No. 1 in my Sherlock drabbles! I hope you like ^.^ I have written other Sherlock fanfiction, but this is a project in discipline, hopefully one that will spur me to write one a day along with my Junjou Drabbles.
The characters are imagined on those seen in the BBC series. Credit to: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; Steve Moffat; Mark Gattis; Steve Thompson; Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman. Non-specific order.
Also, elephantine thanks to Atlin Merrick and Mirith Griffin for inspiring my typing fingers so. READ THEM... please. This is for you, I hope it is to your liking standard.
I hope readers enjoy! Reviews would, of course, be warmly received but please help yourself to ice cream and deerstalkers on your way out : )
Dark
It may have become necessary in your life to sink your hand into darkness, be it when you've arrived home late or are creeping nervously around a typically unvisited room, or have prevailed upon yourself to take a moonlit safari down the back of your garden in a spontaneous flip of curiosity, to see that new-born skulk of foxes. Whether it has occurred in any of the listed circumstances or in any other, it is known that a jolt will tremor through you once you feel anything other than silky air between your fingertips. It is a panic-laden punch to the heart, soon soothed by either the immobility of the miscellany or the familiarity of it.
Such a lurch is gripping. Stomach-flipping. Balance-tipping.
Say you are a sturdy one, accustomed to fright and surprise. Would you flinch in your shadowed apartment should a fine-woven snarl of hair caress your unsuspecting palm? Would you gasp at the nip your palm receives, or more specifically- you later learn- your Mount of Venus procures (that ticklish territory of flesh that flares south of the thumb)? Say you were a soldier. Say your heart was trained with fear. Would you jounce as your thigh was hugged with one crackerjack hand...
And your shirt was shivered from its tuck...
And as you felt a sting as sharp teeth pinched the skin of your hip, would you buckle with distress and squeal?
What if you recognised that cinnamon-scent, that pulse from those avaricious phalanges...
And as you felt your nerves arise as you experience an inhalation at your waist, sense heat as the supposed-stranger rises and comes closer...
Feel the libidinously-hot breath north of your upper lip, then north north east... east... (you are learned in navigation)...
And then a burning kiss on your tingling lips, a dash of hot, wet tongue over the smarting cut of your lower lip...
Your nether regions are met with a U.E.O. (Unidentified Erected Object)... which is no doubt clad in black cotton trousers and a silver-glinting belt-buckle...
Would you quiver?
Or would you scratch down newcomer's neck? And, with gruff timbre, would you sigh, impassioned?
John Watson did. Except the pornographic-predator was not a stranger; it was none-stranger than Sherlock Holmes. And he was concupiscent to say the least.
Needless to say, the doctor soon excitedly anticipated bumps in the night.