whatofthewarts (
whatofthewarts) wrote2012-07-01 11:48 pm
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Irene Adler had many homes, and many more hiding places, but months after her death Sherlock was certain he'd found at least half those in the country. She had her many stolen jewels tucked away all over the apartment, and it took him the better part of the afternoon to dig them all out of their hidey holes. When he had them in his pockets, he went searching for someone else entirely.
Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.
"Making headway, I presume?"
Although they had their obvious differences, given their different environments, Sherlock found it was remarkably easy to track himself down.
"Making headway, I presume?"
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"I don't like that much pain."
He does, but he doesn't really know it.
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The floor is cold, and it makes it very difficult to stay aroused.
"Lie back. I wish to test a theory."
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Sprawling out for him, apparently unperturbed by the cold. It hurts a little, which honestly helps.
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For this.
He gets up briefly and looks around until he finds a common emollient jelly, used sometimes to help in removing rings or washers in plumbing. He puts a little in the palm of his hand, and begins stroking Sherlock's length firmly. He doesn't build up to anything--just immediately goes as fiercely as he had with everything else.
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For anything more strenuous, he's...really not sure.
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He offers, trembling, trying to do so.
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"Remember, breathe."
It's always good advice.
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Up onto his hands and knees, head lifting. Posture disciplined.
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Admiring, touching him. He won't keep him waiting long; he's decided to slick Sherlock, then himself.
He has to estimate how much to use, and though he feels he's using this side of too much, it's not going to be as slick as he thinks.
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Lowering his head, a touch.
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Holmes can handle a good deal of pain, himself, and he thoroughly enjoys fighting for money. But getting off on it the way Sherlock implies...that's another thing entirely. It appeals to him, as someone who likes to be the one pushing the buttons.
When they're both slicked, he presses into him. He's not slow or careful, but the sheer tightness makes him halt and shudder almost as much as if he'd been conscientious.
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"Is there more of the-?"
Whisper soft.
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He pulls all the way out, and this time uses so much of it that he's sure most people would find it comical.
"All right...one more attempt."
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But then everything is tight, and primal.
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Feels good.
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It's barely even a sentence, but oh how he means it. He centers his weight, checks Sherlock over very quickly, and starts seeing how he can move.
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Not so, now. This modern version of himself is much taller, much stronger, and much tighter than Irene had been. It all combines in a way that leaves him tense and frantic, so deeply pleasured it's hard to keep from just letting his eyes roll back.
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