Dear God, He's Gone and Done It: Chapter 4

As he stood to leave the room and go sleep on the couch he pulled away from her. As he turned to go her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist; he noted that her fingers could not close completely around it.

In her slumber she managed to mumble to him.

"Don't leave."

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Her voice had been small and sort of weak due to her sleeping but that did not mean that it lacked anything as far as emotions go.

It was the saddest sound Sherlock could remember hearing….ever.

He quietly promised her that he was coming back; he walked over to the sofa and removed his jacket, laying it across the arm of the sofa. Next, he did exactly as he promised; although he couldn't figure out quite why. He was not a man given to emotions and sentiment. But, he had been acting strangely since he first laid eyes on her, so why should this be any different? He sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes.

With the rest of his clothes still on, Sherlock crawled under the covers, pulling them up under his arms and rolling over on his side to face her. She was watching him to make sure that he came back. As he got comfortable (or as comfortable as an anti-social, high-functioning sociopath can get when he is so close to a woman that is seriously impairing his judgment) she snuggled up against him, resting her face against his chest, much the way she had while they had been sitting on the sofa. Her left hand curled around the lapel of his shirt. It seemed as if Barbary intended to keep him close to her. For the love of God! Sherlock couldn't understand why his body was agreeing with her. He watched her carefully as her eyes fluttered shut, almost against her own will. It was as though she was afraid he would be gone when she opened them again; but she must have been completely exhausted, because she eventually lost the fight to hold them open. He began watching her sleep.

He knew for a fact she was in her late 30's, maybe even pushing 40, like him; although she looked at least 10 years younger (if not 15) than she really was. In this state of repose she looked so young, so completely relaxed. Ever since he had first laid eyes on her she'd been a whirlwind. She was always dancing around (like when he saw her coming through the theatre after changing), or getting swung around by others, as the case may be, or just clowning around in general. As gorgeous as Sherlock might have thought she was, she was never still long enough to really just look at her. He couldn't really enjoy taking her in. Now though, Sherlock could take his time and really take everything in. And he discovered that, even though she might be close in height to Molly, Mary, and the Woman, she was still of a smaller frame than them. That was not to say she was necessarily any lighter weight than them…she may be perfectly in sync where that is concerned; but her bone structure seemed smaller or more delicate (if that was even possible). He couldn't get enough of staring at her face; the shape of her eyes that had been such a deep brown….and the shape of her lips (not to mention the most wonderful rosy shade of pink that they were)….a definite cupid's bow, the bottom lip being the fuller of the two. The way a few strands of hair draped across her left cheek before falling across her neck….A neck that was on the short side compared to some of her female counterparts.

The more he studied her neck and the length of it, the more his eyes started to wander. For a woman of her height and small stature she was rather well endowed. Her breasts actually bordered close to the edge of being too big to suit her frame. But, Sherlock knew they were original, so she hadn't had any 'after-market' work done; that was a refreshing thought. In today's world women were so quick to tamper with what they had naturally. In most cases it was a shame, a damned shame; that a woman, any woman would allow simple propaganda get to them that much that they had to change nearly everything about the way that they looked. Sherlock at times didn't know whether to laugh at them out right or pity them.

Beyond Babary's breasts, Sherlock couldn't make many deductions just now; the covers…they….well they were covering up so very much. This only served to irritate him more as the minutes ticked slowly by. But he had gotten a decent look at her before they went to bed. And he had to say that her back end was about as ample as the front had been and that her waist was small….not outrageously slim, because then she really would look like a cartoon character. But with everything else she had going on, adding in her waist size, she was an over-exaggerated hour glass. And that pale skin; Sherlock would wager that it was something close to alabaster, if he was the romantic sort that thought such things. But he didn't dare ask John to give his opinion; not at the risk of giving away his own thoughts. The short, shapely legs that led the way to what Sherlock would assume to be a fabulous ass; although, Sherlock was a man that did not like to make assumptions, but just this once…..

Soon enough Sherlock was scolding himself; he had to stop thinking about her legs and how well he'd fit between them…..And where the hell did that come from?

He knew, without a shadow of a doubt that, if he made it through the night in one piece, he would have to work on keeping his distance from her. She threw off his entire….everything…his mind palace was going to be in complete disarray. He couldn't concentrate on it long enough to stop thinking about every inch of the body that was currently so very close to his.

Sherlock held no grand delusions. He knew that everybody thought he was this asexual...John would say he was an asexual dickhead. Sherlock had heard John call him a dickhead on more than one occasion. He wasn't though….asexual….the part about being a dickhead….well…sometimes….Most of the times…OK! OK! When I'm awake. He had bedded plenty of women over the years; not an obscene amount, but enough that it would likely make his dear Watson blush…OK, perhaps it bordered on obscene. But, in his own little way Sherlock was a tad old-fashioned….Or would it be smug? He just didn't think he had to go around and talk about every woman he had taken to bed. Just because you brag about being so good in bed doesn't mean that you actually are anyway, it just means that you try….a lot…..and bragging just makes you sound a tad desperate. But, if you were to ask any of the women that had joined in on a little extra-curricular fun with Sherlock, you would find out that he was NOT lacking in any fathomable department. He was tall enough with a slight, yet muscular build. He was rather well endowed according to over three-quarters of the women that he had been with. And between being the king of the 'Mind Fuck' and actually knowing what he was doing with a woman, Sherlock could write a book on what to do in bed. Or on the kitchen table….the shower…his chair. As that last thought crossed his mind, he made a mental note to invite Barbary around to Baker Street. He'd just have to make sure that Mrs. Hudson was off on some holiday with one of her friends, as well as seeing to it that John and Mary were nowhere in the vicinity of London. And that Mycroft and his parents were wherever in the hell they would possibly be….preferably no less than twelve hours away from London in any direction. Oh, Sherlock was sure he was going to besmirch Mycroft's good name and that it would likely happen in the sitting room at 221B Baker Street. The God awful things that would happen at Baker Street….we would scandalize the entire neighborhood….With his free hand, the one not currently wrapped around Barbary's waist, he smacked himself in the forehead to try to break these thoughts that raged in his head loose.

"Why are you hitting yourself?"

Sherlock heard a sleepy voice ask; looking down at Barbary, he saw her watching him closely.

"I forgot to mention something to John about a case that we are working on."

"Liar; you've been watching me."

"You're supposed to be sleeping."

"Not a denial, but classic avoidance. I felt your eyes on me. I know what you want."

"How could you possibly…"

"You were thinking so hard, I could almost hear it. You want to do positively filthy things don't you? And, at Baker Street no less. Poor Mrs. Hudson…the shame of it. You better promise her a nice holiday."

Sherlock just stared at her like she was psychic, blinking his eyes rather rapidly, unsure of how to respond to that. He was saved from having to say a word when Barbary sat up in the bed and proceeded to straddle his waist, unbuttoning his shirt.

As she leaned over to kiss him or completely drag all of the remaining air out of his lungs, whichever came first, Sherlock couldn't help the question.

"I thought you were tired?"

"Ssssh. Save your breath, you're going to need it. If you wanted to do such lurid things, all you had to do was ask."

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Post AN: M'kay. Just to clarify, the bits that are in italics are mostly some of Sherlock's inner thoughts that he thinks Barbary is unaware of (I figure most of you would catch on to that, but some may or may not realize what I was doing there)…

And I will go ahead and say, that as with most of the stories that I have written, my OC has a pretty dark history…don't know why I always write them that way….I guess because the fiction nerd in me likes the idea of the knight on horseback and all that good stuff. But, at the same time as the knight is saving the OC, she is busy saving him, too….so it's a level field there.

And with the OC having such a dark history, her mood is quite changeable. One minute she is daring, the next minute she can be quite the opposite, almost timid in some respects.

I better leave off the explanations there, or I will be sorely tempted to just out it all here….can't do that now can I?

Hopefully, I am doing a pretty good job of capturing some of what Sherlock is really like. I know I'm not as good as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (but really, who is?) or even as good as Gatiss and Moffat…but I can try right.

Hope everybody has been enjoying so far. Thanks for hanging in there with me up to this point.

Shorty