Chapter 51 - What Goes On in That Funny Old Head
In a former Soviet light plane aircraft hangar south of Berlin, Sherlock Holmes had knelt behind a canvas barrier, not daring to breathe. He'd already eased back the half a dozen millimetres or so preventing his body from touching the canvas and thereby giving away his position. His foot scraping a misplaced metal object on the ground may have alerted the guards to his presence. He had waited for what seemed an eternity, when in reality it had been a mere seconds. When no action had been taken, no shouted commands, nor stomping of army boots, he had breathed a sigh of relief.
It was these skills that Sherlock Holmes, pyjama-clad, and in his own bedroom, now employed. He moved a quarter of an inch away from Janine's slumbering form, not breathing, lest the coolness of his breath wake her. He had lifted the hand that had previously and sensuously caressed her thigh. Outwardly, he was the epitome of Tibetan Buddhist calm and collectedness. Inwardly, his heart beat erratically and his erection still raged.
Sherlock slowly rolled onto his back, and only now allowed himself to breathe, drawing in welcome oxygen through his nostrils. He listened very carefully to Janine's breathing. He was ninety-nine percent sure she was still asleep. Thank God she was a heavy sleeper, he thought, reflecting on her own admission earlier that evening.
Rose, he thought, light pangs of guilt stabbing him in the heart. She no longer smelled like her coconut-scented soap. Thanks to Charles Augustus Magnussen licking her face and commenting on the taste of coconut on her skin, she'd never use that soap again. Sherlock had been let down by his entorhinal cortex, the part of his brain that paired the older memory of Rose's soap usage to the scent he had detected on Janine's person. It had neglected the newer memory of Rose telling him to get rid of the soap. Stupid. Stupid!
Sherlock waited until his erection had begun to flag, then noiselessly rose and swung his legs from the bed. He quietly retrieved his garments and exited the bedroom. He dressed swiftly in the semi-darkness of his living room by the light filtering in from the street lamp across the road.
He now had a good hour of travel to get to Leinster Gardens undetected, although the darkness of the hour would enable him to take riskier shortcuts. Sherlock imagined he may cross paths with (other?) adulterers embarking on their regular walk of shame. On previous sojourns through the sleeping city of London, Sherlock rather hoped to encounter all the English capital had to offer of its seedy underbelly. But now he clung to the shadows, wishing to remain anonymous and not witness the guilt of those whose infidelity was worn on their faces as badges of dishonour—those pathetic weight loss, hair dye, Botox, affair-types.
It was a little after 2am when he finally let himself into Rose's flat. He set about reversing the actions he'd undertaken in Baker Street, first shedding his outer coat, toeing out of his shoes and shrugging his jacket from his arms. He needed to take a shower. Even though he'd barely touched Janine, he felt the need to cleanse both mind and body.
It was a very quick shower, with Sherlock's thoughts firmly on Rose's warm body and the act of curling up around it.
He had just slid open the dresser drawer, one-handed while holding a towel around his hips, when the silence was punctuated by the tell-tale click of a bedside lamp. The bedroom was suddenly illuminated.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock turned around and gave Rose a weak smile. Her own expression was soft, her eyes rounded with... what was that thing? Oh. Love. Affection. Forgiveness.
"What have you been up to?" she asked.
The croak that came out of his mouth loosely resembled, 'Case,' whereas the words he'd spoken in his mind were, I've just had my erect penis pressed up against another woman's back. Hope you don't mind. He wasn't lying about having a case. Endearing himself to Janine Hawkins was all for a case. Her case. Rose's case. It wasn't his fault that the night ended up like it did. Was it?
Rose ran her hand over the bedsheet, a smile growing on her face.
"You don't need pyjamas, do you?"
Obviously she was okay with the recent location of his penis.
Sherlock cleared his throat, blinked twice to erase thoughts of infidelity, dropped the towel and awkwardly slid into bed.
Rose shuffled over to him, and found her rightful place alongside him with her head nestled into his neck. She kissed the underside of his jaw and whispered, "I missed you."
Sherlock had automatically curled an arm around Rose. His body relaxed with this familiar position, but his chest ached when Rose added, "I'm sorry about earlier."
He closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head.
"I'm sorry for walking out on you," he said.
Rose rearranged herself so she could look up at Sherlock, her chin resting on his chest.
"And I'm sorry for throwing a teaspoon at you," she confessed, a tiny smile growing on her lips.
"You threw a teaspoon at me?"
Rose chuckled, her mouth stretching into a broader, sheepish grin. "At the door, actually."
Sherlock matched her expression of mirth and asked, "How much damage did one teaspoon do? You really shouldn't be so reckless."
Another tiny laugh escaped Rose.
"I think I only managed to damage my pride."
As Rose narrowed the gap between them and pressed a kiss to his lips, Sherlock let his fingers drift along Rose's arm. He noted the soft texture of her non-coconut post-soap-lathered skin from a hypoallergenic, no-nonsense, boring, but no olfactory-triggering mis-memories substitute bathroom product.
Rose's mouth slid expertly over his and Sherlock's fingers reached up and tangled themselves in her hair. Sherlock returned her kiss with equal enthusiasm. He continued navigating the rest of her body—skimming his fingertips underneath her pyjama top, running them along her spine and into her waistband before finally pressing them against her buttocks.
Just checking, he thought, feeling something in his stomach yearning for her. He needed to confirm with every touch that this was Rose who had now straddled him and was nipping and sucking his neck.
He reached up when she repositioned herself, bringing his hands around and underneath her top, filling them with her breasts. Rose hummed and moaned with delight as he skimmed her nipples with his thumbs. That was all the confirmation Sherlock needed. He rose up, and grabbed the bottom of her pyjama top. It was swiftly discarded allowing Sherlock to dip his head and press his lips to the base of her throat, feeling her pulse hammering beneath, while he ran his hands along the curves of her breasts.
His penis had well and truly joined the party now, after the previous shameful act of turning up at the wrong address. Sherlock pulled Rose's hips closer, grinding his pelvis into hers. She gasped his name in pleasurable surprise, a sound that made his head swim with illicit thoughts.
His arms encircled Rose and he rolled her to the bed. His mouth was instantly on hers again, avid, hot and hungry, while his hands roamed and found the waistband of her pyjama shorts once more. Sherlock's lips left Rose's as he knelt up and finished undressing her. Rose's desperate hands pulled him down again. As she tangled her legs around his body, Sherlock crushed his mouth to hers.
Sherlock could sense Rose arching beneath him and he desperately wanted to commit to memory not only the feel of her, but her new scent so that it would all be entwined and captured with this moment forever.
He eased back and began to trail a hand along the length of her body, navigating dips and curves as his mouth heated her skin with nibbling kisses along her throat. Sherlock listened to Rose's murmured responses and he began to ache and forget that he wanted to slowly bring her to the edge with no chance for her to anticipate his moves.
His leisurely pace wasn't fast enough for Rose, he found, for she grasped his hand and repositioned it between her legs. He emitted a deep throated chuckle before pressing a kiss to the delicate skin below her ear. His hand and clever fingers maintained a steady rhythm while Sherlock searched Rose's eyes. He wanted to see desire and need echoed there and witness first hand her undoing. Her partially lowered lids and flushed cheeks were instantly arousing.
Rose's head was turned toward Sherlock's, her lips parted—an invitation. She wanted more of him, but he kept his mouth but a whisper away as he increased the pressure of his stroking.
With a whimper in frustration, Rose reached out and drew Sherlock's mouth to hers. She worked her tongue against his, impatient and needy. Sherlock's own body began to throb with his own desires. Rose had probably sensed this, the professional that she was, as she ran a hand down his chest and torso in one long possessive stroke.
Sherlock hummed against her mouth as her fingers encircled him. He eased back from their kiss to give himself some air and to allow Rose better access. He had still wanted his lips and tongue to follow the glorious path previously charted by his hand, and to do that, he would have to deny himself Rose's direct stimulation for a while.
But Rose had other ideas. When she pushed lightly against him, he acquiesced and suddenly found himself lying flat on his back, with Rose skimming her lips over his chest in her own eager quest to unhinge him. He knew it. This was a battle for dominance, and he...
Oh!
His breath caught, and then he exhaled unsteadily. Of course. He was still the student, and she the... the... mistress.
Sherlock was caught up in a complete sensory overload—paralysed and stupified, and defaulting to his baser desires. He could just yield and give himself over to the shear pleasure of Rose's expert tongue with its light flicks and the firm hold of her mouth. He threaded his fingers through her hair, his breathing becoming shallow and ragged. He knew it would end all too soon if he didn't stop her and re-engage in pleasuring her himself. But... Christ!... it was easier to lie back and allow Rose to savour and exploit him.
He knew that these days he could never be that selfish.
Never say never... Mister Holmes.
Wait, what?
Sherlock's head swam.
Jesus fucking Christ!
"Rose," Sherlock said in a mild panic. Where had that voice come from? "Rose," he said again, rising up on his elbows and gently tapping Rose's head.
Rose eased out of her task and gazed up at Sherlock, her eyes darkened with passion. Her expression changed when she noted her lover's.
"What? What's wrong?"
"Just come back up here," he said unconvincingly.
"Why? What's wrong?" she asked again.
"I... just want to see you."
Rose's mouth split into a broad grin.
"You want to see me?" she asked, mocking him with an arched eyebrow. "Then make an appointment. I'm busy."
Rose dipped her head again, but Sherlock bent forward and tugged at her shoulders.
"No, Rose."
She disengaged once more, her brow furrowed this time.
"Come here," he said, lowering his voice to lend an authoritative tone. "I want to look at you while I'm fucking you."
A flicker of delight crossed Rose's face at the rough edge to Sherlock's words. She prowled upwards, not taking her eyes from Sherlock's. He expected to slowly lower her to the bed; what he didn't anticipate was for Rose to immediately straddle him and take him inside with one hard thrust.
He tried not to react too loudly, but the look of triumph on Rose's face told him that he had vocalised his surprise.
"How's the view from down there?" she asked him.
She had laid down the challenge and now Sherlock would rise to it.
He grasped her around the waist and flipped them over, pinning Rose beneath him.
"Better," he said, taking himself deeper until mewls of pleasure escaped Rose. Her sounds aroused him beyond measure.
This is what he wanted. To bury himself in her, to feel the length of her body beneath him, moving under him and against him, to fill his nostrils with her scent and hear her gasps of delight. All Rose. Not some anonymous mouth around his penis that could belong to anyone really.
Or no one. Just Rose, his mind countered desperately.
Sherlock dipped his head, resting it in the crook of her neck. His jagged breathing matched Rose's. He inhaled deeply. Sherlock needed to categorise and file a new shampoo scent to match the nondescript soap that he was now adding to Rose's file in his Mind Palace. Add that to the audio file containing tiny moans of pleasure Rose was emitting. It would be useful for next time to have everything in one place.
His body was alive, nerves heightened with every thrust; the pressure in his centre was glorious. But he slowed to a steady pace. He wanted to extend his enjoyment... their enjoyment, despite Rose encouraging him with urgent hands.
And now to file away the shampoo...
But no reading was forthcoming as Sherlock buried his face and tangled his fingers into Rose's soft hair.
"What... what is that?" he asked.
"What?" Rose asked breathlessly.
A half-hearted thrust. "Your shampoo," he replied. "What's it called?"
He'd stopped altogether. Rose's face was flushed, and her eyes widened in a sense of disbelief.
Her voice was staggered and desperate when she replied, "It's called Fuck Me Harder."
Oh, thought Sherlock. He was a quick study. He wanted to apologise, but thought that might spoil the mood.
He was grateful that Rose pulled his mouth toward hers. Ravenous and ruthless, she fed off him until his own hunger returned. She arched her hips in need. Sherlock quickly shut down his logic centre until primitive desires overtook him once more.
He drove them harder—that was what Rose had demanded—with her arms locked tightly around his body. She matched Sherlock's pace, encouraging him. Bolts of pleasure hammered through him at the sound of Rose's ragged breath and her pleading his name. When her breath finally caught on a moan, he knew she was almost there. He was steeped in all of her; there would be no mistakes next time.
Blood rushed heated underneath his skin and Rose gripped his hips, desperate for her own final release. She arched against him when Sherlock's body was flooded with sensations. He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, gasped out a 'Rose' then allowed himself to ride the wave of his climax. Rose's orgasm came hard and fast and her fingers found their way into his curls.
As Sherlock gently rocked into her, his mind blanked as it always did post-orgasm. All logical thoughts remained absent as his mind flooded with emotion. Self-doubt and paranoia dominated. The case. Charles Augustus Magnussen and Janine Hawkins. He couldn't do this. He would lose. He would lose Rose. She would slip through his fingers while his mind was occupied elsewhere. While he was trying to be clever, the most important person in his life would leave him.
Sherlock felt an unbearable pressure behind his eyes and he kept his face buried in Rose's neck.
He felt Rose exhale deeply underneath him. Twin hearts hammered in unison, and her arms slackened around him. Sherlock didn't want to move away from her in case she looked into his face, and demanded to know what was wrong.
"What's wrong?" she whispered.
"Just taking a moment," he responded, his voice muffled and his heart torn between the joy of Rose knowing him so intimately, and disappointment that he was so transparent.
Rose reached up and gently caressed his hair as if she knew everything.
"Normally you roll off me straight away—"
"Sorry," he said, immediately moving from her and rolling onto his back.
"I didn't mean that," Rose continued. "I just thought it was because your nerves are heightened and you don't like to be touched."
Sherlock didn't reply; he stared up at the ceiling, one arm bent up and resting on his forehead. Rose turned to face him and raised herself onto one elbow. Sherlock knew his eyes would appear moist and he clenched his jaw.
"Sherlock—"
"Don't, Rose," he said. A pre-emptive strike, but it could always backfire.
He was surprised when Rose lay back down on her side of the bed.
Sherlock held out an arm and said, "You can still..."
His mind was almost working at full capacity now that his orgasm was more or less a distant memory. Self-confidence and Brilliance strode into his Mind Palace.
Rose sat up, twisted her hair around her shoulder and lay down to rest on Sherlock's chest. He embraced her, feeling the tension leave his body. With his other arm, he reached out and turned off the bedside lamp.
"It's some kind of fibrology thing," Rose said, her voice floating through the darkness.
"Sorry, what?"
"My shampoo," she explained. "There's no fruit or perfumes in it. That's why it doesn't have a strong smell."
"Oh," Sherlock replied, his voice laced with disappointment. He was also grateful that Rose had chosen to change the subject, rather than interrogate him about his uncharacteristic behaviour post-sex. She would make a good therapist some day, he thought, assuming she'd somehow bring the conversation back around in a stealth-like manner.
"Do you miss it?" she asked.
"What?"
"The smell of my soap and shampoo."
"Yes."
He felt Rose move in his arms and shuffle upwards so she could press her lips to his jaw. Sherlock turned to his side, so that they were face to face, barely a breath apart, with his arms wrapped firmly around her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I just don't want to have anything on me that smells or tastes like something. Not coconut, anyway."
Her voice trembled little and Sherlock's stomach dropped.
"It's fine, Rose," he whispered back.
"Why don't you buy me something? If it comes from you then it will be special, and I'll use it then."
Sherlock's heart lifted at the suggestion, and he mentally debated the benefits of having Rose smell like something again versus the horror of having to go shopping for skin and hair products. He lightly kissed her forehead then replied, "I can do that."
They remained silent for a time as Rose snuggled her head underneath Sherlock's chin. Sherlock's thoughts kept him awake and he distractedly ran his fingers through Rose's hair.
"I'm glad you came over," she said sleepily.
"I just thought I'd stop by and say hello," Sherlock replied mischievously. "I just happened to be in the area."
Rose chuckled, her light breath tickling his neck. "Well, it was lovely to see you."
Sherlock finally closed his eyes as he felt Rose grow heavy in his arms. All he had wanted to do for the entire evening was to see her. His chest expanded; his heart was full. The next thing he had to do was to hold on tight.
.
A/N: A very short chapter this time, but I thought it was needed to break up the tension. I hope you enjoyed their cuddle time.
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