We go back through to the lounge when Sherlock's reassured me three times that I don't look like he just made me come. He is chuckling and so I expect some comments but no one says anything. We take our places at the table and start dessert.
"Delicious." Sherlock licks his lips and looks at me as he takes the first mouthful of food but I know it's not the meal he's commenting on and I smile.
Conversation flows easily between everyone. Art and Laura tell us stories with thinly veiled public characters doing outrageous things, Lestrade and the 'Super' RN try to guess who the eminent and ridiculous people are, Clara discusses some of the rich people she's been clients for, Rose gives us her take on the English and we generally analyse London in particular and society in general. Everyone seems to get on really well, even Lestrade has relaxed into the fact that his boss is here, it probably helps that RN isn't in his Gestapo outfit.
When we've eaten dessert, Laura and Clara insist we move the table back and put some music on. Laura picks out some blues from my iPod and she and Clara begin to dance. I find myself sitting with Lestrade and Art on the sofa.
"Good party John, well done mate." Lestrade puts his hand on my knee. I nod, it's informal and fun and I'm glad we didn't do it somewhere else.
"So, how did you meet Sherlock, Geoff?" Art leans past me and asks Lestrade.
"I was on a case, maybe six years ago? Getting bloody nowhere and utterly desperate for a break. Sometimes it's like that and then a tiny thing; a little feeling will crack the puzzle but not this time. I was under pressure from above, ha, your boyfriend actually!" he laughs and Art smiles. We watch RN now shuffling with the girls to some number about going to prison for your man. The irony escapes none of us.
"Anyway, I was down the pub, on my own, when this weirdo comes over. He's bought me a pint of what I normally drink, I had something similar but my usual had been off when I'd ordered. I thought I was being stalked. And I thought he was chatting me up!" he grins ruefully, "Some hope eh?" he and Art exchange glances.
"So he sits down, long coat, mad hair, staring eyes and he says 'It's the brother.' "Lestrade raises his eyebrows. "And I was like, 'what?' And he said it again and then told me something about the brother which I couldn't prove, but he could." He shakes his head. "Then he told me who he was and gave me his phone number."Art whistles.
"Wow. That's Sherlock eh? So, when you say some hope..?" Trust Art to get back to the sex. Lestrade smiles and takes a big breath, sits back on the sofa and I follow his gaze to where Laura is trying to make Sherlock dance. They are both laughing and she has his arm. He is shaking his head, protesting that he can't. The music slows and she grabs him, hands on his hips as she sways against him. He is smiling down at her and his tall frame moves slightly but it's in response to her movement, not his own.
"Well, yeah, I mean..." Lestrade waves a hand to where Sherlock is standing. "You would, right?" He looks at Art and chuckles. Art nods vehemently. "You're not offended John, are you?" Lestrade turns to me, I am still watching Sherlock.
"No, why should I be? Just makes me feel lucky." Art sits back against the sofa too.
"Not lucky John, you must have to put up with a hell of a lot for that kind of man. Not luck, you're just the right people for each other." We both look at him; I've never heard him that serious. He raises his eyebrows. "What? I can do deep when the situation warrants it!" we laugh.
"So, did you have a crack at him too?" Asks Lestrade coarsely and I shake my head in mock disgust. He chuckles.
"Yep." Art nods, "got nowhere. Got him drunk and he passed out. Ah well." Lestrade takes Art's glass and waves it.
"Refill?" Art nods and Lestrade goes off into the kitchen.
"He's nice," Art says. "Is he with anyone?" He is looking appraisingly at where Sherlock is begging Lestrade to save him from the dancing. Lestrade is shaking his head but in the end he pulls Sherlock away from Laura's clutches. I look at Art in surprise.
"Why? Are you interested? I thought you and RN..?" Now we both look at where RN is talking to Rose and Clara. Art screws up his face.
"Oh he's good for sex, I'll give him that, but he's a bit...boring." I grin.
"Only you could call a man who dresses as a Rubber Nazi boring, Art. Do you really like Geoff?" He nods and gets up from the sofa and goes into the kitchen with determination. I shrug. Wow.
"Come on Dr Watson! Get those joints moving!" Laura grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. She thinks I'm going to protest so I deliberately don't. I spin her under my arm and she giggles. "Ooh a mover! I should have known it! Look Sherlock, John's dancing!" I look into the kitchen, behind Sherlock Art is in conversation with Lestrade. Art's hand is on the fridge door where Lestrade is leaning, they are smiling. Crikey. In front of them, Sherlock is watching me, glass cradled in his hands. He smiles slowly and blinks. I smile back and spin Laura again.
The song is an upbeat number, a song called 'T Bone Shuffle' by Albert Collins and Laura and I are enjoying the music. She's a good dancer but I expected as much, she's light on her feet and naturally graceful. I love music and I like dancing. I don't pretend to be much good but I know I was always better than the boys at school down the youth club and I used to enjoy clubbing. Before long we are nodding and singing along and enjoying ourselves immensely. 'Let your hair down woman', the chorus exhorts and Laura pulls the chopstick out of her hair and shakes her head. Her dark hair falls about her face. We are laughing. Clara and Mrs. Hudson get up and so does Rose. We are all dancing in a circle, pausing briefly when the music stops and the new track starts.
"I love this one!" says Clara as she does a little flourish at the beginning of the Etta James track 'Tell Mama'. Laura grabs her hand and spins her, then it's Rose's turn. They are all having a great time. Laura is miming and they are both holding her hands and dancing. I need another drink.
I go into the kitchen and Sherlock hands me a pint of Murphy's. He cocks his head.
"I didn't know you could dance." He says smiling. I shrug with a fake modesty.
"But you knew I had rhythm, huh?" He grins now and I laugh. He nods.
"Yes, I had ascertained that John. Although, as I've already mentioned, a good scientist likes to check his theories." I put my arm about his waist and we stand together, watching the girls dance.
"They get on, that's nice." I tilt my glass to where Clara, Laura and Rose are still dancing and giggling.
"As do they." Sherlock points his glass slightly towards his shoulder indicating Art and Lestrade who are laughing quietly. I peer past Sherlock's bony shoulder; Art is leaning towards Lestrade who is turned towards him. Their body language says it all. We might as well not be here.
"Eek. What about RN?" I look for him but he's not here. I frown.
"Mrs. Hudson took him to see her vinyl collection of jazz." Sherlock glances sideways at me and raises an eyebrow.
"Are all our guests getting off with each other?" I sound shocked and he grins.
"No, I believe Mrs. Hudson does actually own a jazz collection. But... this is an interesting development." He indicates Lestrade and Art with his finger.
"Mmm." I concur and sip my drink. "And those three?" Clara is now in the middle of a Laura and Rose sandwich. They are all still laughing and dancing to 'All the Way down' by Etta James and they are shimmying together in perfect time to the salsa style percussion. I smile; they look like they're having fun. Sherlock twists his mouth like he's thinking.
"Well, I know Laura's not beyond a threesome but Clara?" I frown. I don't know. Then I think it might do Clara some good to have some fun. She's not been with anyone as far as I know since Harry and Laura and Rose are nice girls. There's still a part of me that is shocked by my liberal attitude. I tell it to shut up and I pull Sherlock closer. He slides his eyes sideways to me.
"So, you don't dance then?" I ask him, leaning into his side and stroking his ribs through his shirt.
"No. I don't. Not generally." His voice sounds wary. I smile to myself.
"Not even for me? Just this once?" I look up at him. His lips are in a thin line, his eyebrows knotted together.
"John, have you seen the size of my feet?" He taps them on the parquet flooring just to make a point. I have to admit, they are huge. I nod.
"Well, you know what they say about men with big feet?" I snigger. He raises an eyebrow.
"That they wear big socks?" We both laugh.
"I don't see why big feet would be a problem in the dancing department." I say sliding my fingers down his side and grabbing his hand. He looks at me cautiously.
"Mummy sent both Mycroft and I to dancing, no, don't laugh John, it was terrible. Well, I was terrible. Mycroft turned out to be quite good. In the end it was the Royal Ballet or a life of political intrigue for dear old M." He twists his mouth into a smirk and I don't know if he's being serious.
"So, you've not danced since then?" He shakes his head and drinks his pint. "What about when you went clubbing?" He bends to my ear and whispers in that dark voice which thrills through me.
"I wasn't there for the dancing John, remember? I was there to practise the skills I was later to hone to perfection on you." He kisses my ear gently and I shudder, he chuckles. I pull myself together, this is classic Holmes distraction.
"So, you won't dance with me?" I mock pout. He shakes his head but then the track changes. Violins swell across the room. This is just the right song. I pull his hand and he nearly lets his fingers slip through mine. At the last moment I tug gently and it tips him forward. I put down my glass and take his from him. He is smiling and shaking his head slowly. I put my arms about him and walk backwards to the rug where the girls are dancing.
"At last, my love has come along," Etta James' velvet voice swirls from the speakers and he smiles as I make him sway with me to the music, "my lonely days are over and life is like a song." I put his arms around my neck; my arms are around him, one over his shoulder and one around his waist. He is smiling from the side of his mouth, unsure and self conscious as I move him gently over the small space of rug. No one's watching us; Clara, Laura and Rose are now sitting together on the sofa, Clara's leg thrown over Rose's lap and her shoulder against Laura's. Lestrade and Art are in the kitchen, with only eyes for each other. We could be completely alone.
"I found a thrill to press my cheek to," and he pulls me to his chest and cradles my head in those long fingers and I hear his heart beating loud in his ribs. I smile up at him, it's so bloody clichéd, so cheesy and yet I feel the happiest I can remember in a long, long time.
"You smile, you smile. Oh, and then the spell was cast." He dips his mouth to meet mine and kisses me gently. I yield to him, like he has yielded this dance to me. I'd forgotten the magic of a slow dance. The swaying movement, sensual and soft, the pressing of his body against mine, the fragile intimacy of the bubble of the moment around us. I've always loved this song but now the lyrics seem so apt, so true. His kisses become deeper, more searching and he tips my chin up to make it easier for him. The tautness of my whole body thrums like a bow string. His other hand leaves my waist where it has fallen, and pulls me close against him. I can't breathe, can't think. I moan and he growls deep in his chest. My knees are weak. The song ends and he pulls away from me.
He is smiling and I try to catch my breath. I am aware that Lestrade and Art are staring at us. I pull down my jumper, he straightens his shirt. We laugh.
"See? You can dance." I say to him quietly.
"What is that song? It's amazing?" he asks. Only Sherlock could not know Etta James. "It's made me want to play something. Would that be alright?" I nod; he's never played anything before, just that maddening twanging he does when he's thinking.
He goes to the fireplace where his violin is sitting on the high stool. He picks it up and spends a moment or two plucking and tweaking. I sit in the armchair. Lestrade and Art, seeing what is happening, come and sit on the other chair, Art on the arm and Lestrade in the seat. They are still close, nearly touching. Lestrade's hand might be on Art's back.
Sherlock stands with his back to the fire and begins to skim the bow over the strings. The room becomes silent as he starts to play. The music is light, teasing and then deepens into a more rousing, stirring refrain which weaves through the whole piece. Quiet and then louder he invokes such passion and such delicacy from the instrument.
It's amazing, yet another startling attribute of Sherlock Holmes. Those long fingers flick over the frets, they grip the bow and I blush as I watch him, familiar with how that grip feels, how those fingers can elicit the same passion, the same drawn out pleasure in my body. Everyone is wrapped in his music.
His eyes are shut and he sways slightly with the rhythm of his playing. His hair falls over his face and he doesn't move it. I watch him as he loses himself in his melody. It's incredibly erotic, the tension and the precision of his fingers on the instrument is all too known to me, the biting lip, the frown of concentration something I have seen in his face before. He even has the flush of blood at his open shirt neck. His feet are planted apart; his stance open and I can't help but cast my glance along those lithe limbs. He is all elbows and joints and sharp bones. He makes my mouth dry. God I love him. And how much I want him right now.
He bends with the notes, like some tall tree caught in the wind. The music is not abating and I feel a sort of enchantment slipping over me, as though this time has been spelled out in capital letters or underlined somehow. Like someone, somewhere, wants to me treasure this feeling, this moment where he is abandoned and open. I look at the others; I can see from their faces that they feel it too. It's almost too intimate, too personal to watch him doing this and yet none of us can stop watching him, he is mesmerising.
The tune ends and he is panting slightly, his chest rising and falling with the effort of what he has just done. He smiles and flicks his hair back from his face. He looks about him as though he is surprised anyone was listening. Art begins to clap. Lestrade joins him and soon we are all applauding Sherlock. He looks embarrassed; he twists his mouth and gives a small self conscious bow and laughs.
Laura gets up from the sofa and crosses the room.
"That was amazing. I knew you played but...wow. What was it?" she says and kisses him lightly on the cheek.
"Bach, violin concerto number one in A minor." He says self consciously but still precise." Laura nods appreciatively.
"It was lovely. Thank you. Look, we're going to go now, I'll send some people over to tidy up for you tomorrow, is that ok?" Sherlock nods.
"Of course. I'm glad you came. And thank you for the present downstairs." He remembered to thank everyone, I smile. Laura's face registers surprise and she grins at me.
"Oh! I've something else! I almost forgot. Rose? Will you pass me my bag?" Rose has her arm around Clara on the sofa; she gets up and pulls Clara with her. She gives Laura the bag. Laura gets out an envelope and passes it to Sherlock.
"Just a little extra for the birthday boy." She kisses him again. Then she kisses me on the cheek too. "We're going to give Clara a lift. Art do you need one?" Art looks at Lestrade who shakes his head.
"No, I'm going to get a lift with Geoff." I look at Lestrade who refuses to meet my eye.
"What about RN?" says Sherlock, ever the image of tact and diplomacy; sometimes I think Mycroft got all those genes.
"Oh he texted to say he had to go earlier. Something about work I think. He won't mind." Art says the last words to Lestrade who, to be honest, doesn't look like he'd care if RN did mind. He stands up.
"Right, better be off then. Sherlock, John, thanks for a lovely party. I've really enjoyed myself." Lestrade shakes Sherlock's hand and clasps me on the shoulder.
"Have fun." I tell him. He grins.
"We intend to." Says Art and Lestrade blushes. It makes a change from me being the embarrassed one.
Everyone leaves together. Laura and Art are whispering to each other at the top of the stairs and giggling, I get the feeling that tonight will be chalked up as another of their adventures. I'm going to have to phone Geoff in the morning.
As soon as they are gone Sherlock takes my hand.
"Let's just go to bed." He says gently. I nod.
We lie down on the bed fully dressed. He is rubbing his hand through my hair and kissing my face. Already I can feel the tension mounting inside me. It's like my body has counted the whole evening as foreplay. I stroke his collar bone, slipping my fingers under his shirt and he sighs and tips his head back. He doesn't stop touching me but I can see that he is feeling as turned on as I am. We share turns at stroking and touching each other. I memorise the feel of his skin, the difference in texture as I undo his shirt buttons and slide my hands over the fabric and onto the smooth silk of his shoulders.
He hitches my jumper at the back and rubs along my muscles, kneading and massaging gently, sweeping his warm hands down over my buttocks. He pulls me flush against him and I feel how hard he is. He blinks at me slowly and puts his tongue to his bottom lip.
"I love you." He says very deliberately and it's like he's never said it before. So much longing and passion in that deep voice that I can almost not catch my breath. I nod, helpless in that intense gaze.
He kisses me again, his tongue searching my mouth, plundering and desperate. His fingers are on my nipples teasing and pinching. I buck forward. Even though this haze of lust I know how I want him. I want to feel him inside me. I put my hands on his cheeks and pulls away, he frowns.
"You feel great, this feels great. Honestly I am so bloody turned on now. Here." I take his hand and press it against my erection. He smiles slowly, bites his lip. "See? How do you want to do this?" Even though I know what I want it's still his birthday, still his turn to choose. He pretends to think, he even pulls his hand back from me, my flesh aches for his touch again, and steeples his hands. He rests his nose on his middle fingers.
"I want to be inside you John. I want you to be my birthday present." He says this seriously, his voice dark and thrilling. I swallow and nod.
Slowly, carefully we take off our clothes kissing and touching where we reveal bare skin. He unfastens my jeans and I unfasten his trousers. His fingers trail fire over me, igniting me and forcing my focus to where they touch. He kisses along the underneath of my arms; the soft skin inside my elbows makes me writhe and gasp. His long fingers trace the skin of my thighs up and up and skimming the hair between my legs, I arch up from the bed eager for his touch to complete this feeling.
And I touch him, marvelling at his pale skin, the smoothness of his chest against the hard buds of his nipples. I twist and rub until he pants my name, pulls my hands down onto his cock. I barely touch him, the heat from his body and the silken skin stretched tight with his desire are intoxicating. I want to drink him in, eat him alive. I trail my tongue down from his nipples, past his navel, following the thin line of dark hair until the scent of him and the warmth of him overwhelms me and I touch my mouth to the tip and am rewarded by a long shuddering sighing of my name.
"Oh John, John." I smooth my lips over him and swallow him down in one wet motion. It feels like his entire life is inside me, like all that intellect, that concentration is condensed into those hard inches. I lap my tongue against him and he bucks up from the bed, his hands in my hair and then fluttering away as though he doesn't know what to do. I glance up and he is clutching the bedclothes, his head thrown back in abandon, mouth open, eyes wide and staring.
I suck him hard, hollowing my cheeks and tightening my lips over his sensitive skin. He shudders. I pull back along the length of him and let him free. He is shaking, he looks down at me.
"Lie down." He says, his voice is commanding and I know that it's his lust, his desire, speaking through him. I lie beside him and he pushes me onto my back. He licks his palm with that long pointed tongue, eyes never leaving mine and then he strokes me with his wet hand. His touch is demanding, hard and I know how much he wants me because I can feel that Sherlock shaped space inside me yearning, longing for him. I wriggle my legs apart. He doesn't need another invitation.
He kneels between my legs, and strokes along my body. I reach over for the lube on the bedside cabinet and I squirt it into my hand. I slide it over his cock, he groans and watches me. He rubs his hand over mine and slick the lube over his fingers. Then he opens me, gently carefully. I don't want his fingers. I grab the base of his hard on and guide him to me, he moans, my desperation to feel him inside me turns him on.
Slowly he gives me inch after inch. I breathe out, relaxing my muscles and opening myself wider for him. He is panting, short intense breaths which tell me how good this is feeling to him. His hand pumps my cock and he thrust himself deeper, unable to be patient any more. I don't want him patient. I want to see that side of him, the desperate, needy side which forgets to be gentle. I want all of him.
When he inside me as far as he can go, and the burning sensation has become a steady, blood throb of pleasure, he is still. He looks down at me and smiles.
"Oh god. You feel so good." I nod my body is alive with desire. I feel like I should be glowing in the dark, so intense, so extreme is this feeling. He pulls back slowly, slowly. The contrasting sensations of fullness and emptiness is exhilarating. He thrusts forward and I arch from the bed, moaning and clawing the bed sheets.
"God, Sherlock. Just do it. Harder, faster. I want more." He is grunting with every thrust, snapping his hips forward as he takes me. One hand is propped on my knee and he grabs my cock with the other hand, fisting his long fingers around me in time with his thrusts.
I can feel my muscles tightening, the unstoppable fizzing building in my stomach. All I am is that burning, that pain and that pleasure. I look at his face, flushed and concentrating. He's so beautiful, so hungry. His eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed, his teeth biting on his bottom lip as he tries not to hurt me. I reach down, grab his buttocks and pull him closer, deeper. His eyes open wide and he loses that last stem of control.
"John, oh John. God, you feel so good. I'm going to... you're making me..." He comes, I feel him twitching inside me and I spill over the edge. I come hard, all my essence focussed into that part of my body in his hands.
He slowly edges out of me, we are sticky and sweaty. I wince slightly as we separate. He kisses me and flops down beside me on the bed.
"Happy birthday." I say smiling, eyes still shut as I try to calm my breathing. He chuckles.
Ok I know I said Sunday but I couldn't help myself. Now it definitely will be Sunday but at least you can re read this if you want to! I think I'm creating a sideline in one shots. Sherlock's birthday entitlements, what happens when Lestrade takes Art home? Even Clara, Laura and Rose...maybe we can vote...: D let me know how you thought the party went. It'll keep me going until I can get back to the boys.
The Baker St Irregulars! It'll be weird to go to Sunday without you: PrincessNala and Peachsilk (think we need a plan for bc and that frock?) Darmed (do hope you're ok babes) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate ,2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat , Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll,thegeekyprincess and Flabagash! And all the new people who just found us! I'll be checking email tomorrow morning, off to bed now. Cold not abated yet. All hail the great god Lemsip!
Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx