presses her thighs tighter together, glancing off to the side. With anyone else, she might be able to hide it. Not with him. He grins. “Ah,” he says. “Clay. Please; don’t be embarrassed, I assure you, I find the idea-equally titillating.”
Joan takes a few moments, and then responds with, “We have negotiating to do.”
“So we do. Next point?”
“You still need data?”
“I always need data.”
“Okay.” They watch each other for another moment, and Joan rearranges her thoughts. She knows what she wants to say next, and forces herself to stare at him while she does it. “I don’t know if I want to kiss you, or if I’m just curious.”
“Curiosity’s a want, isn’t it?”
He’d know, she thinks, terribly tenderly. “There’s a difference, Sherlock.”
“No, there’s not. You want to kiss me, you’re just looking for the reason why. Said reason could be curiosity, or it could just be that you want to play tonsil tennis for the game’s own sake.”
“Tonsil tennis. Cute. Thanks; I’m suddenly not curious at all.”
“Any time.”
Joan casts around for more to say. There is more, she knows; there’s are we friends with benefits and what kind of benefits are we even talking about and can I make you make me coffee and you know this isn’t anything like what I did with Ty, right, you know this is going to be all different. There’s how hard do you like your hair pulled. She opens her mouth, and asks, “Can I have some clay?”
Sherlock all but beams. “Miss Watson,” he says, “I would be only too pleased. You remember, I’m sure, my comment on sex?”
“Vividly.”
“It wasn’t crap. Admittedly, I was attempting to make you feel, I suppose, comfortable living with a strange man fresh out of rehab with handcuffs in his sitting room-”
“Oh, come on, you were oversharing. And trying to make yourself look, I don’t know. Invincible.”
“I’m sure you’ll put it all in your notes. But you must understand-you don’t have to touch me. I don’t have to touch you. No orgasm is necessary. And this-whatever we do-will count as sex to me. That’s how I’ll...categorise it.”
“In your attic.”
“Precisely. That’s where it goes. I require something that makes my mind shut down, which is what sex is to me.” He stops, and Joan feels the shape of unsaid words hanging in the air. She’s gotten accustomed to that.
“And?” she asks, gentle. For a moment, he frowns at her like she’s a clue that doesn’t make sense, then relents slightly, wordlessly admits that yes, she’s right.
“And I find,” he says slowly, slightly stiffly, “that...intimacy...is achievable without-” He waves a hand. “All the trimmings.”
“Intimacy,” she half asks and half prompts.
“Gloating really doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not gloating,” Joan says, honestly surprised. Sherlock makes a face, but doesn’t actually argue. “Okay, clarify something for me. I get that actually sleeping together...isn’t necessary. Which is fine. Good for me too. But by not necessary do you mean not happening ever?”
“That depends on you,” he says, looking straight at her.
“I want to wait,” she replies immediately. “I want to know-what this is going to be like before we get into that, if we get into that. Is that-that is possible, right?”
“Having sex without having sex?” he grins. “More possible than you’d think.”
“I found some stuff on the internet about, uh. Non-sexual kink. Domestic stuff.”
“I draw the line at a maid’s outfit.”
“But you don’t draw the line elsewhere?”
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Joan swallows hard, sets her jaw, doesn’t look away. The line of her body is almost military; Sherlock, in contrast, is sprawled, but there’s a certain tension in him. She realises, belatedly, that it’s a reaction to her. “Good,” she says. “Because it was hot as hell.”
And then he rockets forwards, scooting closer, one of his knees bumping hers. “Yes,” he says. “Yes, excellent. Thank God. Beyond kissing me, which is frankly vanilla, I’m afraid, that’s the first thing you’ve mentioned wanting to do. Using your words, as opposed to getting hot under the collar and trying to hide it. Tell me more.”
For a moment, she completely forgets everything she’s read about it, everything that lead her to slide her hand down between her legs later that night, everything she couldn’t stop thinking about in the line at the grocery store the next morning. She searches for words. “...Ty used to make me coffee. It’s not-I don’t know, it doesn’t matter what he did, the point was that he did something because I told him to. It was kind of a joke, but we let it go on, I guess. We, uh, had a lot of kitchen sex. Don’t give me that look. There was something like that on this site I found-suggestions for things to do with your sub.” The word doesn’t sound melodramatic this time, not when her voice is so quiet and calm. His eyes are eager, and he’s distinctly close. “Something about-make him make you coffee. Breakfast. Anything. Have him kneel on the floor while you’re at the table.” Her mouth is dry. “I never did that with Ty.”
“But you want to do that with me,” Sherlock says. His voice is hoarse. “That...excites you. The picture of me on my knees. Would you ignore me?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“How good are you at making coffee?”
“For you? Miss Watson, you will never want to visit Starbucks again.”
Joan finds she hasn’t enough breath to laugh, but it’s okay. He’s still looking at her-he looks enthralled, and it’s distracting. There are still things she doesn’t know, she thinks; so many of them. She doesn’t know if they’re friends or roommates or lovers, and she doesn’t know, actually, if a singletail is what he calls the whip he always leaves coiled on the kitchen table, brazen as you like or if he means something slightly different, and she doesn’t quite know what she’s doing, but she suspects it’s a lot of fun. And she knows- “I think I’m ready to see why I want to kiss you.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Sherlock mutters, and they both lean in, which is a bit stupid. Noses bump and get in the way and, as it turns out, he’s a dreadful kisser, clumsy and hungry, and she has to try and get him to slow down, and he tastes of coffee, and absolutely no questions are answered.
“Still not sure,” she says, pulling away. His mouth was warm and his hands were everywhere; she got that right. He looks more shell-shocked than she does. “...But you definitely need to shave.”
“Is that an order?” he inquires.
“Yes,” she says, and he gets to his feet. She watches him go. “In fact-Sherlock, wait. Go sit on the edge of the bath. Don’t start anything.”
He’s at the door when she says that, and turns to frown, questions on the tip of his tongue which he promptly answers for himself when he meets her eye; Joan wonders if this is what he meant by intimacy, looking at someone and knowing they’ve got the same image in mind. And if said image is of him sitting on the edge of the bath, her standing, one knee up on the side, his chin in hand, drawing the razor slowly over his face, and perhaps she’d make him lace his hands behind his back to stop him from distracting her, but after, he could touch her, put his hands at her waist, his face level with her breasts-then that’s still intimate, and that’s still alright.
“Oh,” he says, and he sounds slightly dizzy. He also sounds slightly impressed. “Right. Got it. That is-” He focuses, gets his thoughts straight, and grins. “Yes, Miss Watson.”
fin.
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OH MY GOD all of this is so perfect thank you so much for writing it ♥ ♥ ♥
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