Fic: Hearts Filthy Mess, 2/7 | Sherlock (BBC) | NC-17 | Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Title: Hearts Filthy Mess
Authors: aeron_lanart, fred_bear aka
Jennybel75, mandatorily
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Pairings: Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, concepts and smut. This part PG-15
Spoilers: Spoilers up to and including S2 ep1
Warnings: Beware of the Angst! Slight injury in the service of a case.
Summary: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat, Mr Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
A/N 1: Written in collaboration for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme friending post -
John has a bit of a kink for pretty boys in eyeliner (he refers to it as guyliner). He suspects it comes from listening to lots of Bowie as a kid and watching Rocky Horror once too often with Harry. One day John comes home to find Sherlock wearing guyliner, maybe for a case, maybe for an experiment. It makes John all hot, bothered and wibbly. Bonus points if Sherlock's wearing the type of clothes you'd go out goth clubbing in. Can also be read at AO3.
Please note that the fic is complete, so, if you're reading, you won't have to wait for months for an update!
Hearts Filthy Mess
*
Chapter 1
*
~ Chapter 2 ~
*
Sherlock. John had been so engrossed in studying Greg's jacket that he hadn't heard the sound of footsteps approaching them. Sherlock was close - too close for comfort - and John's heart was pounding with a weird mix of anticipation and dread as he considered what might greet him as he turned around, especially as he realised that in his current position his eyes would be more on a level with Sherlock's waist than his face. However advantageous straightening up completely would be, it appeared to be beyond his physical ability at that point in time, so he turned slowly, his head seeming to pivot of its own accord, one thought overwhelming his brain's capacity to work the rest of his body. Don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook. He settled for half leaning/half perching against the back of the chair and hoped against hope that his reason for doing so would not be too obvious.
If John had thought himself mentally prepared for Sherlock's appearance and its possible effect, he would have been proven woefully, earth-shatteringly wrong but, as he’d actually been worrying that Sherlock would look far too much like the living embodiment of a wet dream fuelled by the darker corners of his psyche, he wasn't exactly surprised. By the judicious application of a bit of military backbone and the not-so-surreptitious use of the chair behind him, he was at least able to maintain a precarious hold on remaining upright, even though his legs gleefully informed him that, no, they weren't really that interested in supporting his weight any more.
Sherlock no longer looked like Sherlock. Gone were the slim-fitting shirt and the expensively 'casual' suit. They'd been replaced by…skin - lots of pale, smooth looking skin - and clothes that left very little to the imagination; Sherlock might as well have been naked.
John didn't know where to look first, so he let his eyes roam over Sherlock's torso, without once daring to go as far as his face, noting that despite his slender frame he was in no way worryingly skinny. Sherlock seemed to be content to let John stare; the annoying sod had probably known exactly what sort of response his appearance would elicit. John swallowed, licked at his suddenly dry lips, and tried to bring his faltering thought processes and hammering heart under some sort of control; he couldn't afford to react like this, Sherlock would notice in an instant. Much to John's relief, Sherlock took a few steps away from him which meant that although he was still getting an eyeful, at least he didn't have to contend with Sherlock's body heat and scent within his personal space.
"An effective disguise, wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock's voice was pitched low, silky and feather-soft, and it sent unexpected tingles down John’s spine. He nodded helplessly, eyes still fixed on the expanse of fishnet-covered skin in front of him.
"Oh, yes. Definitely," he said, not daring to even peek at Greg with his peripheral vision. John didn't want to see what he was making of this, pity or amusement would be equally unpalatable.
The added distance between them meant that John could gather more of an overall impression of Sherlock's outfit, rather than being totally overwhelmed simply by his mere presence. In John's opinion, Sherlock's legs were sinfully long anyway but clad as they were in tight, glossy pvc trousers that buckled down the side and fit like a second skin, they seemed to go on for miles. The trousers fit tightly around the ankle, drawing the eye down to the studded ankle boots that were almost like winkle pickers in style, but with a less pointed toe. In John's opinion they were far more elegant and suited Sherlock much better than the clunky, thick-soled, many-buckled boots that most of the goths he’d seen around Camden and elsewhere seemed to prefer. He let his eyes drift upward again, this time more prepared for the effect of having so much of Sherlock's fair skin on show. It wasn't as if he was truly bare-chested, he was wearing a t-shirt, but because it was fishnet it exposed just as much skin as it covered and the black mesh only served to make Sherlock's skin appear even more luminous. Some decency was preserved, however, by the addition of a kind of waistcoat, although that in itself was doing strange things to John's brain.
In overall style, it was a fairly simple waistcoat; cotton canvas with a high neck, mandarin collar and a plain zip running down its full length at the front. The zip was open, displaying Sherlock's fishnet covered chest to its best advantage. If the rest of the waistcoat had been as simple in style, John would not have had such an issue but it was criss-crossed by vinyl straps over what appeared to be the entire surface. There were further straps, fixed with etched silver studs, looped over the shoulders and around the sides to fit snugly against Sherlock's ribs. In John's mind it was somewhat reminiscent of a straitjacket and all he could think about was what Sherlock would look like if he were restrained - preferably on John's bed.
John wanted - no, he needed - to sit down before he fell down, but he remained standing. Just. He gave himself a few moments to gather what was left of his composure and steeled himself for the ultimate test; looking Sherlock in the face without losing it completely. He raised his eyes.
Sherlock reassuringly looked mostly like himself. John had half expected white face, heavy, black eye makeup and lipstick; he should have realised that Sherlock would do nothing so crass as that. His makeup was subtle, accentuating his features perfectly. Just a touch of sheer red to the lips that made them look freshly bitten rather than painted, a whisper of powder that did little beyond keeping shine at bay, liquid black eyeliner and mascara that made his ridiculously long eyelashes stand out even more than usual. John didn't notice the sweep of dark blue glitter across Sherlock's eyelids until he blinked; it matched his nail varnish.
Having made it up as far as Sherlock's eyes, John felt it was safe to let his gaze drift higher. Greg had managed to do something vaguely Robert Smith-esque with Sherlock's hair: it was messy and big, with no sign of the usual curls, which made John suspect it had been crimped before being backcombed to within an inch of its life. He dreaded to think how much hairspray must be keeping it in place; Sherlock was probably inflammable.
He looked… good. Too good.
John hoped his face didn't betray the roiling of his emotions. He doubted it, because he had never been able - from the very first day he met Sherlock - to hide his appreciation and wonder, even when it wasn‘t entirely appropriate. He didn‘t dare to open his mouth to speak, sure that anything that fell out would be incoherent babble, but Sherlock was watching him with such an expectant expression that he found he had to say something, anything in fact; that was the effect Sherlock had on him.
"Nice boots," he mumbled. Sherlock grinned, but Greg sounded like he was almost choking with laughter. John sighed, wanting the floor to swallow him up, no doubt he’d unintentionally made some sort of major gothic faux-pas.
Once his laughter was under control, Greg moved closer to Sherlock and with a soft, almost intimate smile, placed a hand on the small of his back. Sherlock didn’t protest, rather, he seemed to lean into the touch and returned the smile in kind.
"Ready?" Greg asked.
"Almost. I just need to get my coat." Greg removed his hand from Sherlock’s back, giving his arm a quick squeeze before he pushed him gently in the direction of his room.
"Don’t be all night about it," he said.
Sherlock paused briefly, threw a quick wink over his shoulder, and headed towards his room.
John watched the exchange in uncomfortable silence as his heart plummeted. If he’d felt like he was burning up before, the attention Greg had paid to Sherlock - and worse, Sherlock’s response - was like being doused with icy water. He felt like a third wheel, or the gatecrasher at a private party and now he really did need to sit down. He shuffled round his chair to take a seat in it. Greg didn’t seem to notice his discomfort.
"Think we’ll pass muster?"
John took a deep breath before answering and focused on his knees. He couldn’t face Greg.
"You both certainly look the part," he replied.
"I’m glad, I would have hated all that effort to go to waste."
"Oh it’s not gone to waste. Definitely not. Anything but." Oh God, he was on the verge of babbling again. John bit his lip in an effort to keep mum, he had no idea what he might inadvertently let slip if he didn't.
"Good. Oh well, here’s his highness. We’ll be out of your hair in a minute. Should be a nice quiet night in for you, for a change."
John swivelled in his chair in order to look. For some reason he’d half expected to see Sherlock in his usual coat - a stupid idea if ever there was one - so to see him without it was something of a surprise. Just about the only thing the coat he was wearing had in common with the other one was that it was long and swishy which was where all resemblance ended.
Like the waistcoat, this coat was mostly canvas, and its shape bore some similarity to a priest’s cassock. However, no priest would have worn this particular concoction of cotton, pvc, laces and buckles unless they were feeling particularly demonic. John supposed that was the entire point; it also suited Sherlock very well.
He spied Greg’s nod out of the corner of his eye and when he glanced more fully in that direction he caught what looked like a smug, almost possessive, grin on the other man’s face.
"Come on, Princess," said Greg. "It’s time to go." He headed out of the door to wait on the landing. John watched as Sherlock made to follow without a backward glance. He couldn’t stand it.
"Sherlock…" He hated that he sounded like he was begging, but Sherlock did at least pause on the threshold, one hand on the door frame and body half-turned toward John. Once he actually had Sherlock’s attention, John found himself at a loss for words. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he guessed that most of them would be unwelcome - to both Sherlock and Greg - so he took refuge in voicing his most simple and heartfelt wish. "Look, take care, will you?" To John’s complete and utter surprise, there was no acerbic remark about sentiment thrown at him in response, only a firm nod and a gentle smile that seemed to promise John the world. In the next moment Sherlock was gone in a swirl of coat, clattering down the stairs after Greg.
Words drifted upward in their wake, floating through the still open door.
"You know, you almost look good enough to eat like that."
That was Greg, of course, managing to say what John could not. Damn him. John hated himself just a little bit more. He was so lost in self-loathing that he almost missed Sherlock’s answer.
"You'll just have to wait. Right now, it would mess up my hair."
Greg’s laughter drowned out anything else that Sherlock might have said until the rattle-thunk of the front door closing cut off all sound.
*
A/N 2: If you said "Nice Boots," to someone in the goth clubbing days of the 80s and 90s you were basically asking "Want to fuck?". The Greg Lestrade in this fic would no doubt have been aware of this tradition.
Chapter 3
If you'd like to get a better idea of what Sherlock is wearing, please take yourselves along to the Sherlock Visual Aids post.
Authors: aeron_lanart, fred_bear aka
Jennybel75, mandatorily
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Pairings: Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, concepts and smut. This part PG-15
Spoilers: Spoilers up to and including S2 ep1
Warnings: Beware of the Angst! Slight injury in the service of a case.
Summary: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat, Mr Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
A/N 1: Written in collaboration for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme friending post -
John has a bit of a kink for pretty boys in eyeliner (he refers to it as guyliner). He suspects it comes from listening to lots of Bowie as a kid and watching Rocky Horror once too often with Harry. One day John comes home to find Sherlock wearing guyliner, maybe for a case, maybe for an experiment. It makes John all hot, bothered and wibbly. Bonus points if Sherlock's wearing the type of clothes you'd go out goth clubbing in. Can also be read at AO3.
Please note that the fic is complete, so, if you're reading, you won't have to wait for months for an update!
Hearts Filthy Mess
*
Chapter 1
*
~ Chapter 2 ~
*
Sherlock. John had been so engrossed in studying Greg's jacket that he hadn't heard the sound of footsteps approaching them. Sherlock was close - too close for comfort - and John's heart was pounding with a weird mix of anticipation and dread as he considered what might greet him as he turned around, especially as he realised that in his current position his eyes would be more on a level with Sherlock's waist than his face. However advantageous straightening up completely would be, it appeared to be beyond his physical ability at that point in time, so he turned slowly, his head seeming to pivot of its own accord, one thought overwhelming his brain's capacity to work the rest of his body. Don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook. He settled for half leaning/half perching against the back of the chair and hoped against hope that his reason for doing so would not be too obvious.
If John had thought himself mentally prepared for Sherlock's appearance and its possible effect, he would have been proven woefully, earth-shatteringly wrong but, as he’d actually been worrying that Sherlock would look far too much like the living embodiment of a wet dream fuelled by the darker corners of his psyche, he wasn't exactly surprised. By the judicious application of a bit of military backbone and the not-so-surreptitious use of the chair behind him, he was at least able to maintain a precarious hold on remaining upright, even though his legs gleefully informed him that, no, they weren't really that interested in supporting his weight any more.
Sherlock no longer looked like Sherlock. Gone were the slim-fitting shirt and the expensively 'casual' suit. They'd been replaced by…skin - lots of pale, smooth looking skin - and clothes that left very little to the imagination; Sherlock might as well have been naked.
John didn't know where to look first, so he let his eyes roam over Sherlock's torso, without once daring to go as far as his face, noting that despite his slender frame he was in no way worryingly skinny. Sherlock seemed to be content to let John stare; the annoying sod had probably known exactly what sort of response his appearance would elicit. John swallowed, licked at his suddenly dry lips, and tried to bring his faltering thought processes and hammering heart under some sort of control; he couldn't afford to react like this, Sherlock would notice in an instant. Much to John's relief, Sherlock took a few steps away from him which meant that although he was still getting an eyeful, at least he didn't have to contend with Sherlock's body heat and scent within his personal space.
"An effective disguise, wouldn't you agree?" Sherlock's voice was pitched low, silky and feather-soft, and it sent unexpected tingles down John’s spine. He nodded helplessly, eyes still fixed on the expanse of fishnet-covered skin in front of him.
"Oh, yes. Definitely," he said, not daring to even peek at Greg with his peripheral vision. John didn't want to see what he was making of this, pity or amusement would be equally unpalatable.
The added distance between them meant that John could gather more of an overall impression of Sherlock's outfit, rather than being totally overwhelmed simply by his mere presence. In John's opinion, Sherlock's legs were sinfully long anyway but clad as they were in tight, glossy pvc trousers that buckled down the side and fit like a second skin, they seemed to go on for miles. The trousers fit tightly around the ankle, drawing the eye down to the studded ankle boots that were almost like winkle pickers in style, but with a less pointed toe. In John's opinion they were far more elegant and suited Sherlock much better than the clunky, thick-soled, many-buckled boots that most of the goths he’d seen around Camden and elsewhere seemed to prefer. He let his eyes drift upward again, this time more prepared for the effect of having so much of Sherlock's fair skin on show. It wasn't as if he was truly bare-chested, he was wearing a t-shirt, but because it was fishnet it exposed just as much skin as it covered and the black mesh only served to make Sherlock's skin appear even more luminous. Some decency was preserved, however, by the addition of a kind of waistcoat, although that in itself was doing strange things to John's brain.
In overall style, it was a fairly simple waistcoat; cotton canvas with a high neck, mandarin collar and a plain zip running down its full length at the front. The zip was open, displaying Sherlock's fishnet covered chest to its best advantage. If the rest of the waistcoat had been as simple in style, John would not have had such an issue but it was criss-crossed by vinyl straps over what appeared to be the entire surface. There were further straps, fixed with etched silver studs, looped over the shoulders and around the sides to fit snugly against Sherlock's ribs. In John's mind it was somewhat reminiscent of a straitjacket and all he could think about was what Sherlock would look like if he were restrained - preferably on John's bed.
John wanted - no, he needed - to sit down before he fell down, but he remained standing. Just. He gave himself a few moments to gather what was left of his composure and steeled himself for the ultimate test; looking Sherlock in the face without losing it completely. He raised his eyes.
Sherlock reassuringly looked mostly like himself. John had half expected white face, heavy, black eye makeup and lipstick; he should have realised that Sherlock would do nothing so crass as that. His makeup was subtle, accentuating his features perfectly. Just a touch of sheer red to the lips that made them look freshly bitten rather than painted, a whisper of powder that did little beyond keeping shine at bay, liquid black eyeliner and mascara that made his ridiculously long eyelashes stand out even more than usual. John didn't notice the sweep of dark blue glitter across Sherlock's eyelids until he blinked; it matched his nail varnish.
Having made it up as far as Sherlock's eyes, John felt it was safe to let his gaze drift higher. Greg had managed to do something vaguely Robert Smith-esque with Sherlock's hair: it was messy and big, with no sign of the usual curls, which made John suspect it had been crimped before being backcombed to within an inch of its life. He dreaded to think how much hairspray must be keeping it in place; Sherlock was probably inflammable.
He looked… good. Too good.
John hoped his face didn't betray the roiling of his emotions. He doubted it, because he had never been able - from the very first day he met Sherlock - to hide his appreciation and wonder, even when it wasn‘t entirely appropriate. He didn‘t dare to open his mouth to speak, sure that anything that fell out would be incoherent babble, but Sherlock was watching him with such an expectant expression that he found he had to say something, anything in fact; that was the effect Sherlock had on him.
"Nice boots," he mumbled. Sherlock grinned, but Greg sounded like he was almost choking with laughter. John sighed, wanting the floor to swallow him up, no doubt he’d unintentionally made some sort of major gothic faux-pas.
Once his laughter was under control, Greg moved closer to Sherlock and with a soft, almost intimate smile, placed a hand on the small of his back. Sherlock didn’t protest, rather, he seemed to lean into the touch and returned the smile in kind.
"Ready?" Greg asked.
"Almost. I just need to get my coat." Greg removed his hand from Sherlock’s back, giving his arm a quick squeeze before he pushed him gently in the direction of his room.
"Don’t be all night about it," he said.
Sherlock paused briefly, threw a quick wink over his shoulder, and headed towards his room.
John watched the exchange in uncomfortable silence as his heart plummeted. If he’d felt like he was burning up before, the attention Greg had paid to Sherlock - and worse, Sherlock’s response - was like being doused with icy water. He felt like a third wheel, or the gatecrasher at a private party and now he really did need to sit down. He shuffled round his chair to take a seat in it. Greg didn’t seem to notice his discomfort.
"Think we’ll pass muster?"
John took a deep breath before answering and focused on his knees. He couldn’t face Greg.
"You both certainly look the part," he replied.
"I’m glad, I would have hated all that effort to go to waste."
"Oh it’s not gone to waste. Definitely not. Anything but." Oh God, he was on the verge of babbling again. John bit his lip in an effort to keep mum, he had no idea what he might inadvertently let slip if he didn't.
"Good. Oh well, here’s his highness. We’ll be out of your hair in a minute. Should be a nice quiet night in for you, for a change."
John swivelled in his chair in order to look. For some reason he’d half expected to see Sherlock in his usual coat - a stupid idea if ever there was one - so to see him without it was something of a surprise. Just about the only thing the coat he was wearing had in common with the other one was that it was long and swishy which was where all resemblance ended.
Like the waistcoat, this coat was mostly canvas, and its shape bore some similarity to a priest’s cassock. However, no priest would have worn this particular concoction of cotton, pvc, laces and buckles unless they were feeling particularly demonic. John supposed that was the entire point; it also suited Sherlock very well.
He spied Greg’s nod out of the corner of his eye and when he glanced more fully in that direction he caught what looked like a smug, almost possessive, grin on the other man’s face.
"Come on, Princess," said Greg. "It’s time to go." He headed out of the door to wait on the landing. John watched as Sherlock made to follow without a backward glance. He couldn’t stand it.
"Sherlock…" He hated that he sounded like he was begging, but Sherlock did at least pause on the threshold, one hand on the door frame and body half-turned toward John. Once he actually had Sherlock’s attention, John found himself at a loss for words. There were so many things he wanted to say, but he guessed that most of them would be unwelcome - to both Sherlock and Greg - so he took refuge in voicing his most simple and heartfelt wish. "Look, take care, will you?" To John’s complete and utter surprise, there was no acerbic remark about sentiment thrown at him in response, only a firm nod and a gentle smile that seemed to promise John the world. In the next moment Sherlock was gone in a swirl of coat, clattering down the stairs after Greg.
Words drifted upward in their wake, floating through the still open door.
"You know, you almost look good enough to eat like that."
That was Greg, of course, managing to say what John could not. Damn him. John hated himself just a little bit more. He was so lost in self-loathing that he almost missed Sherlock’s answer.
"You'll just have to wait. Right now, it would mess up my hair."
Greg’s laughter drowned out anything else that Sherlock might have said until the rattle-thunk of the front door closing cut off all sound.
*
A/N 2: If you said "Nice Boots," to someone in the goth clubbing days of the 80s and 90s you were basically asking "Want to fuck?". The Greg Lestrade in this fic would no doubt have been aware of this tradition.
Chapter 3
If you'd like to get a better idea of what Sherlock is wearing, please take yourselves along to the Sherlock Visual Aids post.