WARNING: SPOILERS! for the new movie.
One-shot. Loved the ending of the movie, but thought this would be more INappropriate. And after all, who could be more inappropriate than RDJr's Sherlock?
Rated MA for descriptions of nudity and sexual acts. If such things offend you, then this story is definitely not for you. This is set in Watson's honeymoon suite, folks.
In Brighton
The double French doors swung inward suddenly. No doubt the violence of the opening of the doors indicated that the persons entering the room were in something of a hurry.
Yet nobody immediately entered, which could only be due to the fact that the groom was known to be a chivalrous man, and would insist upon...
"Oh, John, you're such a gentleman..."
The tall man carried his bride over the threshold, stooping ever so slightly as he took extra care not to run the bride into the either side of the door. Of course, dashing the lady's brains against the door would mark a horribly inauspicious start to their marital liaison. Every man was secretly afraid of doing so. It would be interesting to study how many marriages began with this faux pas, and how it impacted the chances of the marriage ultimately succeeding.
Of course, it was probably still better than having the bride thrown bodily from a train into a river, but that had been a necessary evil. Thanks were in order, even.
"Hello, Mrs. Watson," John said playfully, probably not for the first time that day.
John stared tenderly down into his new wife's eyes, and she held her head back to so as to look up into his. The sheer length of the unbroken eye contact was intimate - a cause for embarrassment for anyone else privy to the display. John's eyelids creased fractionally.
It was an unconscious side effect of smiling that the eyes of the person closed somewhat, and was actually a better indicator of happiness than the smile itself. Everyone faked smiles. Very few people faked creasing their eyes while faking a smile.
"So, what do you want to do?" Mary teased. The softness in her eyes turned to mischief.
John's mustache couldn't hide his teeth as his smile grew from amused to downright feral.
"Oh, I'm sure we can think of... something."
Mary laughed out loud, perhaps at the overly dramatic pause, or perhaps because she anticipated John's – shall we can it an "attack?" His arms closed around her waist and lifted her entirely off her feet. Not so gently this time. Clearly his blood was up.
He deposited her roughly upon the bed, which was all full of frilly pink things which served no real purpose but to delight women of a certain age, while emasculating their male counterparts. Perhaps that was what delighted the women. Perhaps they served a purpose after all.
If John felt emasculated, he certainly didn't show it. The buttons on Mary's blouse stood no chance against the Doctor's sneak attack. One flew off to the left as the blouse was ripped open without being properly unbuttoned first.
"Ah..!"
Mary began a protest, but John stopped her protest before it started with a kiss of passion that left her breathless before it ended. An excellent countermeasure, though it didn't appear to be so much a plan as an instinct. Watson's instincts were as excellent as ever.
But now a problem had presented itself, for Mary wore a full corset beneath her blouse, and that particular armor would not be shed quite so easily. Why women in this age had decided to crush their breasts flat down into such nefarious torture devices to hide their shape, was a mystery beyond even Sherlock Holmes.
John had no problem navigating his way to the place where the laces were tied at the top. Despite his very proper appearance, the Doctor was not a novice.
As a uniformed man, a doctor, and a classically handsome man, Watson had no shortage of ladies laying in wait for him on any given day.
And, as a world traveler, soldier, gambler, imbiber of exotic spirits, adventurer, brawler, and sometimes hero, Watson also had more than a bit of experience with the fairer sex.
Watson was a study in contradictions. While outwardly Watson strove to be the model of a British man – dispassionate, logical, and above all, proper – beneath the facade he was a man of passions and vices.
Of course the disparity between what he wanted to be, and what he really was, caused the doctor just a bit of self-loathing. But that was very British of him, as well. Holmes suspected that his friend would be happier if he accepted that he was a bit of a ruffian.
As if to demonstrate the dichotomy, Watson intoned a very proper compliment:
"You're beautiful"
before tearing the dainty bow with his teeth, and wrenching apart the crushing device with muscular hands. Mary inhaled sharply. One might mistake that for a gasp of pleasure, but it was actually a gasp for air, as she was suddenly able to fully fill her lungs.
Watson helped her to a sitting position now, and as the bodice was pried away, her breasts sprang free, immediately becoming the center of attention. They were somewhat larger than one would have guessed, having been crushed down and hidden beneath several layers of garments.
Her skin was so pale and opaque as to be truly white, and the tone of her skin was unbroken, except for aureolas of palest pink. The nipples were average-sized, and puffed out slightly from the rest of her skin. No veins were visible through the skin; no variations in skin color could be seen anywhere. Every inch was covered by the impenetrable frostiness of unending white.
A poetic man would be hard-pressed to call her complexion alabaster. What it meant was that her skin contained an excess of collagen. It would also account for her straight strong hair, and would mean that she would wrinkle more than others when she grew old. Watson would need to know that later.
For now, though, the doctor seemed to be consumed with devouring her breasts. Small oooh and aaahs filled the room as he suckled her nipples, squeezing and kneading each teat, pulling and pinching and man-handling them, causing pleasures and pains.
The question at hand was whether Mary Watson, whose very proper outward behavior matched Watson's own mask, also had an inward persona to match the fiery passions of the doctor. One could only hope that underneath the prim dresses and social graces, a demon was waiting in the shadows. If her inner self was as repressed as her outward appearance, Watson would be caught in a severe and joyless marriage.
Watson, meanwhile, seemed to be wasting little time, as he reached down below his blushing bride and roughly pulled her skirts down around her knees, causing her to again fall to her back. Mary laughed momentarily at his clumsy ardor, before his mouth caught her breast again, causing her to inhale.
His hands now worked her buttocks below, and his mouth her breasts, above. He kissed a trail down her chest and stomach, paying extra attention to her navel, before stopping at the edge of her panties, and lifting his head to look her in the eyes.
Watson smiled.
Mary smiled back.
Ever so slowly he began to pull down her panties. She lifted her bottom to accommodate him as he denuded her. They remained looking each other in the eye until he had to look away to move the flimsy garment past her knees. He removed it from one foot, and she extended her leg as he removed the panties entirely.
He held her gaze for as long as he could before looking down to his prize. She looked back coyly at first, before slowly opening her legs in a wide invitation to him.
A small patch of triangular blondy-brown hair decorated her pubic mound, below which the pink lips of her vagina glimmered wetly, already parted in anticipation of her newfound husband.
Watson beamed, sparing a glance back up to his wife's eyes, before making his way back to the point just above her panty-line where he had left off kissing. He resumed planting tiny kisses lower and lower, before rubbing his chin and mouth back and forth through the small tuft of hair, inhaling her unique scent, and finding her charming yet again.
Mary stiffened momentarily. Was this the moment of truth? Would she allow him to stuff his face rudely into her exposed genitals, or was she too proper to allow such a scandal to be perpetrated on her body?
Watson hesitated as he felt Mary stiffen, willing to play the part of the gentleman.
Suddenly, Mary thrust her exposed crotch up into his perfectly manicured mustache. That was all the encouragement he needed, and he lapped and sucked at her in a frenzy for moments, and she bucked her hips back at him, throwing her head back, eyes closed, and grabbing at her own breasts and pulling at her nipples.
Holmes allowed himself a smile - the first movement he had made in many minutes, as he strove to blend into the chair which he had camouflaged himself to look like. For the first time, he felt as though Watson's marriage might work. The ice queen could be melted. With consistent practice, perhaps she could be taught to misbehave adequately to hold Watson's attentions.
Having received the confirmation he had hoped for, all that remained for Holmes was to find opportunity to make a covert escape. All he had to do was wait for Watson to mount her fully on the bed, at which point neither would see him slip out.
Watson seemed to have settled into using a modified form of the Aphrodite technique. He had added a rhythm to the strokes, and was sucking her clitoris into his mouth with loud slurping sounds and regular intervals. He would have to ask the doctor when he had studied cunnilingus. That would be a difficult topic to bring up.
For her part, Mary was barely conscious, her eyes closed tight, her head thrown back, and her back arched so high she resembled some sort of gymnast. Her manicured fingernails dug into the bedsheets, which were wound around her tightly clenched fists now. A vein in her neck bulged. Her chest flushed with goosepimples. She thrust her hips forward wildly now, letting out a loud shout.
Holmes felt slightly dirty, witnessing the bride's first orgasm. But then, he liked to feel slightly dirty. Sherlock Holmes knew precisely who he was, and he embraced his perversions.
Watson lifted his bride off the mattress, pulling her close to himself in a tight embrace.
"You are mine, Mrs. Watson."
"Mmmmm hmmmm..." she mumbled, smiling through her orgasmic glow.
"It is time I made you mine, properly."
"Yes."
Watson turned, lifting her easily as he might have lifted a child. His hands grabbed her waste, and he spun her quickly.
Holmes stiffened fractionally, as the nude woman was thrust unexpected close to where he was sitting, hiding. Alarm bells now rung in his head, but there was no apparent escape from being seen.
Watson dragged her to the side of the chair, and she laughed, wiggling her bottom at him.
"See something you like, John?" she teased.
"Very much!" Clever dialogue was beyond his capabilities now, as blood was leaving his brain, heading for destinations further south.
Watson stripped impossibly quickly, first shedding a shirt, which was dumped unceremoniously into the flood.
Mary turned towards him, running fingernails over his muscular stomach, clearly delighted.
He fumbled with his shoes momentarily, and then his pants and underwear came down and off in a single motion, leaving Watson standing stark naked except for his long white socks.
He reached for her, and she giggled, pretending as if she might resist him. His arm closed around her waist, and he dragged her bottom back until it pressed against his erection. They played at wrestling a bit, and he pushed her forward, bent over the edge of the chair...
...and right into Holmes' lap.
Holmes jumped upright, mortified, extending his hands out in front of him, as he tried to offer apologies.
"Madam, I'm sorry..."
Mary screamed.
Watson turned red with rage.
Then purple.
"Now John," Sherlock started. "I just had to make sure that she..."
"YOU!" It came out as an accusation.
"Yes, but..." Holmes' tried again, holding up a single finger, as if to forestall his friend from committing violence upon him.
Watson stalked towards him dangerously, undeterred, and swung at him wildly.
Holmes saw the wild punch coming well in advance. He could have ducked. Or blocked. Or made a counterstrike. Instead, he leaned forward into the punch, letting it connect solidly with his jaw. It would be easier later if Watson's rage were tempered by guilt.
Stars flashed. The room turned sideways. Somewhere far away, Holmes felt the side of his head bounce off the floor. Then everything was dark.
Holmes dreamed of people talking about him, angry and worried.