Fic: Sex and Paranoia 2/3 Sherlock (BBC) [NC-17]
Title: Sex and Paranoia
Author: A Lanart
Character(s): Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, OFC.
Pairing: Watson/OFC,
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17 this part
Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers. Corset kink.
Summary: Sherlock makes a request. John is not happy.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat and Mr Gattis (thanks guys!) and the BBC.
No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
The OFC is mine.
Title from the song by The Wedding Anniversary
A/N: Idea from this prompt at Make me a Monday week 72, the relevant bit for my muses being includes John's outrage at being a test subject once again, a self-possessed OFC who can focus on John without being distracted by the weirdo measuring her responses. Not an exact fill, but the OFC is there. Cally was first introduced in Undisclosed Desires and this fic takes place at the same time as UD, just before the last scene.
Also, I lied. This is going to be a three part fic, not a two-parter as I'd originally thought and I'm ridiculously tempted to warn for het... I'm kind of out of practice at writing it!
~*~
Sex and Paranoia - part 2
*
The week passed fairly quickly; an interesting case from Greg Lestrade kept Sherlock mostly out of trouble and the surgery was busy, but not chaotic, on the days John was working. Pub night crept up on John without him noticing but by the time it had, he realised that he wasn't worrying any more; it would either work out, or it wouldn't. He was surprised to find himself whistling as he headed out for the pub after threatening Sherlock with dire consequences if he messed up the flat while John was gone.
Cally was by the bar, talking to Greg, when John walked into the pub. Her hair was still royal blue.
"Do you realise this is the first time I've seen you with the same hair colour twice on the run," he said as he leaned on the bar next to her. Greg laughed, before he grabbed his pint and headed off to the table in the corner.
"That's exactly what Greg said; I'm obviously slipping."
"Feel free to keep slipping; it's a good colour on you." It was an odd thing to say, but John meant it. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled, the reflection off her hair made them seem more blue than grey for a change.
"I bet you never thought you'd be saying *that* to someone with blue hair."
"Maybe not, but it doesn't make it less true," he said with conviction.
"I'll remember that." Her drink arrived then - something luridly green - and she followed Greg towards their usual table. John hesitated for a moment before ordering his own drink but settled on his usual pint rather than something stronger. If he needed a bit more Dutch Courage later on there was some fairly decent whisky back at Baker Street, courtesy of Mycroft, which Sherlock was not allowed to touch except for the purpose of drinking.
The friendly but not-so-subtle innuendo that followed John out of the pub door as he left with Cally was no worse than he expected and for some reason had given Cally a fit of the giggles. He put his hand out to steady her as she hung onto the door frame and realised that beneath her hoodie, her waist was a little more unyielding than he'd expected. His hand tightened; she stopped laughing.
"You're wearing the corset," he said. He'd thought it a little strange that she kept the hoodie on, even inside the pub, but had brushed it aside as irrelevant. It hadn't been irrelevant, it had been camouflage.
"Not exactly *the* corset, but yes I am wearing a corset; I have quite a few of them."
"Oh." John could have kicked himself for how brainless he sounded, but damn he found it hot, found *her* hot and the mental image of her straddling him while wearing said corset was enough to make his brain give up all pretence of rational thought for a moment.
She was grinning at him again and he realised he was staring at his hand where it was pressed against her waist. She'd asked him something and he became aware of the fact that he had absolutely no idea what on earth she'd said.
"What?" he asked.
"Taxi?"
He swallowed, carefully removed his hand and nodded his agreement. "I think that would be for the best, don't you?" Her laughter was his only answer.
She was still grinning when they reached Baker Street, John suspected she probably found his efforts at trying to maintain some distance between them hilarious and he was glad she'd feigned a studied interest in the toes of her Doc Martens in the taxi, even though it hadn't stopped his brain providing him with not-so-helpful suggestions of what could be done in the back of a black cab, no matter that most of them would result in them being thrown out of the taxi at best and potentially arrested at worst. He was glad when they got to the door of 221b, even with the prospect of Sherlock watching his every move.
Ever the gentleman, and also to give himself a couple of seconds to take a deep breath or two without it being so obvious, John held open the door for Cally and ushered her inside before following in her wake.
Sherlock was draped carelessly over his chair rather than sprawled on the sofa; John thought it was probably because the chair offered a better view of the door without it being immediately apparent that Sherlock *was* watching the door.
Cally glanced from John to Sherlock with a brief smile.
"All right if I…?" She waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen and Sherlock's room. Sherlock gave her a tight nod, which John thought didn't bode well until he realised that Sherlock was positively scowling at *him* not Cally.
"You weren't supposed to start without me," he grumbled. Before John could say anything there was a peal of laughter from the kitchen. Cally stepped back into the living area.
"I didn't touch him, Sherlock. Cross my heart." She proceeded to do so.
"Then why?..." Sherlock *looked* at him; cataloguing, deducing. It wouldn't take a genius to note his elevated heart and respiratory rate or the flush he could *feel* at the base of his neck. Cally leaned nonchalantly against the wall; John did not trust the expression on her face one bit.
"It would appear that Dr Watson has a *thing* for corsetry," she said. John couldn't exactly deny it, not when it was the truth, no matter that he hadn't previously been aware of it. Sherlock swung his legs over the arm of the chair and sat up, feet on the floor, fingers steepled against his chin.
"Fascinating."
John took one look at Cally and they both dissolved into fits of laughter. She dived for the refuge of Sherlock's room while John tried to bring himself under control as he hung onto the door frame to avoid falling over.
"I fail to see why…"
"Cultural reference," John wheezed. Eventually, he stifled his giggles enough to stand unaided, slid out of his coat and toed off his boots. There was no sign of Cally reappearing so he peeled off his jumper too and chucked it in the general direction of the sofa. "Sod this," he said, "I'm having a drink." John made good his threat and headed for Mycroft's whisky, though he did pour one for Sherlock also. He was idly looking through a gap in the curtains at the street below when he heard Sherlock shift in his chair.
"John, I think it would be of benefit if you put your glass down before you turn round." Sherlock's tone brooked no argument so John complied and carefully placed the heavy glass on the bookshelf, then he slowly turned to face the rest of the room.
He was glad of Sherlock's advice, he had to admit.
The hoodie and boots had been shed so John could now see the evidence for himself that no, this wasn't *the* corset that Cally was wearing, but it was still *a* corset and had pretty much the same effect on him. He ignored Sherlock's assessing gaze as he stepped towards her.
"Like it?" She asked and gave him a little smile and a shimmy that made the colours of the corset ripple between black and a blue that almost matched her hair. Part of his brain noticed that it was cut below her bustline, so once he got the cropped lacy thing masquerading as a top - and her bra - off her, he would…
"Oh Jesus holy fuck," he said as his body went from fairly interested to demanding immediate action in what felt like about 3 seconds flat; Sherlock's presence was dismissed as no longer important.
"I'll take that as a yes," she whispered and then they were reaching for each other; his mouth hot and heavy on hers, his hands wrapped tightly around her steel-bound waist as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.
How they managed to negotiate the kitchen without overturning anything, John had no idea; maybe Sherlock made himself useful and rescued everything that threatened to topple as he and Cally lurched between the kitchen table and the wall in their unsteady progress to Sherlock's bedroom, shedding clothes along the way even while they tried to maintain lip contact. Once they half-fell, half-ran through the bedroom door it became a battle between them to see which on of them could become horizontal first, one which John was pleased to win as he threw himself backwards onto the bed, then pulled Cally down on top of him. He found himself willingly held captive by stocking clad legs tight against his thighs, deceptively powerful hands pressing him into the mattress and a mouth that ravished and teased and devoured, demanding his surrender, which he was more than happy to tender. His hands drifted over soft, warm skin, silk and steel until they tangled in the laces that tied the corset closed at her back and he *yanked*, forcibly pulling her away from him for a moment. One hand flailed around uselessly as he hung onto the corset laces with the other, searching for, but not knowing where to find the object of his quest. His overloaded brain didn't find it odd that gentle fingers pressed a wrapped condom into his hand when he knew hers were embedded in the skin of his chest, just concentrated on getting it *out* of the packet and *onto* himself in as short a time as possible, despite his lack of coordination. Her legs tightened around him as she rose up, then sank back down to envelop him in a delicious slide of tight, gripping heat.
There was a moment of tranquillity, a pause on the brink, an instant when the realisation that he was right where he wanted to be hit him like a blow to the chest and he could finally focus on her lust blown eyes, flushed face and the strands of blue hair stuck to her damp forehead; fucking fantastic. Then she began to move and he was chasing the edge of oblivion, racing her there with frantic thrusts and hands gone clumsy with need. Her hair was a blue cloud around them both as she sucked the air from his lungs and they were biting, fighting for breath, clutching at each other with desperate fingers.
She fell first, beautiful as she broke apart, and all John could do was bury his teeth in her shoulder and hang on as he followed.
It wasn't until it sunk in that yes, he was still breathing and yes, his heart was still *inside* his chest, that he realised just how unconducive a corset was toward post-coital snuggling. He plucked ineffectually at the laces for a minute or so before he admitted defeat and huffed a breathy laugh into her hair when she managed no better. It was only then that he remembered there was another presence in the room.
"Hnnngh," he said, or at least that was what it sounded like to him. The was a breathless sort of grunt from Cally, then she turned her head which meant that any sound could escape into the room instead of being muffled by his skin.
"Sherlock, get this bloody corset off me. Now."
John thought that was a fantastic idea. Strange how Cally could still manage to think when it was entirely beyond his current capabilities; he couldn't even manage to talk.
"I don't know…"
"Then deduce it, for fucks sake! It's not exactly rocket science."
She shifted and John slipped out, well and truly spent, though he retained enough presence of mind to dispose of the condom. Holding her steady while Sherlock carefully unknotted and loosened the corset laces should have felt weird but John didn't care to examine why it didn't, which was probably strange in itself.
He wasn't watching and he felt as much as heard Sherlock's exhaled "ah" of satisfaction, a sound he only made when a puzzle resolved itself, fingers stilled on laces and traced out… something… on the skin at the base of her back.
What?" John mumbled, more or less coherently, which he regarded as an achievement.
"My tattoo." Cally replied.
"Tattoo?"
"And my name. You can tell him, Sherlock."
"Calliope, Homer's Muse; a name I hadn't considered."
"Bully for you. Now shove off for 10 minutes and let us have some privacy; it's cuddle time, which you will find incessantly boring."
Sherlock even closed the door after himself, which amazed John in the part of his brain still capable of being amazed. Cally scrambled off him, unclipped the stockings and the catches down the front of the corset, then discarded it on the floor where it landed with a dull thump. John held out an arm; she settled into his embrace and tried to burrow into his side. He kissed her hair and decided he really didn't want to move, not for a while at least. Eventually he had to move as he was beginning to feel chilled - except for where Cally was plastered against his side - even if it was only to pull the bedclothes over them.
*
Part 3
This entry was originally posted at http://a-lanart.dreamwidth.org/239137.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Author: A Lanart
Character(s): Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, OFC.
Pairing: Watson/OFC,
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17 this part
Spoilers/Warnings: No spoilers. Corset kink.
Summary: Sherlock makes a request. John is not happy.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat and Mr Gattis (thanks guys!) and the BBC.
No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
The OFC is mine.
Title from the song by The Wedding Anniversary
A/N: Idea from this prompt at Make me a Monday week 72, the relevant bit for my muses being includes John's outrage at being a test subject once again, a self-possessed OFC who can focus on John without being distracted by the weirdo measuring her responses. Not an exact fill, but the OFC is there. Cally was first introduced in Undisclosed Desires and this fic takes place at the same time as UD, just before the last scene.
Also, I lied. This is going to be a three part fic, not a two-parter as I'd originally thought and I'm ridiculously tempted to warn for het... I'm kind of out of practice at writing it!
~*~
Sex and Paranoia - part 2
*
The week passed fairly quickly; an interesting case from Greg Lestrade kept Sherlock mostly out of trouble and the surgery was busy, but not chaotic, on the days John was working. Pub night crept up on John without him noticing but by the time it had, he realised that he wasn't worrying any more; it would either work out, or it wouldn't. He was surprised to find himself whistling as he headed out for the pub after threatening Sherlock with dire consequences if he messed up the flat while John was gone.
Cally was by the bar, talking to Greg, when John walked into the pub. Her hair was still royal blue.
"Do you realise this is the first time I've seen you with the same hair colour twice on the run," he said as he leaned on the bar next to her. Greg laughed, before he grabbed his pint and headed off to the table in the corner.
"That's exactly what Greg said; I'm obviously slipping."
"Feel free to keep slipping; it's a good colour on you." It was an odd thing to say, but John meant it. Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled, the reflection off her hair made them seem more blue than grey for a change.
"I bet you never thought you'd be saying *that* to someone with blue hair."
"Maybe not, but it doesn't make it less true," he said with conviction.
"I'll remember that." Her drink arrived then - something luridly green - and she followed Greg towards their usual table. John hesitated for a moment before ordering his own drink but settled on his usual pint rather than something stronger. If he needed a bit more Dutch Courage later on there was some fairly decent whisky back at Baker Street, courtesy of Mycroft, which Sherlock was not allowed to touch except for the purpose of drinking.
The friendly but not-so-subtle innuendo that followed John out of the pub door as he left with Cally was no worse than he expected and for some reason had given Cally a fit of the giggles. He put his hand out to steady her as she hung onto the door frame and realised that beneath her hoodie, her waist was a little more unyielding than he'd expected. His hand tightened; she stopped laughing.
"You're wearing the corset," he said. He'd thought it a little strange that she kept the hoodie on, even inside the pub, but had brushed it aside as irrelevant. It hadn't been irrelevant, it had been camouflage.
"Not exactly *the* corset, but yes I am wearing a corset; I have quite a few of them."
"Oh." John could have kicked himself for how brainless he sounded, but damn he found it hot, found *her* hot and the mental image of her straddling him while wearing said corset was enough to make his brain give up all pretence of rational thought for a moment.
She was grinning at him again and he realised he was staring at his hand where it was pressed against her waist. She'd asked him something and he became aware of the fact that he had absolutely no idea what on earth she'd said.
"What?" he asked.
"Taxi?"
He swallowed, carefully removed his hand and nodded his agreement. "I think that would be for the best, don't you?" Her laughter was his only answer.
She was still grinning when they reached Baker Street, John suspected she probably found his efforts at trying to maintain some distance between them hilarious and he was glad she'd feigned a studied interest in the toes of her Doc Martens in the taxi, even though it hadn't stopped his brain providing him with not-so-helpful suggestions of what could be done in the back of a black cab, no matter that most of them would result in them being thrown out of the taxi at best and potentially arrested at worst. He was glad when they got to the door of 221b, even with the prospect of Sherlock watching his every move.
Ever the gentleman, and also to give himself a couple of seconds to take a deep breath or two without it being so obvious, John held open the door for Cally and ushered her inside before following in her wake.
Sherlock was draped carelessly over his chair rather than sprawled on the sofa; John thought it was probably because the chair offered a better view of the door without it being immediately apparent that Sherlock *was* watching the door.
Cally glanced from John to Sherlock with a brief smile.
"All right if I…?" She waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen and Sherlock's room. Sherlock gave her a tight nod, which John thought didn't bode well until he realised that Sherlock was positively scowling at *him* not Cally.
"You weren't supposed to start without me," he grumbled. Before John could say anything there was a peal of laughter from the kitchen. Cally stepped back into the living area.
"I didn't touch him, Sherlock. Cross my heart." She proceeded to do so.
"Then why?..." Sherlock *looked* at him; cataloguing, deducing. It wouldn't take a genius to note his elevated heart and respiratory rate or the flush he could *feel* at the base of his neck. Cally leaned nonchalantly against the wall; John did not trust the expression on her face one bit.
"It would appear that Dr Watson has a *thing* for corsetry," she said. John couldn't exactly deny it, not when it was the truth, no matter that he hadn't previously been aware of it. Sherlock swung his legs over the arm of the chair and sat up, feet on the floor, fingers steepled against his chin.
"Fascinating."
John took one look at Cally and they both dissolved into fits of laughter. She dived for the refuge of Sherlock's room while John tried to bring himself under control as he hung onto the door frame to avoid falling over.
"I fail to see why…"
"Cultural reference," John wheezed. Eventually, he stifled his giggles enough to stand unaided, slid out of his coat and toed off his boots. There was no sign of Cally reappearing so he peeled off his jumper too and chucked it in the general direction of the sofa. "Sod this," he said, "I'm having a drink." John made good his threat and headed for Mycroft's whisky, though he did pour one for Sherlock also. He was idly looking through a gap in the curtains at the street below when he heard Sherlock shift in his chair.
"John, I think it would be of benefit if you put your glass down before you turn round." Sherlock's tone brooked no argument so John complied and carefully placed the heavy glass on the bookshelf, then he slowly turned to face the rest of the room.
He was glad of Sherlock's advice, he had to admit.
The hoodie and boots had been shed so John could now see the evidence for himself that no, this wasn't *the* corset that Cally was wearing, but it was still *a* corset and had pretty much the same effect on him. He ignored Sherlock's assessing gaze as he stepped towards her.
"Like it?" She asked and gave him a little smile and a shimmy that made the colours of the corset ripple between black and a blue that almost matched her hair. Part of his brain noticed that it was cut below her bustline, so once he got the cropped lacy thing masquerading as a top - and her bra - off her, he would…
"Oh Jesus holy fuck," he said as his body went from fairly interested to demanding immediate action in what felt like about 3 seconds flat; Sherlock's presence was dismissed as no longer important.
"I'll take that as a yes," she whispered and then they were reaching for each other; his mouth hot and heavy on hers, his hands wrapped tightly around her steel-bound waist as she fumbled with the buttons of his shirt.
How they managed to negotiate the kitchen without overturning anything, John had no idea; maybe Sherlock made himself useful and rescued everything that threatened to topple as he and Cally lurched between the kitchen table and the wall in their unsteady progress to Sherlock's bedroom, shedding clothes along the way even while they tried to maintain lip contact. Once they half-fell, half-ran through the bedroom door it became a battle between them to see which on of them could become horizontal first, one which John was pleased to win as he threw himself backwards onto the bed, then pulled Cally down on top of him. He found himself willingly held captive by stocking clad legs tight against his thighs, deceptively powerful hands pressing him into the mattress and a mouth that ravished and teased and devoured, demanding his surrender, which he was more than happy to tender. His hands drifted over soft, warm skin, silk and steel until they tangled in the laces that tied the corset closed at her back and he *yanked*, forcibly pulling her away from him for a moment. One hand flailed around uselessly as he hung onto the corset laces with the other, searching for, but not knowing where to find the object of his quest. His overloaded brain didn't find it odd that gentle fingers pressed a wrapped condom into his hand when he knew hers were embedded in the skin of his chest, just concentrated on getting it *out* of the packet and *onto* himself in as short a time as possible, despite his lack of coordination. Her legs tightened around him as she rose up, then sank back down to envelop him in a delicious slide of tight, gripping heat.
There was a moment of tranquillity, a pause on the brink, an instant when the realisation that he was right where he wanted to be hit him like a blow to the chest and he could finally focus on her lust blown eyes, flushed face and the strands of blue hair stuck to her damp forehead; fucking fantastic. Then she began to move and he was chasing the edge of oblivion, racing her there with frantic thrusts and hands gone clumsy with need. Her hair was a blue cloud around them both as she sucked the air from his lungs and they were biting, fighting for breath, clutching at each other with desperate fingers.
She fell first, beautiful as she broke apart, and all John could do was bury his teeth in her shoulder and hang on as he followed.
It wasn't until it sunk in that yes, he was still breathing and yes, his heart was still *inside* his chest, that he realised just how unconducive a corset was toward post-coital snuggling. He plucked ineffectually at the laces for a minute or so before he admitted defeat and huffed a breathy laugh into her hair when she managed no better. It was only then that he remembered there was another presence in the room.
"Hnnngh," he said, or at least that was what it sounded like to him. The was a breathless sort of grunt from Cally, then she turned her head which meant that any sound could escape into the room instead of being muffled by his skin.
"Sherlock, get this bloody corset off me. Now."
John thought that was a fantastic idea. Strange how Cally could still manage to think when it was entirely beyond his current capabilities; he couldn't even manage to talk.
"I don't know…"
"Then deduce it, for fucks sake! It's not exactly rocket science."
She shifted and John slipped out, well and truly spent, though he retained enough presence of mind to dispose of the condom. Holding her steady while Sherlock carefully unknotted and loosened the corset laces should have felt weird but John didn't care to examine why it didn't, which was probably strange in itself.
He wasn't watching and he felt as much as heard Sherlock's exhaled "ah" of satisfaction, a sound he only made when a puzzle resolved itself, fingers stilled on laces and traced out… something… on the skin at the base of her back.
What?" John mumbled, more or less coherently, which he regarded as an achievement.
"My tattoo." Cally replied.
"Tattoo?"
"And my name. You can tell him, Sherlock."
"Calliope, Homer's Muse; a name I hadn't considered."
"Bully for you. Now shove off for 10 minutes and let us have some privacy; it's cuddle time, which you will find incessantly boring."
Sherlock even closed the door after himself, which amazed John in the part of his brain still capable of being amazed. Cally scrambled off him, unclipped the stockings and the catches down the front of the corset, then discarded it on the floor where it landed with a dull thump. John held out an arm; she settled into his embrace and tried to burrow into his side. He kissed her hair and decided he really didn't want to move, not for a while at least. Eventually he had to move as he was beginning to feel chilled - except for where Cally was plastered against his side - even if it was only to pull the bedclothes over them.
*
Part 3
This entry was originally posted at http://a-lanart.dreamwidth.org/239137.html. Please comment there using OpenID.