whatofthewarts | (no subject)

(no subject)

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?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Each thrust fucks another little noise out of him, like he's screaming silently, but the compression of each thrust forces a bit of air out of the twist in his throat. It's agonizing, and perfect.

It takes a while for him to find his rhythm. Irene would have been yelling at him by now, but he does find it, and he is brutal and steady as a drum when he does.

Sherlock feels like a fever is consuming him. He flushes, twists, and burns, still biting back little sounds of anguished pleasure, riding the swells of pure fear that flutter through him with each thrust that grazes his prostate.

There have been times in the few sexual encounters he's had where he was able to speak. Infrequently, and always sarcastically, yes, but still capable of it.

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.

Peeking over his shoulder, he sees it, and slumps away again with another stab of discomfort at the sight. It's too raw, stirs too much inside of him. That same feeling he gets when Holmes drives right up against that place- he starts sobbing again, like he had when he'd been struck, still hard as can be.

That-

That, Holmes understands. Because he has reacted the exact same way before. And just as he had learned to do, he keeps going, trying to make it feel so good it keeps Sherlock sobbing.

Hot, warm, hot- better-

"Please!"

That's new, choked out ragged between thrusts.

The fact it's coming from Sherlock makes that word hit hard, and it shakes loose a cry that is just shy of a sob. He leans into Sherlock, thrusting hard now with helpless greed.

He comes with a wrenching sound, slumping into the floor, limp as a ragdoll in his arms.

That's good.

He keeps going, aware of every sound in the room, the obscene slap of his hips against Sherlock's. He doesn't know how long it takes before he finishes--he goes through waves of mindless need and lows of overanalysis before he does. He's aching by the time he comes, and can roll over and lie on the floor.

And orgasm, as always, leaves him feeling somehow removed from himself. Lesser, like one of the crowd, like an animal.

He scrambles away from him, then, helpless and shaken, closing sticky legs and pulling his bad wrist to his chest. His skin is colourful, now, and a mess of dirt and tears on top of the bruises.

"I hope that was as educational for you as it was for me."

He keeps his tone level, betraying none of the shock he is also feeling. Or so he hopes.

His clothing and virginity are in tatters on the floor around them. All he can do is nod, pull his knees to his chest, and hide his face in them.

"I know this must sound absurd, but-"

Pause, pause.

"I think I should like to put my arm around you."

'Cuddling' is not something that appeals to Holmes. But he feels- he's not sure what he feels, but he needs contact.

"Please."

He agrees, immediately, ready to fly apart at the seams.

"Just don't- say anything, I beg you-"

Not talking will always be the tricky part for Holmes. He's much, much more talkative than one would expect from someone like him. But once he does have his arm awkwardly around Sherlock, the events all become that much more real. It leaves him stunned, and a little shaken.

He finds he has nothing to say, anyway.

He tumbles into him, wretched and defeated by his day, by their words earlier, and the pain and shock of orgasm too.

The helium balloon metaphor wasn't so bad after all.

Several times, he opens his mouth to say something, but either the words evaporate or he remembers Sherlock's request. And he had, after all, told him he would listen.

Before long he nods off and begins to snore.

The sound shakes him out of his dazed trance, and he crawls off of him- there's a small ladder to the attic of his little cottage, and he limps up it to his bed, leaving Holmes asleep, somewhat cruelly, on the floor.

He does drop a blanket down on top of him.

What wakes him a few hours later is that a bee pops into thin air, and decides to start crawling on his face. He only barely manages not to smash it, because he remembers at the last second what the bee--alive, whole--means.

He catches it in a jar and realizes that it is, in fact, bright pink. It's still too weird to call out his own name.

"Where did you go! I have a most curious surprise for you!"

"Up here."

He answers, voice scratchy, hidden under blankets.

The climb to the attic is excruciating. He can only imagine what Sherlock must have gone through.

He makes a lot of noise ("Ow, ow, good lord, ow") before he collapses on the bed and holds the jar up for them both to see. Yup: the bee is still pink.

He peeks out, then is up, grabbing for the jar, distracted from the impulse to hide the purple and black under the blankets by the desire to see the new scientific phenomenon.

He's predictably a complete wreck.

Oh. He should have known there would be bruises--he'd deliberately hit to make them. But so many on such pale skin is a shock.

Holmes frowns and muses and fusses.

"Watson won't like this."

"I don't have a Watson."

He reminds him, looking at his bee.

"No one else will see."