AN: M/F action below. If that makes you squirm in all the wrong ways, message me and I'll help you jump past it.
Petunia
The next morning, John found a royal blue dress hanging on the back of her door. She pulled it down the stairs with her.
Sherlock was back in the living room, tapping her phone.
"What's this?" John asked.
"Outfit," she answered without looking up. "You're to wear it all day. No necklace. It doesn't go with the neckline."
John threw the dress over her arm. "What makes you think I'll do that?"
"It was part of the terms of your punishment. You will do it." Sherlock looked up and cocked her head. "Don't tell me you're ready to run away just because you got a little scared from yesterday's scene."
"I'm not scared, Sherlock. I'm cross."
"Your safeword is 'petunia'. Text it if it becomes necessary."
John crossed her arms. "Why all the flowers? Shouldn't we be sticking to one word? Isn't that what people normally do?"
"Why all the questions?" Sherlock snapped and gestured to the bathroom. "Put it on."
A curling iron and a new bottle of hairspray sat on the sink. On the floor were the strappy shoes John loathed to put back on, but apparently they matched the dress. The dress was rather beautiful. It was simple but the color was lovely and really brought out her eyes. It accentuated what little curve she had around her waist without showing too much of her cleavage, not to mention she could bend in it. It only hinted at the spider web scar over her shoulder. Oh, and there were pockets! Martin would definitely appreciate it on their lunch date, unlike the last time.
John supposed this was Sherlock's apology then. Sherlock was never very vocal about those.
John strutted into the living room, not yet having done her hair or put on her shoes, saving it for after her morning routine and shower. She threw her arms in the air and posed, thrusting out her hips and turning around. "Well?"
Sherlock barely looked, her eyes flashing from her phone and back quicker than John could complete a turn. "Nice."
"Just nice?" John huffed. "I look fit."
Sherlock did not respond. She pushed her phone away and pulled out her violin, plucking at the strings and ignoring her. It was not until John had finished eating and headed to the bathroom before she really started to play. The tune was low and sweet, soft and slow.
No. Her apologies never were very vocal.
Martin was very appreciative of the dress. "Look at you!"
John was nearly tempted to twirl around for him, but scrunched up her curls instead, slightly ruining the work of the hairspray. "You think so?"
"God, yes." Martin practically growled, looking her up and down.
Their lunch date was at a sushi place, small and dimly lit. Even so, John could see the sparkle in Martin's eyes and the way they kept flashing to the door.
"Are you expecting someone else?" John joked.
"Yeah," Martin grunted, grabbed her by the waist and kissed her. "My girlfriend. Where exactly have you put her?"
John chuckled and swiped a finger under her lip, hopefully correcting any lipstick smears. "I really look that good?"
"Very," Martin nodded. "In fact, would you like to get takeout instead?"
John looked at the nearest empty table, one filled in eyebrow raising. "I thought you wanted to eat here?"
"I want to eat something," Martin smirked, looking John up and down. "But I think they'll kick us out if I do that here."
John's face flushed red and she hit him with her purse. "Martin."
Martin sighed pitifully. "You never want to. Can't you make an exception today? You look fantastic."
John pulled her arms back and adjusted the length of the form-fitted gown.
Comments like those, as if it were a burden on her very being, made it difficult to say yes. It was not that she never wanted to. He did not exactly ask that often either.
Still, it had been a while and she did look good. And she had yet to really start her monthly, which was about the time she was usually riled up. Hormones, tricky buggers, knew men would not want to do anything with blood in the way, so they always came out to play at the worst time.
"It's…" She looked around to make sure no one could hear. "I've only just...my...um…"
Martin squinted down at her for a solid thirty seconds before he gasped and said, "Oh." More disappointedly he sighed, "Oh. Well. I supposed we can ignore the eating and skip ahead?" he asked hopefully.
John bit her lip. She showered. She was not disgusting. He did not need to look so grossed out.
Men.
"Sure," she chuckled and tossed her hair back. "Let's go to yours."
They did not end up ordering any food as Martin hurried her out of the restaurant and onto the sidewalk, his hand never leaving her waist.
As soon as they reached the apartment he hurried to undo the zip and peel off the dress.
John kissed him, backing her way towards the bedroom, trying to pep talk her body into another round of sex. Her hormones were active, they were just distracted because Martin's beard was growing in and it scraped and he had a propensity to slobber a bit. She tried to move her hands over his head as they lay on the bed and change the angle but it got difficult when his hand started rubbing at her tits.
Reaching for her shoes was an interesting endeavor as his mouth dropped to her neck. They had a buckle and it was quite difficult to undo without seeing.
"Leave them on," he grunted, rubbing up against her.
John froze. The problem with leaving them on was that she would be in nothing but pants, specifically the blue shorts Sherlock had given her after her bath, and heels. Which reminded her far too much of being in lingerie and heels while scrubbing the kitchen floor, while Sherlock pressed a button that made her arch her back and moan.
Martin moaned into her ear, shoved off his outer shirt, and undid his trousers, kicking them off.
She continued to unbuckle her shoes.
This was really not the time to be thinking of Sherlock. She needed to concentrate on relaxing. She knew Martin's version of foreplay, which meant it was going to hurt for a few minutes. But she was a grown woman. She knew exactly what she was getting into.
Martin started pulling at her pants and she lifted her hips, trying to get further up the bed. She spun around to turn off the light and ended up frozen on her stomach, the chain to the lamp dangling between her fingers.
Look at you. I could take a picture.
Bad thought. Bad, bad thought.
Martin crawled over her and flipped her around, mouthing at her neck and her ear, whimpering as he placed himself between her legs and started grinding. Her clit at least had some contact, warming her up and making her insides twitch.
The grinding and kissing and groping of boobs lasted for a few more minutes before he slathered himself with lube and poked at her entrance. She breathed deep and closed her eyes, reminding herself to relax.
It did not help much. When he pushed inside, it still hurt. Lube could only go so far.
She hissed and pulled him close, pinching her eyes shut. He moved slowly, carefully, not trying to hurt her.
Finally, her body gave in enough for her to feel some pleasure and she angled her hips upwards, moving with his thrusts. She moaned with more gusto than she actually felt, hoping Martin would either finish soon or actually take her. If he grabbed her by the hips and truly started fucking her, she might be able to come.
Martin was not like that though. He was kind, and sweet, and gentle.
And fast.
Martin finished a minute later- John tracked on the clock near his bed- and collapsed onto her, breathing hard. She hugged him close and looked at the ceiling, trying to catch her own. Her hair was crusting against her neck and her legs were at an odd angle, but it would be fine. Martin always got up to use the bathroom immediately after sex.
When Martin left, she threw her hands to her center. Quickly, before he returned, she curled her middle finger inside her wet entrance and pressed her palm against her clit. With her ears perked, listening for his return, she curved inside of herself and started to thrust.
I would deduce you to be a slag.
Pleasure rippled from her center and curled her body against the bedspread. She whimpered softly and added a second finger, kicking her legs apart.
He's never heard you make these sounds.
With her free hand she gripped the inside of her thigh and scraped nails over her hip bones, hissing at the sting.
Lovely whore.
The bedframe started to squeak as she thrust her heels onto the mattress and tilted her body up, fucking her hips into her hand.
You're only a whore for me.
As Sherlock's voice rang in her mind, the pleasure spiralled out of control and she tipped into climax, her groan caught in her throat and her body collapsing silently onto the bed.
Martin returned soon after and crawled in next to her, hugging her close. He breathed deep against the back of her neck and chuckled, moving her hair from his face. "You smell like honey."
"Do I?" John asked, her heart pounding. She thought she had scrubbed all the wax off in her shower.
"I like it," he said, nuzzling closer.
"Yeah," John mumbled. "So do I."
When Martin fell asleep, John crawled out of bed and slipped her clothes back on, leaving a note by the lamp to let him know she went home because she was not feeling well and that she would call later.
Sherlock was in the kitchen when she returned, poking at something in a beaker.
John dropped a wrapped box lunch in front of her and opened the fridge, searching for a beer.
"What is this?" Sherlock asked, her nose curling up at the sight of leafy greens and tomatoes.
"It's salad," John said simply, finding a beer behind some fingers. The top was still screwed on. It would probably be fine. "It's your lunch."
"John," she sighed, "I can assure you, you do not need to lose weight. You are within the perfectly acceptable range for a woman of your height. I know you gained three pounds-"
John stopped sipping and looked down at her figure. "I did?"
"But you will lose it without trying."
"I'm not trying to lose weight."
Sherlock pushed the salad towards her with the end of her pen. "Then why are you trying to shove this drivel down my throat?"
"It's a salad. It's good for you."
"It's disgusting!" Sherlock declared and pushed it directly to the edge of the table, threatening to toss it over.
John grabbed it with a sigh before she would need to clean up the mess and opened it up. She grabbed a fork and pulled out the chair opposite.
"You didn't eat. You had sex. Your date went bad?" Sherlock probably meant to make them all statements, but when it came to things like dating, she could never be fully sure of herself.
"You could say that," John mumbled around a disgusting bite of spinach. It took her a solid minute to chew through the mulch and swallow before she could sigh and say, "We need to talk."
"About?"
"We can't…" John took another swig of beer. "We can't do this." She gestured to her dress and empty neck. "Anymore."
Sherlock pushed her elbows on the table and rested her head on the back of her bridged fingers. "I could think of something else that is suitable. But I thought Max-"
"Martin."
"-liked your outfit. You did have sex. Bad sex, but still sex."
"That's-" John huffed a sigh. "That's exactly it. You can't be this involved in my sex life. That's why we need to stop."
"Be more specific."
"This! This game." John hoped raising her voice would make Sherlock understand, but she simply stared. "This thing we are doing. It can't- we can't- go on. With it. It's not fair."
Sherlock continued not blinking, challenging John to go first. John easily gave in and dropped her eyes to the salad, picking at the pieces of chicken.
"You thought about me during sex," Sherlock deduced aloud.
John shifted in her chair and threw down her fork. "Sherlock-"
Sherlock rose and made her way around the table, inching up next to John's chair. "What did you think about and when did you think about it?"
"Sherlock!" John shied away, scraping the chair along the floor.
Sherlock leaned in and John got up, looking for a glass to pour her beer in.
"I see," Sherlock hummed. "Interesting. When you were masterbating because he could not bring you to climax, did you imagine it was my hand?"
"No!" John hurried to refute, forgetting why she had gotten up, feeling trapped as Sherlock cornered her against the sink.
"What's your safeword?"
"Petunia." John swallowed, refusing to turn around, focusing her attention on the sink nozzle. "Why?"
"You wouldn't picture my hands on you like that, would you?" Sherlock closed in, her body curving gently against John's back, just enough to make her aware.
Suddenly, Sherlock's hand was grazing her waist, slipping towards her hem.
John gripped the counter.
Sherlock leaned in, squeezed her chest against John's back, and let her voice trickle into her ear. "You wouldn't know how that feels."
A lone finger dipped under the band of John's dress and skimmed her thigh, moving back and forth, tickling. Sparks zipped along her skin, as if that small amount of friction would be enough to catch her dress on fire. The other hand closed over John's other side, fingers gripping tight around hip bone.
"The next time you are with him and need to think of me-" Sherlock's grip tightened as her finger trailed up, her nail scraping along smooth leg until it reached pants, snagging briefly, before hosting the dress midway up her stomach. "-think of this."
Sherlock thrust her palm against John's abdomen and yanked her body sharply back, melding them together.
John thought she should probably say something, but her head simply rolled back, her neck sliding sideways.
Sherlock leaned down and touched her lips to the shell of her ear. "Of my hand-" Her fingers skimmed under the edges of the lace rim of the pants. "Of my lips-" She seized John's earlobe between her lips and suckled the small earring clasped there. John's knees buckled. Sherlock gripped tighter, holding her up. "Of my fingers-" Sherlock's fingers slowly dipped lower.
John's heart thumped. Breathing failed. She panted. She trembled. The countertop creaked under her white knuckles. Her mouth cracked open with a gasp as the pads of those fingers threaded into the first row of curls.
"Sherlo-" John moaned. Just as Stayin' Alive blasted through the room.
They sprung apart violently and dove towards the end of the table, staring at the caller ID on Sherlock's phone.
THE QUEEN
They both looked at one another and then back at the phone. Sherlock slowly flipped through the screen and answered, immediately putting it on speaker phone.
"Hello?" Sherlock asked, as cool and collected as if she had just been watching telly or reading the newspaper.
"Darling!" Moriarty called through the device, happy and light, like an old friend come for tea. "It really has been too long!"