Six
Every Cloud
When: 27 (Incensing)
Warnings: Smut

The first time I had what most people would consider a proper argument with Sherlock Holmes, I hadn't expected it to end the way it did.

It wasn't just that the kiss was unanticipated; it was more how easily the words had spewed out of my mouth. Even as Sherlock forced me backwards, my back connecting painfully with the edge of the kitchen doorway, I could still hear them echoing inside my skull.

I like you.

Because I did. Over the past few days I had been coming to terms with that fact.

But that still didn't make it any less surprising when I actually voiced my feelings.

"John's not going to be back for a while, is he?" I made out breathlessly between attacks of Sherlock's frantic lips, my fingers digging into the depths of his dark curls. I was glad I kept my fingernails short – otherwise his scalp may have started bleeding rather uncontrollably.

"Not for another two hours and six minutes." He replied, his voice equally rasping. "Roughly."

I somehow managed to press the curves of my body further into his form, defying just how much contact I thought was humanly possible.

"Good."

Right now, I didn't think we'd make it all the way upstairs in time.

I stepped forwards, driving Sherlock with me, steering him vaguely in the direction where I thought the sofa must be. My hands unclenched themselves from his hair, but were swiftly replaced on his shoulders, tugging at his jacket until it came free and fell to the ground by our feet. I was suddenly aware that I was wearing far too many clothes. Something needed to be done about that. Now.

"At the-"

"I know." Sherlock interrupted, his grasp lifting from my neck as one hand slid down to the top of my back, where it didn't even fumble and the zip of my dress slipped downwards. I shivered as the all too familiar warmth of his touch grazed my spine.

Suddenly his light strokes ceased.

I gasped loudly when his legs struck the edge of the couch, taking us both off balance and causing him to instinctively make a grab for the nearest object. Which happened to be me. We landed with a humph on the cushions.

"You alright?" I murmured. As shown by how my tongue hardly left the vicinity of his mouth, I didn't really care about the answer to that. He could have been shot and I doubted either of us would stop.

Sherlock seemed to agree with this statement. "Shut up."

I had no problem with that.

I shifted my weight to see that I wasn't just lying straight on top of Sherlock, so that I was effectively straddling his right leg, albeit far more horizontal. I started awkwardly fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, for some reason forgetting completely how the simple contraptions worked. I only managed to coerce the top two undone before I gave up entirely, instead resorting to burrowing my palms under the material to reach his abdomen.

My lips had found their way to the base of his jaw by the time Sherlock had begun yanking at the light jersey covering my shoulders, slowly rolling my sleeves further down my arms, leaving more flushed skin exposed to the chill of the air around us. Grudgingly I had to except that pulling my arms out fully was impossible without removing my hands from his stomach first. I shoved myself upwards slightly and helped him peel away the cloth over my hands, only then realising that this meant my entire upper body had been freed from the constraints of the dress.

My mouth landed back on his, where it rightfully belonged, our lips moulding together once more. The lace of my red bra scratched against the silk of his shirt, the friction causing me to moan noisily into the kiss. Sherlock engrossed his fingers into what he could of my tresses, before deciding that the only proper way of doing it was to take out that annoying claw clip so that he could rummage through my hair correctly.

I bit gently on his bottom lip and pressed my lower half against him, causing a low grunt to emanate from his throat.

Sherlock obviously forgot where we were.

A sharp exhale got rid of any unwanted oxygen in my lungs as my backside crashed sorely into the hard flooring.

"Ow!"

Sherlock had oh so cleverly rolled us right off of the sofa.

"Oh my God, are you ok?" I asked shocked as my eyes came back into focus after the sudden impact had left them temporarily confused.

Sherlock barely hesitated a second. "I thought I told you to shut up?"

And then his tongue began assaulting my windpipe. Amidst the caresses and soft nips on my neck I almost forgot what was wrong. Almost.

"But you're bleeding!"

During our fall from above the abrupt movement had clearly caused my teeth to bite a little too hard for someone's liking – the red liquid seeping smoothly out of Sherlock's bottom lip was evidence of that. I would have felt guilty, had not been entirely Sherlock's fault in the first place.

"Not much." He dismissed without even lifting a hand to check the damage to his face, instead placing it rather distractingly on my right breast. Christ, this man was determined when he wanted to be.

"Sherlock, I think-"

But what exactly I thought was quickly forgotten when a sneaky finger unexpectedly found its way up the inside of my thigh and underneath my satin panties. I drew a pointed intake of breath.

"You think what?" I heard Sherlock hum against the skin on my throat, the vibrations adding to the sudden pleasure.

My breathing was more than a little shoddy as I tried to come to any sort of answer to that. "Nothing."

He pulled away from my neck, ploughing his lips down onto my mouth. The metallic sting of his blood tingled on my tongue, and although in normal circumstances the taste would undoubtedly have made me gag, at this point in time I barely even considered it.

The faint drone of Mrs. Hudson's TV reverberated up through the floorboards as I felt my way down Sherlock's torso until I reached the cold metal of his belt buckle at the bottom. I jerked at it until at long last it came loose and I was free to tug down the zip of his fly.

Sherlock aided me as I shoved down his trousers and underwear just far enough, his other hand easing my thighs apart and manoeuvring my remaining clothes out of the way. I had to suppress the yelp as he pressed into me, my insides stretching to compensate for the new intruder.

He started rocking backwards and forwards, our kiss completely abandoned as his face buried itself into the crook of my neck, supporting himself on his lower arms above my shoulders. I tried desperately to keep control of my brain as Sherlock increased the tempo, but soon found that my body's reactions were far superior to my mind in matching the rhythm, any thoughts of what Mrs. Hudson might be hearing vanishing and being replaced by a string of incoherent syllables and words dancing through my head.

I raised my knees to grant him better access and shut my eyes tightly, my hands gripping the back of his shirt in order for me to have some sort of grounding in the physical world that wasn't pure pleasure. We were quickening, the steady pace losing its regularity and being replaced with whatever the either of us could manage. I didn't even recognise what was approaching as the fire built to almost unbearable heights.

Far too soon I was tipped over the edge. Every muscle in my body tightened as the sweeping euphoria rushed over me. I felt Sherlock tense and heard the groan as he too fell into the dark abyss of ecstasy, his thrusting grinding down until it stopped completely.

It was at least a minute before either of us could move again.

Then the warmth of Sherlock's body rolled away from me and I was exposed to the chill of the air.

I lazily pried open my eyes to see him standing. He did up his trousers and tried to sort out the mess I had made of his shirt.

My head lolled to the side.

And I saw it. Lying, bold as brass, on the carpet right beneath the sofa.

"Sherlock," I said still trying to catch my breath, "Is that a riding crop?"

"Yes." I heard footsteps getting further away from me, but was curious as to the level of calm in Sherlock's voice as he spoke. "And a good one at that."

I forced myself up on my elbows so that I could see him digging about under some papers on the kitchen table. "What are you doing with it?"

Sherlock found what he was looking for and I rolled my eyes. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt and fastened the fresh nicotine patch to his skin. Smoker after sex, apparently. "Experimenting."

My eyebrows rose in shock. "With what?"

"I needed to discover the level of force necessary to break the skin."

Ok…? So, what? He had whipped himself or something? All in the name of a case, of course, nothing else. Except I hadn't spotted any crop-shaped bruises or scars anywhere on his person, and even though my powers of observation weren't the highest in the world, I doubted I would have missed anything like that. But that could only mean…

"On who?" I asked, now getting rather worried. It didn't matter that I was positive that certain people would happily pay Sherlock rather large sums of money in order to be beaten by him with a riding crop, this was getting rather too strange.

"On a particularly useful cadaver at Barts."

My face dropped.

All kinky ideas immediately disappeared.

"You whipped a dead person?"

"Of course."

Yeah, naturally.

Sherlock frowned and then lifted his fingers to his lips. He pulled them away and examined them, as if not understanding what was happening. He gave me a confused glance.

"Am I bleeding?"

Hey hey!

Review time again folks! Yes, indeedy!