Fic: Hearts Filthy Mess, 5/7 | 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.
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
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
*
~ Chapter 5 ~
*
He collapsed against the door after he'd locked it. It was solid at his back and he leaned his head against it, grateful for its support as he closed his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Somehow - somewhere - he had to find the courage he needed in order to breach Sherlock's obstructive silence, even though he had no idea what the fuck he was going to say. Maybe he'd just open his mouth and see what words fell out without his conscious control, he doubted he could make things any worse.
A quick glance in Sherlock's direction revealed him to be carefully not looking over at the door. That didn't mean he hadn't observed John's distress. Hell, he could even be waiting for his imminent collapse so he could catalogue the different ways in which John fell apart. He would have to wait a long time, John decided, determined that he wouldn't give Sherlock that satisfaction. All he had to do was pull himself together, develop a bit more backbone and speak. That was all. All. He could do it. He made a concentrated effort to slow his breathing, to really be aware of the passage of air into his lungs and let some of the anxiety leave his body with each breath. In. Hold. Out. Gradually, he felt his panic subside into something more manageable, something that would at least let him stand unaided, and, if he was lucky, make it safely to his chair.
Gaining that refuge had never seemed to be such a difficult task to accomplish as it was now and John was amazed that he didn't stumble even once in the process, as he'd half expected to go arse over elbow and end up in an undignified heap on the floor. The chair seemed to welcome him with its unassuming familiarity. He let himself relax slightly, just enough that the screaming tension in his back and shoulders didn't transmute into literal pain. He couldn't afford that distraction - he was distracted enough already.
Eventually, John realised that he was as composed as he was going to get and that he really couldn't let the silence stretch out any longer. It had been a surprise when Sherlock had refrained from interjecting any 'helpful' comments into the quietness between them but John had been grateful for the reprieve. He still didn't know what he was going to say, especially when he appeared to have precious little control over his thoughts - they were still careering around in his head like some sort of demented carousel.
Maybe he should just start with tonight, with what he had physically seen and take it from there. He gave a resigned nod, decision made; it was as good a place as any to make his stand.
John raised his head and let his eyes drift towards the sofa. Sherlock hadn't moved but was regarding him with the sort of intensity that he generally reserved for only the most interesting of corpses. It was… disquieting to have that sort of focus turned on himself, especially when just one glance at Sherlock had been enough to derail his train of thought yet again. He wanted to leap out of his chair, march across the room and grab Sherlock just to get some sort of reaction from him, to crack that icy demeanour, even if it was just for a moment. John wasn't sure whether he would shake him or shove his tongue down his throat once he got there, either was equally possible. He remained seated, fingers clamped together in his lap as if they might reach out to Sherlock under their own volition if he didn't keep them restrained.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
John cleared his throat. Why hadn't he finished making that tea? He really could do with something to concentrate on besides Sherlock. Never mind, he was used to working creatively with limited resources so he'd manage with what he had - even if all that comprised was an overloaded brain, the dread that his two best friends were decidedly more than friends and that he wanted one of them to be… well, he wanted. End of. Which was the root of the problem, right there.
"You and Lestrade…"
"Lestrade and I, what, exactly?" Sherlock's intense gaze didn't falter. It didn't make things any easier.
"Looked…"
Like sex on legs. Both of you. Maybe that's why all the alt people I know seem so… fluid… in their sexuality; they all look so damn… edible.
"good tonight. You make a…"
Fuckable. Yeah, definitely fuckable. All that leather. PVC. Legs. And skin. Mustn't forget the skin… Lick it. Bite it. Mark it. Oh Jesus God help me…
"striking couple."
"A couple. Really."
"Yes. You…"
Couldn't keep your hands off him. That's not like you. And as for him...
"obviously care a lot about each other."
"Lestrade cares." Sherlock gave a sinuous wriggle that John decided was supposed to be a shrug but managed to burn out a few more neurons in his brain in the process. He was staring, he knew he was, but he really couldn't give a flying fuck any more - Sherlock demanded the stare with every breath, every blink, every beat of his unfathomable heart.
"Umm," John agreed.
"But then, Lestrade cares for everyone; including you, John. I merely appreciate that care."
Was that a smile? Was fucking Sherlock Holmes fucking smiling at him while he fucked with his head? Kill him. He'd kill him. Though he might have to kiss him first, get at least some satisfaction before he was incarcerated for life.
"You. He. Tonight..."
"You see, but you don't observe. How many times have I told you that?"
Sherlock was just being his usual supercilious self but it was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, taking the remnants of John's self-control with it.
"Observe? I'll give you observing - and you can shove it right where it bloody hurts!" John heaved himself out of his chair and propelled himself across the room, unsure of what he was going to do, only to find his path blocked by his very goal. Sherlock.
Sherlock, who smiled at him. Smiled. Fucking arsehole. Who clasped John's trip-wire taut shoulders in a gentle grip and gave him a minuscule shake.
"Think. What did you see tonight? With your eyes, John, and not with your imagination… or your heart."
Oh holy fuck, Sherlock knew. He'd seen - observed - and he knew and there was no way that John could tear himself away. Instead, he tried to do what Sherlock asked, not exactly the easiest task when his fingers were burning into John's shoulders, providing yet another distraction, as if John needed another one.
John replayed the earlier part of the night in his head, tried to step back from it and see it as an outsider, not as someone who had suddenly discovered he was a hell of a lot more emotionally invested in a person than he'd previously realised.
It was no good. The touches, the smiles, the easy banter had all pointed in a direction that John really didn't like and he didn't think he could retreat from that standpoint. However, Sherlock had asked and John was unable to refuse a direct request from him, even if what came out of his mouth made no sense.
"Too much touching," he said. Then the floodgates opened and sod only using his eyes, he let them drift shut and allowed the words to flow. "You never permit people to touch you unnecessarily, you always hold yourself aloof from too-close contact. Even from me. I'm your bloody flat mate - your doctor - and you never ever react like that to me! One bloody touch from him and you were purring like a fucking cat who'd got the cream. And he.. he just…" John ran out of steam. He realised he was breathless and that Sherlock still had hold of his shoulders, though his grip could no longer be called gentle; his fingers dug into John hard enough that his touch was only a breath away from being painful. Which was fine. He opened his eyes again, to discover that he was no longer being held at arm's length and that Sherlock's face was a hell of a lot closer than it had been.
"Lestrade cares," Sherlock repeated, softly. "And I appreciate that care, though I usually don't demonstrate the fact. Sometimes he just needs a little more than that from me to enable him to function at his best in a difficult situation. That's all it was, John. Nothing more." Sherlock gave him another little shake, as if he was trying to make John believe him. It didn't work.
"I don't believe you."
"No, you wouldn't, would you?" Sherlock sighed, close enough that John could feel it dance across his skin. "Maybe you'll believe this…"
*
Chapter 6
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.
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
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
*
~ Chapter 5 ~
*
He collapsed against the door after he'd locked it. It was solid at his back and he leaned his head against it, grateful for its support as he closed his eyes, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Somehow - somewhere - he had to find the courage he needed in order to breach Sherlock's obstructive silence, even though he had no idea what the fuck he was going to say. Maybe he'd just open his mouth and see what words fell out without his conscious control, he doubted he could make things any worse.
A quick glance in Sherlock's direction revealed him to be carefully not looking over at the door. That didn't mean he hadn't observed John's distress. Hell, he could even be waiting for his imminent collapse so he could catalogue the different ways in which John fell apart. He would have to wait a long time, John decided, determined that he wouldn't give Sherlock that satisfaction. All he had to do was pull himself together, develop a bit more backbone and speak. That was all. All. He could do it. He made a concentrated effort to slow his breathing, to really be aware of the passage of air into his lungs and let some of the anxiety leave his body with each breath. In. Hold. Out. Gradually, he felt his panic subside into something more manageable, something that would at least let him stand unaided, and, if he was lucky, make it safely to his chair.
Gaining that refuge had never seemed to be such a difficult task to accomplish as it was now and John was amazed that he didn't stumble even once in the process, as he'd half expected to go arse over elbow and end up in an undignified heap on the floor. The chair seemed to welcome him with its unassuming familiarity. He let himself relax slightly, just enough that the screaming tension in his back and shoulders didn't transmute into literal pain. He couldn't afford that distraction - he was distracted enough already.
Eventually, John realised that he was as composed as he was going to get and that he really couldn't let the silence stretch out any longer. It had been a surprise when Sherlock had refrained from interjecting any 'helpful' comments into the quietness between them but John had been grateful for the reprieve. He still didn't know what he was going to say, especially when he appeared to have precious little control over his thoughts - they were still careering around in his head like some sort of demented carousel.
Maybe he should just start with tonight, with what he had physically seen and take it from there. He gave a resigned nod, decision made; it was as good a place as any to make his stand.
John raised his head and let his eyes drift towards the sofa. Sherlock hadn't moved but was regarding him with the sort of intensity that he generally reserved for only the most interesting of corpses. It was… disquieting to have that sort of focus turned on himself, especially when just one glance at Sherlock had been enough to derail his train of thought yet again. He wanted to leap out of his chair, march across the room and grab Sherlock just to get some sort of reaction from him, to crack that icy demeanour, even if it was just for a moment. John wasn't sure whether he would shake him or shove his tongue down his throat once he got there, either was equally possible. He remained seated, fingers clamped together in his lap as if they might reach out to Sherlock under their own volition if he didn't keep them restrained.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
John cleared his throat. Why hadn't he finished making that tea? He really could do with something to concentrate on besides Sherlock. Never mind, he was used to working creatively with limited resources so he'd manage with what he had - even if all that comprised was an overloaded brain, the dread that his two best friends were decidedly more than friends and that he wanted one of them to be… well, he wanted. End of. Which was the root of the problem, right there.
"You and Lestrade…"
"Lestrade and I, what, exactly?" Sherlock's intense gaze didn't falter. It didn't make things any easier.
"Looked…"
Like sex on legs. Both of you. Maybe that's why all the alt people I know seem so… fluid… in their sexuality; they all look so damn… edible.
"good tonight. You make a…"
Fuckable. Yeah, definitely fuckable. All that leather. PVC. Legs. And skin. Mustn't forget the skin… Lick it. Bite it. Mark it. Oh Jesus God help me…
"striking couple."
"A couple. Really."
"Yes. You…"
Couldn't keep your hands off him. That's not like you. And as for him...
"obviously care a lot about each other."
"Lestrade cares." Sherlock gave a sinuous wriggle that John decided was supposed to be a shrug but managed to burn out a few more neurons in his brain in the process. He was staring, he knew he was, but he really couldn't give a flying fuck any more - Sherlock demanded the stare with every breath, every blink, every beat of his unfathomable heart.
"Umm," John agreed.
"But then, Lestrade cares for everyone; including you, John. I merely appreciate that care."
Was that a smile? Was fucking Sherlock Holmes fucking smiling at him while he fucked with his head? Kill him. He'd kill him. Though he might have to kiss him first, get at least some satisfaction before he was incarcerated for life.
"You. He. Tonight..."
"You see, but you don't observe. How many times have I told you that?"
Sherlock was just being his usual supercilious self but it was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, taking the remnants of John's self-control with it.
"Observe? I'll give you observing - and you can shove it right where it bloody hurts!" John heaved himself out of his chair and propelled himself across the room, unsure of what he was going to do, only to find his path blocked by his very goal. Sherlock.
Sherlock, who smiled at him. Smiled. Fucking arsehole. Who clasped John's trip-wire taut shoulders in a gentle grip and gave him a minuscule shake.
"Think. What did you see tonight? With your eyes, John, and not with your imagination… or your heart."
Oh holy fuck, Sherlock knew. He'd seen - observed - and he knew and there was no way that John could tear himself away. Instead, he tried to do what Sherlock asked, not exactly the easiest task when his fingers were burning into John's shoulders, providing yet another distraction, as if John needed another one.
John replayed the earlier part of the night in his head, tried to step back from it and see it as an outsider, not as someone who had suddenly discovered he was a hell of a lot more emotionally invested in a person than he'd previously realised.
It was no good. The touches, the smiles, the easy banter had all pointed in a direction that John really didn't like and he didn't think he could retreat from that standpoint. However, Sherlock had asked and John was unable to refuse a direct request from him, even if what came out of his mouth made no sense.
"Too much touching," he said. Then the floodgates opened and sod only using his eyes, he let them drift shut and allowed the words to flow. "You never permit people to touch you unnecessarily, you always hold yourself aloof from too-close contact. Even from me. I'm your bloody flat mate - your doctor - and you never ever react like that to me! One bloody touch from him and you were purring like a fucking cat who'd got the cream. And he.. he just…" John ran out of steam. He realised he was breathless and that Sherlock still had hold of his shoulders, though his grip could no longer be called gentle; his fingers dug into John hard enough that his touch was only a breath away from being painful. Which was fine. He opened his eyes again, to discover that he was no longer being held at arm's length and that Sherlock's face was a hell of a lot closer than it had been.
"Lestrade cares," Sherlock repeated, softly. "And I appreciate that care, though I usually don't demonstrate the fact. Sometimes he just needs a little more than that from me to enable him to function at his best in a difficult situation. That's all it was, John. Nothing more." Sherlock gave him another little shake, as if he was trying to make John believe him. It didn't work.
"I don't believe you."
"No, you wouldn't, would you?" Sherlock sighed, close enough that John could feel it dance across his skin. "Maybe you'll believe this…"
*
Chapter 6