Four
The Blue
When: 18 (Internment)
Warnings: Smut

The first time I had sex in an office, it was a little different to how I'd imagined it.

It happens in films and on TV all the time, and each time it's always the same. Papers are shoved off of the desk, bodies are thrown on top of it instead, lips are crashed together in a desperate need for the other's touch. It's all excitement and frantic desire, and complete disregard for their surroundings.

I'd never experienced that with someone before. Sure, I had felt a burning want for someone. And in some of my drunker moments I hadn't cared about where we were. But having both those sensations at the same time – no, having such a strong want that your environment becomes insignificant – that was something foreign to me.

My brain would just not work that way. It needed to analyse where I was and the possible consequences of my actions.

Doing the nasty in my office would therefore only lead to trouble.

Not to mention having to clear up my work afterwards. No one messed with my work.

And sure enough, this was different too.

Neither I nor Sherlock were desperate. Papers weren't shoved from desks. Lips weren't crashed together. For Sherlock, it was simply something to take his mind off his unholy boredom. For me, it was something to stop my mind thinking about where we were and what was going to happen next.

A distraction.

That was all.

There was nothing romantic about it.

Even as Sherlock's fingertips skimmed over the underside of my forearm, leaving a tingling trail as they worked upwards, I could see in his eyes that we both knew that.

It was like we said – neither of us loved the other, and neither of us wanted to be loved by the other – but as Sherlock's tongue danced across my collarbone, that was all that mattered. We didn't need to think about anything else.

The orange glow of my lighter cast long shadows from my fingers as they skid down the satin material of his jacket, coming to rest in the crook of his elbows. He shifted so that he was no longer lounging across me, easing my legs apart so that he could kneel between them, his mouth never once leaving my throat. It wasn't as rough as his usual bedroom demeanour, but it was still undeniably in his control. As everything always was.

I brushed off his jacket, not liking the wall it put up between our skin, and his hands were moved from my arm and thigh in the process. They returned seconds later, now on my waist, and I ironically shivered at the sudden warmth. He had, of course, completely by-passed my shirt and attached his hands directly to my skin. That was Sherlock. Ignoring anything that he didn't have any interest in.

As if reading my thoughts and the slight smile on my lips, in one movement he swept the top over my shoulders and head. I watched as it landed in a heap somewhere on the desk, Sherlock having haphazardly discarded it without thinking.

I dug my fingers into the front of his shirt, my mouth opening in a silent gasp, as his hands slid carelessly upwards, their touch burning my pale skin, moulding themselves into the subtle curves of my stomach. His teeth were now nibbling on the crook of my neck and I had to force back the small giggles as the curls of his hair tickled the base of my jaw. As if anticipating my laughter, his mouth quickly left my collar and found its way back up to my lips, stifling any sound that might escape other than the low groan that was swallowed immediately by the kiss.

The inside of his mouth tasted faintly of tea, and even fainter still of something minty. Toothpaste. He really hadn't eaten since yesterday. It was amazing he had the energy for anything, let alone this.

His tongue was gentler than usual, sharing control of the kiss with mine, but I recognised it made no difference. It was he that had me pressed against the wall. It was he whose touch was holding my torso in place. It didn't matter how hard I grasped at his shirt or how eagerly I kissed him back. I was his. And most definitely not the other way around.

His thumbs were already stroking across the lace of my bra, the delicate threads and patterns grazing my skin with the movement. It was the soft tugging rather than the quiet click that first alerted me to the fact that he had undone the clasp in the centre of my chest. I lowered my shoulders and drew away from the wall as he peeled the bra away, my rounded breasts grateful to be free of their sheaths and able to appreciate the warmth of his hands absolutely, with no barrier between them.

I bit down on Sherlock's bottom lip as his fingers toyed with my nipples. A guttural sound echoed out of his throat as I fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, wanting them hopelessly to become undone. I wanted to touch that skin, to feel that warmth pressed to my front while my back shivered against the cold wall behind me.

I could sense Sherlock's restraint. It was clear with every touch of his hands how far he was controlling himself. My control was wavering. I simply didn't have the patience anymore. Why had I bloody sewn on these buttons so well?

I finally managed to get all of them unhooked, but didn't bother to actually unwrap the shirt off of his shoulders, my naturally cold hands far too eager to explore the contours of his chest for that.

I pulled away from the kiss, my eyes opening again to the hazy golden light. Sherlock seemed to understand what I hadn't yet said for he made no objections as I pushed him backwards. My tongue found his Adam's apple and his hands left my breasts, instead being placed somewhere behind him, allowing him to lower his body down onto the floor as I leant against his chest. I nipped enthusiastically on his jaw line as I clambered on top of him, my thighs straddling his hips. His grasp returned to my waist, soothingly stroking my sides, his hands surprisingly soft thanks to the faithful gloves he wore so often.

I shoved the front of his shirt out of the way and found my mouth casually meandering downwards over his upper body. I let the familiar scent wash through my nostrils. It was Sherlock's smell, and it was just as odd as he. Vaguely like chemicals, but not nearly as harsh, some sort of subtly perfumed soap, maybe lavender, and something deeper, more natural, like fresh air after a storm. I usually hated anything remotely chemical, knowing that they reminded me of hospitals and ergo blood, but somehow it fit with Sherlock. Somehow, I couldn't quite imagine him smelling of chocolate or bubblegum.

My kisses traced swirls over his muscles, my hands egging them on. My lips flicked their way down his torso to his abdomen, where they parted and my tongue began attacking his bellybutton. I smirked slightly as I felt the tremor that travelled up Sherlock's flesh under my palms. My fingers found the buckle of his belt, groping with it until it fell open. I slid my hands lower until they rested on either thigh. Sherlock moaned quietly as my teeth started playing with the already taut zip on his fly. After the initial effort of getting it to shift an inch or two, the zip practically jumped down, and I busied my mouth with popping the top button free.

I yanked at his trousers and pants until they were far enough out of the way. Then, painfully slowly, I drew the tip of my tongue along his underside. This time Sherlock's groan was nowhere near as quiet and I found myself keenly lapping at the faintly salty taste of his skin and sweat. Sherlock's breathing grew heavier with every moment I spent in the process, and soon I knew it was time to pull away.

I shrugged out of my jeans and remaining underwear, before climbing up to kiss his lips once more. I stretched over until my fingers found the silky material of his jacket of the floor, digging hurriedly into the pockets until I pulled out what I was looking for. I popped open the wallet and slid out a thin blue packet. His palms began massaging my back and my mouth pressed ardently against his as I ripped at the small packet, drawing out the slippery object inside. I pulled away and sat up, so that I could see what I was doing as I rolled the condom down over his length.

His jaw was set and his eyes scorching, but apart from that his face was expressionless. His hands secured themselves firmly onto my hips. My palms reached out and settled on his shoulders.

I took in a sharp intake of breath as I guided him inside me, before gently starting to rock my hips up and down. I had completely forgotten where we were and what was going on. All that mattered was the feelings of the moment. And at this moment the feelings were becoming rapidly better and better.

Sherlock began controlling the speed, his grip directing my hips, his own thrusting up to meet me. I shifted and lowered my upper body, my forearms brushing across the scratchy carpet as I made my way towards his lips again. The kiss was rougher this time, and broken occasionally in our tempo. My ankle jerked outwards and I faintly heard something clattering as the orange light suddenly shifted. I didn't really care what it meant as my breathing started escalating and my heart beat pounded in my ears, but Sherlock apparently did. Without breaking the kiss he sat up, keeping our rhythm as he groped blindly around behind my back. His back stretched as he dropped something onto the desk beside us with a clang. Curiously, I opened my eyes, now biting ferociously on his bottom lip. Of course, the lighter. My jaw slackened and my eyebrows rose as I noticed what Sherlock was now bringing down from the desk clutched tightly in his grasp.

He lay back down on the floor, his other hand abandoning my waist and wrapping its way around my neck, pulling me down with him as his mouth began assaulting my throat, a small moan escaping my lips with every thrust.

I squealed at the sting as Sherlock brought the fine metal ruler down swiftly on my backside, his clutch around my neck the only thing keeping me from jumping a mile upwards. The pain burned, the freezing metal surely reddening my now hot skin. But I found myself whimpering in appreciation as he repeated the action. My short fingernails dug into his shoulders as I pulled my oesophagus away from his lips and instead buried my face into the crook of his neck, barely containing the yelps of pleasure with each synchronised thrust and strike.

My blood was surely boiling by now – I knew that every brush of his skin felt like fire. I couldn't keep this going. We would certainly explode in flames if we did. I was sweating, palpitating. Each movement felt like climbing a mountain.

With one final swish of the ruler my body erupted, the monumental wave of feeling sweeping over me, causing my brain to black out and my mind to only revel in the sensations of those seconds. The fine hairs on my arms stood up as all the muscles in my being systematically clenched and relaxed. I felt Sherlock tighten under me and knew that he too must be feeling something akin to this. I was certain the combined pleasure would kill us. My heart must have stopped for far too long to be healthy. My pulse was clearly not within the normal bounds of a fit human.

And then it was over.

I collapsed and rolled off of Sherlock, resting myself against the refreshingly cool wall.

Christ, maybe this was why I put up with him.

Review maybe? I dunno if I'm any good at writing this kind of stuff.