Pick Pocket Sexting
My attempt at a Sherlock prompt. It was something like this: Sherlock/Anthea - their mutual love of texting. Or sexting if you will.
But I seem to have made it implied Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea and a sexting Sherlock/Anthea.
Warnings for adult content.
Pick Pocket Sexting
It had been the average day, Sherlock and John had attended another crime scene, Sherlock instantly deducing a number of facts. John and Sherlock had been leaving the scene when Mycroft stepped out of the shadows. Instantly Sherlock was on alert, his brother wouldn’t approach for no reason, no Mycroft wanted something. Leaving John to entertain his arch nemesis brother Sherlock decided to entertain himself by picking Mycroft’s pockets; picking out his phone and a ticket stub before Mycroft turned towards him intent on discussing some matter. Likely the birthday party Mother was planning for him.
Sighing Sherlock interrupted Mycroft making up an excuse of an oven on and Mrs Hudson waiting for them to get away from his brother, Sherlock dragged John away from the scene and a smirking Mycroft.
When they’d gone a suitable distance from Mycroft John turned to Sherlock, “What was that about? Mrs Hudson isn’t waiting for us and since when did you leave the oven on?”
Sherlock merely glanced at his disgruntled flatmate before continuing walking away, finding them a cab he pushed John in before telling the cabbie their address. Once reaching 221B Baker Street Sherlock raced up the stairs and into his own bed room. He couldn’t wait to find out the secrets from Mycroft’s phone, maybe that would teaching the interferer not to interfere with Sherlock’s work or flatmate.
Scrolling through the list of contacts he found nothing. Flicking through his messages he found nothing. Listening to his voice mail he found nothing. Hocking the mobile up to his laptop and thoroughly hacking it he found nothing.
Grumbling Sherlock stared at the phone in broody silence. And then an idea popped into Sherlock’s brilliant mind, why not embarrass poor Mycroft by sending dirty texts to his contact list. And so smiling an evil crafty smile Sherlock set about planning his mastermind sexting.
First he’d need to know how to sext, how did one those sort of things these days? Was there a method, a code? What did he even write? Sherlock was slightly bemused now, he wondered briefly if John would help him but given the last time he’d asked John to texts for him he’d been called by a serial killer John wasn’t likely to be compliant with Sherlock’s texting requirements. So that left Sherlock with a phone, a laptop and a vague idea of what he wanted to do.
Great. Maybe he could start with something simple, like ‘I’m hard for you’?
No that wasn’t Mycroft. How about, ‘are you wet for me?’
Ten minutes later Sherlock still hasn’t thought of a suitable introductory sext.
He ended up sending, ‘I was going to sext you but I couldn’t think of what to say’ to the contact listed as Anthea, it was Mycroft’s most commonly used.
The return message was quickly coming, ‘Hmm Mycroft, never knew you had it in you. Are you hard?’
Sherlock gulped, the woman was actually responding. Sherlock was fighting giggles, she thought it was Mycroft. Well she should, it was Mycroft’s phone and number.
Giggling she compiled his reply. ‘Yeah, I’m hard for you. Are you wet for me?’
He sent the message eagerly awaiting the reply. The phone soon beeped, informing him of a new message. ‘I’m getting there, sext me up a bit more and I will be’
Smiling at the woman’s words Sherlock quickly replied, ‘What are you wearing? Your bra and undies? I’m in my boxer shorts, nothing else’
The message was sent and Sherlock was bouncing in place, tapping his foot and nervously awaiting the reply. A minute or two later it came. ‘I’m in them now, nothing but a lacy bra and thong. Are you rubbing yourself?’
Sucking in a lung full of air Sherlock felt a jolt of arousal, this was no longer about embarrassing Mycroft. No Sherlock was wondering if he could do this with John, what the good doctor would reply with. ‘Rub yourself and I will. Are your breast straining, your nipples hard?’
After sending his reply Sherlock packed away his laptop and threw himself across his bed. He was settling himself in when his phone beeped, picking it up he opened the message. ‘I’m pinching my nipples, they’re so hard and sensitive’ attached to the message was a photo of a hardened nipple. Sherlock grinned.
As the night wore on the text messages got dirtier and dirtier, steamier and steamier, until Anthea and Sherlock had themselves so worked up that the night could only end with an orgasm. And what an orgasm it was. Images flashed before Sherlock’s eye. Unfulfilled fantasies, John pushing Sherlock against a wall his mouth pressed against Sherlock’s, the kiss intense and demanding. The image shifts to John on his knees, looking up at Sherlock as he does wicked things with his tongue.
Anthea, aware that the person behind the messages was not her boss, found herself fantasying about Mycroft. The mental images were so different to their daily interaction, impossible. In a moment of clarity before a wave of intense pleasure hit her, Anthea wondered what her boss would say or do when he saw these messages.
She was still smiling at the image when the orgasm overtook her, screaming her way into ecstasy.
As the two parties came down from their high, gasping for breath and dizzy for the intensity, Anthea was the first to recover. She managed to gather her wits to send a text, ‘Fuck that was good. Just came. Thanks for the sexts’
Sherlock was drifting in a haze when the phone beeped, picking it up he read the message and laughed, sighing he wondered if he should reply. ‘Same here, thank you. Have a good one’
With the message sent they each put their phones away and dragged themselves to bed, falling into deep sleeps almost as soon as their heads hit their pillows.
Sherlock considered his night was well spent. John on the other hand was of this opinion; no John thought Sherlock’s night was disruptive and inconsiderate. John had spent half the night unable to sleep because of Sherlock’s bloody phone beeping away and the suspicious sounds coming from his flatmates room. Noises that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock was jacking off. Which it couldn’t have been, could it? The phone beeping and masturbation sounds? From Sherlock? John reasoned it was likely one of Sherlock stranger experiments. At least he hoped it was, if not god help him and his mental stability.
Mycroft was likely to agree with John about his night though not for the same reasons as John. No Mycroft’s night was no were near satisfying. He’d found his phone missing at half eleven when he went to call the Prime Minister of Belgium to notifying him of-
Well he could think that, could he? Top secret and national security, all that jazz. Besides, who knows who’s listening to your thoughts.
The missing phone had been traced back to Sherlock, unsurprisingly. Mycroft lamented his brother’s bad habits and his incurable boredom, well incurable asides from interesting murders and cases. In an uncharacteristic show of frustration Mycroft had thrown his shoe at the wall, leaving a rather large black smudge and dent. The mark could be taken care of and the dent could be covered. But Mycroft couldn’t care; he was feeling much better for having thrown the shoe.
The rest of his night was spent on his land line, once he remembered the number to call, discussing and detailing appropriate action to the Belgium Prime Minister. His emotion once again firmly leashed and collared.
When morning finally came Mycroft found himself in his office, Anthea desk as yet unoccupied but it was only a matter of time before his assistant arrived. Sitting on top of his desk Mycroft finds his mobile, sitting nice and squarely in the centre of the desk, a yellow post-it note stuck to it. ‘Had fun. Enjoy the fruits of my sexting, SH’ Mycroft would know it was his brother even without the distinctive writing style of Sherlock Holmes and the obvious initials. Growling Mycroft picks the phone up and throws the sticky note away before stashing the phone in his pocket.
Its twenty minutes later when Anthea arrives, she breezes into Mycroft’s office with an armful of files and her Blackberry in her free hand. Glancing up from it she smiles, dazzling before placing the files on the desk. “Would you like anything, Sir? Tea?” Mycroft notes a certain something in her tone but doesn’t pursue it, “No thank you Anthea” he replies, his head already down and working on some government operation.
In his peripheral vision he sees Anthea coming towards him, he glances up just as she grabs his chin and kisses him. Her lips pressed against him, her hand moving from his chin to stroke his cheek. The kiss deepens, pulling Mycroft in. Coming back to his sense, Mycroft pushes back, sweeping his tongue over her lips, demanding entrance. Anthea yields, her lips parting and tongue sweeping out to meet his.
When they finally pull apart they’re both gasping for breath, lungs once again full of air they dive back in and kissed again. This one held more heat, more passion. Minutes later Anthea was walking towards the door, not out of the room but to lock the door. An hour later she left, more than slightly dishevelled and thanking Mycroft’s brother’s habit of pick pocketing.
But I seem to have made it implied Sherlock/John, Mycroft/Anthea and a sexting Sherlock/Anthea.
Warnings for adult content.
Pick Pocket Sexting
It had been the average day, Sherlock and John had attended another crime scene, Sherlock instantly deducing a number of facts. John and Sherlock had been leaving the scene when Mycroft stepped out of the shadows. Instantly Sherlock was on alert, his brother wouldn’t approach for no reason, no Mycroft wanted something. Leaving John to entertain his arch nemesis brother Sherlock decided to entertain himself by picking Mycroft’s pockets; picking out his phone and a ticket stub before Mycroft turned towards him intent on discussing some matter. Likely the birthday party Mother was planning for him.
Sighing Sherlock interrupted Mycroft making up an excuse of an oven on and Mrs Hudson waiting for them to get away from his brother, Sherlock dragged John away from the scene and a smirking Mycroft.
When they’d gone a suitable distance from Mycroft John turned to Sherlock, “What was that about? Mrs Hudson isn’t waiting for us and since when did you leave the oven on?”
Sherlock merely glanced at his disgruntled flatmate before continuing walking away, finding them a cab he pushed John in before telling the cabbie their address. Once reaching 221B Baker Street Sherlock raced up the stairs and into his own bed room. He couldn’t wait to find out the secrets from Mycroft’s phone, maybe that would teaching the interferer not to interfere with Sherlock’s work or flatmate.
Scrolling through the list of contacts he found nothing. Flicking through his messages he found nothing. Listening to his voice mail he found nothing. Hocking the mobile up to his laptop and thoroughly hacking it he found nothing.
Grumbling Sherlock stared at the phone in broody silence. And then an idea popped into Sherlock’s brilliant mind, why not embarrass poor Mycroft by sending dirty texts to his contact list. And so smiling an evil crafty smile Sherlock set about planning his mastermind sexting.
First he’d need to know how to sext, how did one those sort of things these days? Was there a method, a code? What did he even write? Sherlock was slightly bemused now, he wondered briefly if John would help him but given the last time he’d asked John to texts for him he’d been called by a serial killer John wasn’t likely to be compliant with Sherlock’s texting requirements. So that left Sherlock with a phone, a laptop and a vague idea of what he wanted to do.
Great. Maybe he could start with something simple, like ‘I’m hard for you’?
No that wasn’t Mycroft. How about, ‘are you wet for me?’
Ten minutes later Sherlock still hasn’t thought of a suitable introductory sext.
He ended up sending, ‘I was going to sext you but I couldn’t think of what to say’ to the contact listed as Anthea, it was Mycroft’s most commonly used.
The return message was quickly coming, ‘Hmm Mycroft, never knew you had it in you. Are you hard?’
Sherlock gulped, the woman was actually responding. Sherlock was fighting giggles, she thought it was Mycroft. Well she should, it was Mycroft’s phone and number.
Giggling she compiled his reply. ‘Yeah, I’m hard for you. Are you wet for me?’
He sent the message eagerly awaiting the reply. The phone soon beeped, informing him of a new message. ‘I’m getting there, sext me up a bit more and I will be’
Smiling at the woman’s words Sherlock quickly replied, ‘What are you wearing? Your bra and undies? I’m in my boxer shorts, nothing else’
The message was sent and Sherlock was bouncing in place, tapping his foot and nervously awaiting the reply. A minute or two later it came. ‘I’m in them now, nothing but a lacy bra and thong. Are you rubbing yourself?’
Sucking in a lung full of air Sherlock felt a jolt of arousal, this was no longer about embarrassing Mycroft. No Sherlock was wondering if he could do this with John, what the good doctor would reply with. ‘Rub yourself and I will. Are your breast straining, your nipples hard?’
After sending his reply Sherlock packed away his laptop and threw himself across his bed. He was settling himself in when his phone beeped, picking it up he opened the message. ‘I’m pinching my nipples, they’re so hard and sensitive’ attached to the message was a photo of a hardened nipple. Sherlock grinned.
As the night wore on the text messages got dirtier and dirtier, steamier and steamier, until Anthea and Sherlock had themselves so worked up that the night could only end with an orgasm. And what an orgasm it was. Images flashed before Sherlock’s eye. Unfulfilled fantasies, John pushing Sherlock against a wall his mouth pressed against Sherlock’s, the kiss intense and demanding. The image shifts to John on his knees, looking up at Sherlock as he does wicked things with his tongue.
Anthea, aware that the person behind the messages was not her boss, found herself fantasying about Mycroft. The mental images were so different to their daily interaction, impossible. In a moment of clarity before a wave of intense pleasure hit her, Anthea wondered what her boss would say or do when he saw these messages.
She was still smiling at the image when the orgasm overtook her, screaming her way into ecstasy.
As the two parties came down from their high, gasping for breath and dizzy for the intensity, Anthea was the first to recover. She managed to gather her wits to send a text, ‘Fuck that was good. Just came. Thanks for the sexts’
Sherlock was drifting in a haze when the phone beeped, picking it up he read the message and laughed, sighing he wondered if he should reply. ‘Same here, thank you. Have a good one’
With the message sent they each put their phones away and dragged themselves to bed, falling into deep sleeps almost as soon as their heads hit their pillows.
Sherlock considered his night was well spent. John on the other hand was of this opinion; no John thought Sherlock’s night was disruptive and inconsiderate. John had spent half the night unable to sleep because of Sherlock’s bloody phone beeping away and the suspicious sounds coming from his flatmates room. Noises that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock was jacking off. Which it couldn’t have been, could it? The phone beeping and masturbation sounds? From Sherlock? John reasoned it was likely one of Sherlock stranger experiments. At least he hoped it was, if not god help him and his mental stability.
Mycroft was likely to agree with John about his night though not for the same reasons as John. No Mycroft’s night was no were near satisfying. He’d found his phone missing at half eleven when he went to call the Prime Minister of Belgium to notifying him of-
Well he could think that, could he? Top secret and national security, all that jazz. Besides, who knows who’s listening to your thoughts.
The missing phone had been traced back to Sherlock, unsurprisingly. Mycroft lamented his brother’s bad habits and his incurable boredom, well incurable asides from interesting murders and cases. In an uncharacteristic show of frustration Mycroft had thrown his shoe at the wall, leaving a rather large black smudge and dent. The mark could be taken care of and the dent could be covered. But Mycroft couldn’t care; he was feeling much better for having thrown the shoe.
The rest of his night was spent on his land line, once he remembered the number to call, discussing and detailing appropriate action to the Belgium Prime Minister. His emotion once again firmly leashed and collared.
When morning finally came Mycroft found himself in his office, Anthea desk as yet unoccupied but it was only a matter of time before his assistant arrived. Sitting on top of his desk Mycroft finds his mobile, sitting nice and squarely in the centre of the desk, a yellow post-it note stuck to it. ‘Had fun. Enjoy the fruits of my sexting, SH’ Mycroft would know it was his brother even without the distinctive writing style of Sherlock Holmes and the obvious initials. Growling Mycroft picks the phone up and throws the sticky note away before stashing the phone in his pocket.
Its twenty minutes later when Anthea arrives, she breezes into Mycroft’s office with an armful of files and her Blackberry in her free hand. Glancing up from it she smiles, dazzling before placing the files on the desk. “Would you like anything, Sir? Tea?” Mycroft notes a certain something in her tone but doesn’t pursue it, “No thank you Anthea” he replies, his head already down and working on some government operation.
In his peripheral vision he sees Anthea coming towards him, he glances up just as she grabs his chin and kisses him. Her lips pressed against him, her hand moving from his chin to stroke his cheek. The kiss deepens, pulling Mycroft in. Coming back to his sense, Mycroft pushes back, sweeping his tongue over her lips, demanding entrance. Anthea yields, her lips parting and tongue sweeping out to meet his.
When they finally pull apart they’re both gasping for breath, lungs once again full of air they dive back in and kissed again. This one held more heat, more passion. Minutes later Anthea was walking towards the door, not out of the room but to lock the door. An hour later she left, more than slightly dishevelled and thanking Mycroft’s brother’s habit of pick pocketing.