Chapter Two
June 28th 2010
"Dear God, tell me you're joking."
"God lacks the capability to joke: he doesn't exist"
"You are actually going through with this?"
"No" The taller man says, leaning further back into his chair, "I thought I would just make this all up, because I like being called a-", and uses quote fingers, "bloody pillock."
A mug of tea is knocked off the kitchen table and smashes on the floor. Sherlock will claim it was John's, so that he can continue to drink the other cup and just add two sugars on the quiet. John's far too angry to notice.
Either way, the detective smirks at John's seething anger, because quite frankly, it's bloody hilarious. He knows that John wants to play housewife and get right down to mopping the floor, he can see his eyes constantly glancing to the chaos of ceramic shards scattered around their feet.
"You are such a smart-arse Sherlock."
The Detective chuckles darkly, a low rumbling in his chest, "Well, I am smart, that goes without saying," He quips, getting up from his chair swiftly to throw John a tea towel.
John does not appreciate the raised eyebrows and the 'we-both-know-you-want-to-so-just-clean-the-floor-already' look he gets before the tea towel hits him full in the face.
"And as for my arse," John hears, throwing the cloth onto the floor with a little more vigour then was really needed, "Well, you know about that better than anyone, don't you John?"
Sherlock actually has the nerve to wink as he calls to the doctor over his shoulder, sauntering to the lounge and throwing himself onto the sofa.
John could make a snide remark, or perhaps threaten with not touching the man who was currently 'unconsciously' fiddling with the tie strings of his casual trousers, curling them through his lovely, long, dextrous fingers but the thought of not having a repeat of two days ago was, quite frankly, a cardinal sin.
It involved stumbling into Sherlock's room at the early hours of the morning as Lestrade had sent a message, the man grumbling at the sudden intrusion and mumbling something that sounded rather like 'hydrochloric acid to the bollocks'.
"John," The man croaked, "It must be between 6:00 and 7:00 going by the light, just what are you doing?"
John tossed the mobile onto the bed and the text alert went off again as he crossed the room to throw open the curtains.
Sherlock groaned in protest and John heard the creak of the mattress, although he knew it wasn't from the detective getting out of bed and dragging his perfectly formed arse to the shower.
Oh no, it was much, much better.
Said perfectly formed arse was rather spectacularly on show in a pair of low ridding pyjamas, as Sherlock lay on his stomach, quite literally rocking his hips further into the mattress and a frustrated groan coming from where his head lay buried deep in the mass of pillows.
John, in a rather pathetic attempt to maintain composure, acted the part of an irritable parent, flexing his hands and standing at the foot of the bed, and mentioned something about 'acting like such a mardy child'.
"Ugh...don't mention children..." Sherlock mumbled, before sensing his slip of the tongue. Damn his lethargy, his previous devotion to his forced insomnia returned with great vigour. "Wait, mardy?" He repeated with disdain.
"Yeah, mardy. Slang for moody, stroppy, sulking like a small child..."
Sherlock 'harrumphs', kicking the sheets from his legs and John is rewarded with just the slightest view of the detective's, ahem, gluteal cleft.
Sherlock has a little kink for anatomical terms, though the stubborn git won't admit it. John thinks it stems from Sherlock's insatiable longing for knowledge – constantly striving for the unknown and rarely being indulged. And with anatomy, with Sherlock's knowledge being...accurate but unsystematic, John could be Sherlock's tutor. Besides, he has a hypothesis that his detective would continue his improving... technical tongue both inside and outside the bedroom.
And yes, that does have a double meaning.
"Are you quite finished looking at my arse?" Sherlock jests, finally reaching for his mobile.
"No, no not really."
Sherlock finally turns his head to the Doctor then, eyebrows raised in disbelief, "Well," He begins, before returning his attention to his phone, "You have until I finish talking with Lestrade" He says with a smirk and patting the bed beside him, "Come and play, John."
Oh yes.
And so we see the beginning of one of Holmes and Watson's glorious morning rituals. An anatomical lesson by John Hamish Watson to one Sherlock something Holmes (it takes a good many months for John to figure that one out). Yes, some of the best hours of John's life have been spent lying in 'Two Man's Land', a vast stretch of skin between Bedroom Door and Oak Armoire, La Chambre de Sherlock.
"Oh," John sighs, his troops making the first move, going 'over the top' and Sherlock feels battle hardened fingers on his territory "You and your fossae lumbales laterales..."
Sherlock whole body vibrates at that, starting from the great column of his throat all the way down, gloriously down to his toes, which actually tense and point. Yes, John can't believe it either.
He should get out a seismometer next time; Charles Richter would definitely have something to say about this.
"I see you've found my Dimples of Venus, then?"
Sherlock can feel John's brow furrow at that and wiggles his hips a little as the hair tickles his skin.
"I thought you preferred to avoid romantical terms?" John asks, his voice now coming from around the trenches of Sherlock's popliteal fossa, or 'knee pit'.
"On the contrary John, the term 'Dimples of Venus' is an accepted term in the Medical Profession."
"I am known as Doctor Watson, you know." John remarks, moving onto heavy artillery by baring his teeth and grabbing hold of Sherlock's right buttock and tugging slightly.
Sherlock throws his head back and laughs heartily at that, his cocoa curls of barbed wire dancing across his nape to prevent John from reaching the terrain he really wants to.
"Latin, a light petting session and the body of Julia Stoner found this morning?" Sherlock sighs, swaying his hips to draw John's attention all the way up to the parapet of the scapula, "My, my, what a morning this is turning out to be..."
The iPhone beeps again, and Sherlock is soon typing away, which suits John just fine if it means he trace the outline of the loveliest little landmine of a freckle on Sherlock's C5 vertebrae without interruption.
Around four minutes without interruption to be exact. Hmm.
John raises the white flag with a sigh, "You're done talking to Lestrade aren't you?"
"Yes...sorry John."
"S'alright", John says, smiling softly, giving Sherlock permission before the detective leaps out of bed with a flourish, "But give us a kiss before-"
Sherlock takes the words from his mouth, cupping John's head with both his hands and taking John's lower lip between his own, slowly tugging as John sighs in contentment and Sherlock swallows that too, pressing soft kisses against the corner of a thin, but pursed mouth until when he pulls away, John is left pouting with a rosy swollen under lip.
Before what John? Before I leave? I may be going to Scotland Yard, and you may be going to visit Harry in a couple of days, but I'll never leave. Molly may lie right where you do in a matter of days, but I still won't leave. I promise you this.
"Uhhh, thanks...?" John mumbles to himself with a frown, index finger trailing his numbing lip as a pair of pajamas is thrown out of the bathroom door and catch on the mahogany bedstead.
Sherlock appears then, or at least his head does, poking around the door frame, along with the just the slightest outline of his pale body and John realizes that this is the first time he has seen him sans clothes, "No." Sherlock begins with a sincere smile, pressing his lips to the wood of the door frame is pause, "Thank you John."
So John leans against the stained glass door that separates the kitchen from the living room, his battered leather suitcase at his feet and long since forgotten and stares. "I'm going now Sherlock." He says, gesturing to the front door with a nod.
"Fine."
"You gonna' be alright while I'm gone?"
Sherlock tosses the Radio Times he was glancing through onto the Coffee table and it falls off the other side with a thud, "I managed thirty-three years without you, did I not?" He sneers, unbuttoning the cuff on his left arm and rolling up the sleeve.
"Yeah," John replies, picking up the suitcase as the cab he ordered to take him to St. Pancras honks his horn outside, "Managed being the key word."
Sherlock slaps on a nicotine patch, waits a moment and then adds another for good measure after John mentions that Molly is going to come and check on him and he thinks 'she already coming' with a grimace.
"We are going to talk about this when I come back alright? Don't think I'll have forgotten Sherlock." John warns, checking his pockets one last time and opening the door.
"Wunderbar. Look forward to it."
John rolls his eyes and leaves the flat with a "Gargantuan prick", shutting the door behind him and feeling goddamn inclined to lock it as well.
One hour and forty eight minutes later – should have been twenty three - Sherlock rolls his eyes and leaves the living room and into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him and feeling (not goddamn, because non existent entities can't be dammed) inclined to lock it as well.
He strides to his armoire; pulls open the second drawer, takes out an Egona Libero doctor's case, and enters the code on the padlock (928766). Padlock removed, he lifts the lid, sighs a little in nostalgia at the needle and tourniquet and removes the tray they lie in. He then opens the dividers, pulling them outwards, lifting up a few bottles to search for the one he needs.
Sildenafil Citrate, diamond shaped and the colour of John's eyes in near blinding sunlight – Oh. John.
Sherlock blinks a little too forcefully; removing the cork bore from the top of the glass bottle and dropping just one capsule into his open, somewhat sweaty (why are you nervous? Stop it) palm. Swallows the pill and grimaces at the bitter aftertaste.
Wishes it was a drug for recreation not procreation.
Now, now he will acknowledge the timid little woman kneeling on his bed, pulling at a loose thread of her lavender jumper.
"How long?" She mumbles with a blush, now pulling the ties on her patent brogues and slipping them off slowly.
He turns to her, before fixing the padlock on the case once again and putting it away, "Up to four hours apparently, though previous attempts have found me very...responsive" He says with an awkward smirk, before leaving the room.
Molly's response was as hoped, He thinks as he collects the samples from the kitchen cupboard – extracts from several bottles of hair dye found from Julia Stoners flat to be precise. Sherlock thought it might hold a poison of some sort to cause those red speckles, though it seemed she was rather fond of changing her hair colour and so made the experiment a lot more time consuming that he would have liked.
As much as the idea of innuendo repulsed him, the way Molly's eyes dilated when he said it showed that it had been effective in its use. Shall have to remember that website, Cosmopolitan, seems like a reliable source. He just hoped that the rest of his newly acquired knowledge from the website was equally as gratifying.
Sherlock returned to his bedroom and placed the microscope on the floor in the middle of the room, what with needing to place it on a flat surface and all. He asks for Molly's opinion, more out of a need to keep her occupied whilst the drug gets into his system than for a second opinion.
And so we find Sherlock and Molly kneeling in the middle of his bedroom, a lamp in the corner of the room casting a dull glow over the pair of them as they take turns to investigate the different samples, waiting for Sherlock to get an erection.
Don't worry, neither of them can quite believe it either. Although Sherlock hides it better (partially raised heart rate, slight headache) than Molly (is just this close to saying Sherlcock), both of them are rather thankful to concentrate examining the sample of hair bleach on the slide – the sixth sample to have been inspected this evening.
"There doesn't seem to be any anomalies with the structure." Molly says, pulling away from the ocular lens. "Do you have a sample of her hair?" She asks, tucking a strand of her own behind her ear.
"Here." He says, leaning back on his palms, watching intently as Molly fixes the slide into the stage clips and adjusts the nosepiece, noticing her hands tremble slightly.
He imagines she could be a rather attractive woman really. Lose the shapeless clothes that you would expect to find on either a prepubescent girl or a secondary school teacher close to retirement and she might actually have a frame of some sort. You know, hips, breasts etc. Sherlock would find out for himself soon enough. Shudder.
"The...the cuticle seems raised." She mumbles.
Sherlock hums in approval of Molly's observation, "Excellent Molly. Unfortunately it's just a side effect of the bleach..." Sherlock holds back a gasp as he feels a twitch and is thankful for the lack of light in the room, "...Makes the hair more porous."
Molly throws him a glance at his rougher voice, and she fidgets a little. "So the hair dye has nothing to do with Julia's death?"
"So it would seem."
"Any other ideas?" She asks, taking a last look at the hair follicle before turning off the light source.
He takes a deep, calming breath, face tense in determination and shuffles behind Molly "One." He whispers in her ear and noticing her sharp intake of breath before taking the initiative. Or rather, placing his hands on her hips and moving.
The slide in her hands falls and shatters when it hits the floor. Palms press down on the shards and she hisses, her body being pushed forward and Sherlock doesn't care because she should have to feel one, just one nanometer of the pain he knows he will feel by the end of the night.
Taking what he has researched, Sherlock pulls her legs apart and presses himself against her...you know. She sighs at that, pushing against him. He knows that's good.
Lifts her skirt, until it bunches around her hips. Then, grabs her 80 denier tights with one hand and pulls then down her knees. They tear but he carries on regardless, unbuttoning his blazer and tossing it as far away from him as possible.
"Sherlock..."
"Do you need preparing?" He blurts out, his fingers poised at his trouser buttons.
Molly breathy voice comes some seconds later, muffled by her heads proximity to the floor, "W-what?"
One button pops, and the sound hangs heavy in the room, "Do. You. Need. Preparing?" He sighs through clenched teeth.
Not the best way to suggest it, Sherlock knows. Should have said 'do you want me stroke your hot, wet pussy?' in that low, husky purr he knows he can use, but he is only willing to lose so much dignity in one night. Plus his fist might actually collide with the floor.
Or maybe it will collide with Molly's face, because it she DARES to touch me there, her face will be unrecognizable, and it'll be-
He's even shocked himself at that, though Molly thinks he's been knocked speechless by her hands. Definitely not the case. "Stop." He says sternly, swatting her hands away from his crotch and causing her to flinch.
"Don't you want me to-?"
"No."
"But-"
"Look!" He snarls, grabbing her shoulders and placing her on his lap, eyes wide in shock as he forces himself to rub himself again her, "Can you not feel me?" Deep breath. Hold back gag reflex. "Is this not enough for you?"
Feeling a sudden force against his chest, Sherlock hits the floor with a thud, feeling dazed at the impact. Molly takes full advantage, trimmed nails digging into his hips and nuzzling the skin she is determined to find.
"Get on the bed." He says, his voice strained with anxiety, not lust.
"Can't we do it like this?" She purrs, biting her bottom lip in what Sherlock believes is an attempt to look sexually enticing.
"No. Harder for semen to reach the cervix."
Sherlock's 'mood killing' goes on deaf ears. Molly's too far gone now, or perhaps the lens on her rose tinted glasses just isn't thick for her to notice as she wastes no time in removing her jumper, the remnants of her hosiery and unzipping her skirt but tripping over it as she makes her way to the bed.
She can crawl up the mattress all she likes, hips swaying side to side like a hypnotising pendulum, but Sherlock has never believed in the power of suggestion and most of all, he doesn't believe in her.
With his suit trousers joining the pile of clothes on the floor, he gets on the bed. Looks at Molly. Clean, plain white cotton bra and underwear. Of course. What else did he expect? She is living up to his expectations somewhat, lying on her back expectantly but with fumbling hands and flushed cheeks.
Suits him. The headboard may get a pounding but it won't be from her head. And it won't be from it hitting the wall either. It's going to be from his fist after she leaves with her metaphorical tail between her legs. That suits him too; at least it won't be him between her legs. At least not anymore.
The woman mewls like a kitten when he bends down to remove her underwear. Giving in to his nagging obsession with information, fingers run over her, pressing, stroking, circling the nub that even he knows is the metaphorical key to the city, the pearly gates, the stairway to heaven and many other similes that were used in his research.
Muscle in right thigh quivers. Significant amount of perspiration behind the knees. I suppose one is meant to find this arousing? How odd.
With fingers twisting in the sheets (that's good, saw that on a rather vivid film on Red Tube) the woman manages to lean herself up on her elbows, watching with fascination and panting like a dim witted hound, "Sherlock"
Recoiling from her form was covered as excuse to pull away to finally reveal himself, "Lie back down," He orders as she watches, her head lolling about – to far gone in lust. "Stop looking at me."
"But you're so big and-"
"Molly."
"-Oh god I want you inside of me-"
One way to shut her up. Be strong. Part the thighs, one hand under the knee – oh the sweat how foul – steady myself. Breathe. Intercostal muscles contract, diaphragm contracts and flattens, concentrate.
His head is thrown back, eyes closed and bottom lip held between teeth. Hands firm under her knees and lifting them up and apart to lever himself (no way he is lying between them, avoid as much skin as possible), he looks a man in ecstasy.
Molly seems to agree with this theory, her body limp at the first feel of him inside her. Yes, she thinks he is in rapture, but he's not. He's taken himself to a different place entirely.
With the first roll of his hips, Sherlock senses one thing:
Something profound has been lost.
Thank you so much to reviews, alerts, favourites etc. It means so much. Hope you are all enjoying reading it as much as i am writing it :)
Nom-Omnis-Moriar