DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock.
There might be some triggers I'd rather not specify to avoid spoilers. Please, be aware.
A great thank you to sideris for betaing this fic. If you like johnlock fanfiction, I recommend reading their works :)
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Camelot
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Anja felt so light she believed she could fly home. Everything around her had gained new qualities; colours seemed more vibrant and the grey city, full of life. Everything felt alive around her; the walls, the lampposts, the cars, the street itself; and people and pigeons and sparrows seemed like they'd burst into singing, laughing, dancing – and she'd join them, she would; she'd jump and clap and twist and twirl around. She felt like springing into the puddles the rain had left, and splashing water to the air and making rainbows with drops. She felt young again, young and full of energy, of happiness, of hope. The clouds above her were grey; but oh, what beautiful shades of grey they had, what a range of hues, and the sun behind them lit up the sky as if it were a fuzzy black-and-white photo of some jolly picnic in the countryside. Even the cold felt invigorating.
When she reached home and thanked her friend and waved her goodbye, Anja was so happy she couldn't imagine staying cooped up indoors. So she took little Sherlock, wrapped her and went out once more. What a pretty little baby she had! And she was her mother, and John was her father, and she was full of love for that cute living incarnation of the link she shared with her husband. She hadn't taken good care of baby Sherlock lately, she'd been so centred on herself, God. But she would now; she would, because her daughter deserved that and much more. Mary smiled brightly at her daughter's clear eyes. John's eyes, she thought warmly. John. She knew where to go: to the city, back to the city, back to the grey jungle, so marvellously alive. And she was full of joy herself, because she was 45 and still alive, and healthy once again, and part of the human jungle of London. Mary strolled with the baby secured against her chest, and she looked at the streets with almost as big eyes as those of her daughter, enjoying every breath, every step, every stop she made.
Half an hour later, she stood in front of the hospital where John worked, the hospital she used to work in. She had bought a bouquet of white roses – an extravagance she had felt like spending money on, for once. It was a foolish thing to do, she knew; their colleagues would probably tease John no end after this. But she needed to share her joy with him – with him, it had to be him. John would finish his shift in no time; he had to, he couldn't work overtime today, not today, no, impossible. Today was a happy day, today everybody ought to be enjoying themselves.
Finally, after some twenty minutes of waiting, Mary watched her husband come out of the clinic. He had his head bowed, his gaze locked on the stairs below, and he walked hunched with shadows under his eyes. Mary's heart clenched. But then John looked up, and saw her across the street, and his face lit with one of his beautiful smiles of incredulity. Mary smiled back; didn't stop smiling until John crossed the street and greeted her with a kiss and a careful hug that included their daughter.
She'd have to tell him what Sherlock and she had talked about, she knew. But this moment was too perfect. Not now, she thought, with a sudden needle of worry piercing her stomach.
John circled her waist with his arm and they walked home.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock was still in Jerry's Café. It had stopped raining, but it was still was bored. Oh, for goodness' sake. Again. He needed John.
That's when his phone vibrated. And vibrated again. And kept vibrating, insistent and demanding. Exactly like the person calling. With a sigh and an eye-roll, Sherlock finally picked it up.
"What do you want, Mycroft?"
"Nice to hear you too, brother dearest."
Sherlock didn't deign to answer.
"Oh, please, Sherlock. Don't."
"What?"
"Put your nose in the air like an offended aristocrat when I speak to you."
"I didn't." But he had, very much so.
"Didn't you?" said a voice next to him, and Sherlock looked up in displeasure to find the sharp smile of his brother.
"May I?" Mycroft asked, but sat down before Sherlock could have said anything. He looked at the lipstick trace on the cup and said, "First you engage in sexual intercourse with a married man and then you cheat on him with his wife?" His smile was slight but effective. Sherlock was irked.
"Oh my," Mycroft added, gloating in his smug, irritating way and wriggling subtly in his chair. "But you're a real Casanova, aren't you, little brother?"
"Nonsense. You're becoming sloppy, Mycroft. You've let your observation skills get blunt."
Mycroft's sharp smile broadened. "Allow me to disagree, brother dearest. Although I admit that even the bluntest of the observational skills couldn't possibly miss the lipstick mark on this cup."
"That doesn't prove anything, Mycroft."
"No, it doesn't. But the café's CCTV cameras do."
Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes. "You'd be nobody without your damn cameras."
Mycroft's smile grew even larger. "Possibly," he conceded with such self-satisfaction it didn't sound like a concession at all. "But as it is," he purred, "I am not nobody."
Sherlock snorted. "Indeed, Your Majesty." Mycroft was enjoying this so much it was indecent.
Mycroft ignored him and rummaged on his black briefcase like some businessman would. "By the way," he said, "Mum sends her love and asks when you are going to visit them."
"On the 30th of February."
Mycroft looked up from his briefcase, looking comically annoyed. Sherlock answered by raising his eyebrows and cocking his head.
"They miss you, Sherlock. You should at least say hello."
"Funny. I've missed me as well, lately. I'm currently in the process of catching up with myself. So, if you'd be so kind." He pointed at the exit door with his chin. "Thank you."
Mycroft raised his chin and smiled tightly. "I have some business to discuss with you."
"With all the CCTV cameras reading our lips?" retorted Sherlock with a smirk.
Mycroft mirrored it, and said, "They're not recording right now." He rummaged a bit more in his elegant briefcase, as if looking for a classified, top-secret document. He finally found what he was searching for. "Fancy a piece of chewing-gum?"
Sherlock couldn't believe his ears. He'd expect something of importance. But Mycroft wasn't aware he'd just incriminated himself, so Sherlock would take advantage of it. Mycroft shrugged, said "As you prefer," and put a piece of chewing-gums on his mouth. Sherlock looked at the wrapping. Mint-flavoured, sugar-free. He smirked once more. But his brother spoke faster.
"I've been pulling all the strings I could, Sherlock," he said, suddenly serious. "I've even put myself in compromising and delicate situations, to clear your name off the records and keep you out of prison."
"Should I be grateful?" Sherlock shot back, and was pleased when his brother's cheeks became pink with anger.
"Definitely," answered Mycroft, his smooth voice concealing the outrage Sherlock knew his brother felt. "Moreover, you should stop snooping around and impersonating New Scotland Yard officers."
Sherlock sighed dramatically, secretly proud of having annoyed him. "Not again, Mycroft. Stop scolding me like a child."
"Stop acting like one, then," his brother answered, indignant but calmer. Sherlock was barely able to suppress a smile. That's how they worked, his brother and him. No apologies, few kind words – but they knew exactly how to soothe each other. Sherlock would bait Mycroft saying he wasn't a child, and Mycroft would answer something along the 'yes, you are' line, and everything would fall back into comfortable, familiar ground. Sherlock finally gave in and smiled faintly. He must admit to himself he enjoyed this as much as Mike did.
"As a matter of fact," added Mycroft, raising his eyebrows with pointed dignity, "You should be grateful. I even arranged for you to be allowed to continue playing detective, Sherlock."
"Is that so?" asked Sherlock, suddenly irritated. "Then by all means, let me play detective. You wouldn't happen to know where Martin Galloway, Rose Seaton and Paul Smedley could possibly be, would you?"
Mycroft half-closed his eyes, annoyed. Sherlock smirked. Then Mycroft smiled with cold grace and said, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh, come on, Mycroft," Sherlock purred. "Erasing the CCTV footage? Too obvious. You so smuggle kids out of YOI like an amateur."
Mycroft lifted one eyebrow. "Nonsense," he answered, inspecting his fingernails. "I have better things to do with my spare time than freeing criminals and violating the law."
It was Sherlock's turn to smile like the cat that got the cream. "Haven't you done so with me countless times?"
The glare Mycroft shot him was priceless. Sherlock felt pretty sure his deduction was right, but something was off; there were missing pieces in the puzzle. He frowned.
Mycroft sighed. "You did well with the Moriarty prank case, Sherlock," he said. "You can rest now. Why don't you take a holiday? Look, I'm feeling generous. If you behave I might pay your expenses. Take John and Mary with you, if you want – I won't pay their expenses, though." Mycroft's velvety tone became chilly. "You're overexerting yourself. The whole Moriarty affair affected you more deeply than I anticipated, I'm afraid. I'm concerned, Sherlock." His voice became hard as ice. "To imagine I could be involved with those children's prison break, good gracious. Don't tell me you're losing your grasp on reality, Sherlock. Drugs, emotions... and before you're aware you'll be flirting with madness as well." His voice became more brotherly, but not less dangerous. "It'd break my heart to see your mind – your sharpest tool – thus blunted. Don't do that to me."
Sherlock felt frozen. He didn't know how Mycroft always managed to put him in his place – below his place, actually. It was because of moments like these that Sherlock had named him his arch-enemy. John took it as a joke. But Sherlock knew better. Sherlock knew that under his suave persona, Mycroft was dangerous. Sherlock smirked, suddenly thrilled.
"Mycroft," he purred with his deepest voice tone, "dear brother, I'm always touched by your concern for me."
"You're welcome."
Sherlock took some dramatic seconds before talking again. "However, Mycroft, I assure you I need no holiday."
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow. "Is that so?" he answered, his voice full of sweet daggers.
"Yep," Sherlock shot back. "I'll stop 'snooping around' if you tell me the truth. Were you the one who smuggled those kids out of prison?"
Mycroft's answer came smoothly. "No, Sherlock," he said with an infuriating, paternalist tone. "And I do urge you to stop 'snooping around', for your own good. I cannot cover for you forever."
Well, Sherlock thought, like John'd say, 'bugger'.
"Tea?" offered Mycroft with the sweetest of tones.
"No, thanks," Sherlock growled. He knew Mycroft knew something. He knew Mycroft knew he knew, and he knew he wouldn't be able to make Mycroft talk anyway.
Bugger.
Outside Jerry's Café, it started raining again.
OOOXOOO
John had felt the need to sit in his old 221b Baker Street comfy chair. That'd been half an hour ago, and he still felt limp. Mary did tell him something about Sherlock's proposal, but nothing could have had prepared him for the talk they'd just had.
Mary had been absolutely radiant that afternoon – she had come to fetch him to the hospital, with the baby and a lovely bouquet of white roses. Her face had been lit of happiness, which was odd enough for John to notice it. It'd been a nice improvement. What had happened for Mary to be so full of lively happiness?
Now he knew, and he wasn't sure he welcomed the news. It had been too sudden, too unpredictable, like an unexpected punch to the face. John's hands felt moist and he fiddled with them nervously.
Mary was sitting on the sofa, next to the window, with little Sherly asleep in her arms. The city was the only thing that illuminated her figure – they'd been too absorbed in the conversation to remember to switch the light on. She was beautiful, in a kind of an eerie way.
I don't want to share her.
The ugly thought startled John a bit, then he felt angry at himself. She's not mine to 'share', he scolded himself, then he felt his eyes dragged towards the other person in the room.
Sherlock was standing, and had crossed his arms at his chest. His slender body was leant against the edge of the table, his back to the window, his face in the shadows. He wasn't his either, John thought with a pang, despite himself. Sherlock turned his handsome face towards Mary and the orange glow of the street lamps lit his sharp profile. They seemed like characters from a black-and-white film. It made John's heart beat faster; he felt a knot in his stomach, and he licked his lips.
He'd been unable to say a single thing since he'd sunk into the chair. He cleared his throat. "Ménage à trois," he stated, rather than asked. That's what Sherlock'd said with his velvety voice. Words that felt foreign, yet not, as if from the other side of a mirror. Like a hazy memory from a past life. Or the reflection of the moon on a lake.
John worried the cuticles of his left hand with the nail of his right thumb. He was unsure about his feelings. He'd be lying if he said he didn't feel a bit worried. And insecure. His fingers tapped against his leg for the thousandth time. Sherlock and Mary? Together? Without him? If he was honest, thinking about a threesome kind of excited him. And he did want to feel hope, he wanted to believe that'd be the answer, the happy end of a fairy tale. But again: Sherlock and Mary? Together? Without him? Because if he'd understood it well, they aimed to be... on their own as well as with him. He honestly didn't feel so sure about that. He'd be left out. He felt a stabbing pain of jealousy, pursed his lips and fixed his eyes on his knees. It was simple, really. He didn't want to be left out, he didn't want to feel less loved. Nobody does, right?
Right. Absolutely right. That was why when one thought about it level-headedly, it made sense. Their arguments made sense. John took a deep breath. Both Sherlock and Mary were periodically left out with the arrangement they had now. He didn't want to be a selfish git. John shifted slightly. Two of the most important people of his life wanted this. Which was a bit unsettling for him. But. If you thought about it level-headedly... it made sense. Right? Right. They'd all live at 221b Baker Street. He'd be able to live with the people he loved most. This might work, in fact. For the better. It might work. It had to.
He finally dared to give a timid half smile. "The rent will certainly be cheaper," he said lightly, pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room. Mary and Sherlock smiled, understanding John's mute message of acceptance. Was it his imagination, or did they seem to be as unsure as he felt? Mary certainly looked a bit like a puppy who'd broken a flower vase. John decided not to think too much and to lighten the mood, if he could. "I'd like to see you taking care of the baby," he said to Sherlock. Sherlock's smile disappeared with comic speed.
"I beg your pardon? It's your daughter," he said, lifting his nose.
"And your goddaughter," Mary replied, siding with John. Sherlock frowned. "Don't tell me this was your plan all along; to burden me with your baby."
John was pleased to notice that a positive, happy excitement was beginning to replace his darker thoughts. This could work. It has to. He smiled, and saw Mary mirroring him.
"Hey; this arrangement was your plan," John heard her saying to Sherlock.
"Which I couldn't have thought of without your original proposal," Sherlock retorted.
John snorted nervously. Then an issue popped into his mind, and he sobered a bit. "And what will we do about the bedrooms?" he asked.
Mary shot him a sharp look, but Sherlock was unfazed by the thorny question. "I've thought about that. Let's put your old bed next to mine. They're both big enough for the three of us, and my bedroom's relatively spacious. We'll be a bit cramped though. And I'd turn your old bedroom into the baby's bedroom. When she gets older."
John looked at him with glad amazement, and saw a similar look on Mary's face. "You really thought it through, didn't you?" asked Mary, her voice coloured with wonder. Sherlock's smile showed comic self-satisfaction. John laughed; nervous, incredulous, and said, "Really, Sherlock. I don't know if you're a huge romantic in denial or a closet pervert." Sherlock answered with his beautifully timid smile, and Mary giggled.
"Both of them," said Sherlock with childish glee.
"Cheeky smart ass," shot Mary.
"Why, thank you."
John felt relieved to hear himself snort and laugh at that. He might actually manage the situation. This could work. Was he allowed to have hope? Would they reach unexpected heights of happiness or would they fall into 'a pit full of fire'? Would he be able to win the war against his ugliest side? Or would he be too weak? He felt a nervous excitement, something between fear of pain and hope to survive unscathed, a daring impulse he'd only felt in the battlefield and working with Sherlock. "Jesus," he said, a bit embarrassed. "This seems a silly high school trip. We're too old to behave like this; this is ridiculous."
"Is it?" replied Sherlock. "Hmm. I wouldn't be able tell. My public image includes a deerstalker, you see." John heard Mary snigger. "Besides," Sherlock added, "I didn't really get to enjoy silly high school trips when I was the age to do so." He'd clearly meant it to be funny, it had the opposite effect, for it had triggered Mary.
"Nor did I," she said quietly.
This silence was suddenly much graver than any they had had that evening. The mood had changed so fast John felt a cold fear creeping up his stomach.
"Mary –" said he, and she cut him off saying, "Anja."
Another deep silence. Damn, it was hard to breathe. And then, he whispered, "I know."
Mary shot him a sharp look. "You know?"
John looked back at her eyes. "I read your files."
Mary's face turned as white as a sheet. "You did?" she said with a weak voice. "You told me you didn't."
John shifted in his seat, abashed. "I thought it'd mortify you."
Silence.
"And why are you telling me now?"
Another awkward silence. Slowly, John said, "Because I got the impression it'd mortify you less now."
Mary remained mute; John watched her take a deep breath and exhale it. "So?" she asked in that unusually deep, strangled voice he'd learnt to identify as signalling contained anxiety.
John tapped his knees with his fingers, pondering his next words. "Well..." he said, "I already did my pouting and doubting." He gave her a weak half-smile. "For six months."
A tense silence.
"You asked me if 'Mary Watson' was good enough for me," she said, and John looked at Mary with dread. She seemed to be as nervous as he was. She tapped the floor with her foot and said, "It is good enough. But..."
"Your name is Anja Gertrud Richter Achenbach," said Sherlock from the shadows, startling John. Mary's face turned very serious.
"It is," she answered.
John looked at her with a heavy weight on his chest. He took a moment to regain his voice. "I – " he cleared his throat " – I didn't know that name was so important to you."
It was Sherlock who answered. "Do you not observe, John? It's obvious it is, if she even writes her mother's maiden surname."
"Don't, Sherlock," said Mary. He looked taken aback; fell silent and retreated his face into the shadows. They remained in silence once again, and once again, Mary was the one to talk. "I became used to being Mary Morstan, but... I always thought of it as a disguise. Until I met you," she added, looking at John with reddening eyes.
He swallowed and croaked, "Would you prefer to be called Anja?"
Her gaze fell to her hands, a technique he knew she used to recompose herself. "I don't know any more," she stated calmly, monotonously; and somehow her collected face made his throat clench. It was difficult to breathe. Mary - Anja? - blinked, and said, "But it could be dangerous to be called Anja in public. I took Mary Morstan's identity for a reason." Correct, calm, rational. A mask she seldom had to put on - she had better ways of concealing her feelings, John knew her as much. This last mask was a security mask - her last resort, the last wall containing the reservoir water. If it broke... no, he wouldn't let it break.
"The Government knows about you?," he asked, although it went out rather like a statement.
Mary nodded. "Even so..." Her voice trailed off, and then she tried again. "I don't know." Silence. "Well... I kind of am Mary by now, anyway."
It didn't do anything to ease the weight on John's chest, as it should have. Though he couldn't say why.
OOOXOOO
"John! For God's sake, the number eight!"
John was startled out of his thoughts and stammered, "Wha?"
"The number eight!" repeated an irritated Sherlock, this time going so far as to raise his eyes from the microscope.
John mumbled a "Sorry" and took one of the slides containing bits of evidence Sherlock found at the Marshland YOI. This one seemed to have a greenish piece of cloth inside. John blinked. It was but a couple of days since they had what he called 'the chat', and he still felt so overwhelmed by it, he was distracted all the time. It was even interfering with his job.
John frowned. Some moments he felt full of nervous hope, of adrenaline; like a kid who'd been told to help grown-ups with a grown-up job. But since he'd been a grown-up for years, he also felt fear and doubt. He'd always thought he wasn't the type to love stability and order in his life, to the point he enrolled for a damned war. But somehow, this ménage-à-trois destabilised his life in a sense the Army hadn't. He felt as if The Walls were melting - those Walls he'd never seen up till now. He felt empty, so unsure he didn't even know if it was fear he felt, or pain, or excitement. He felt as if he'd lost his grip on the frames he'd held fast to all his life. John sneered at himself. He hadn't felt this way when he finally admitted to himself feeling sexually attracted to another man. He hadn't even felt this way when he engaged in - what to call it? Allowed adultery? John snorted, suddenly bitter. That's how he'd felt, right? All the good sides of an adultery without its bad sides. Only guilt when he thought of Mary - and then he'd remember she'd allowed it, and he'd felt better, and he'd enjoyed the rush of loving Sherlock.
But now he'd have to live the other side of the same coin, and suddenly the matter became pretty damn serious. And the really fucked up thing was, he loved both of them so much his chest hurt when he thought of them. He was confused, like a puppy who hadn't expected to be kicked. Was it a huge, painful betrayal, what Sherlock and Mary had done? Was it just fair play? How would all this evolve?
"John, you know your admiration is always both welcome and justified, but as a doctor, I find your staring at an ordinary slide for so long is way too much," Sherlock snapped, startling John out of his thoughts again. For a moment, it seemed as if Sherlock was going to stand up and grab the damn thing from his hands - a thought that excited John. But no, Sherlock stayed where he was. John almost snorted. Sherlock stand up and do menial things for himself? Nonsense. John smiled fondly, looked at his lover's face, and found his pale blue eyes looking back with a rare warmth.
"I'll try it again, John," he said.
Try again what? thought John, dumbfounded. What Sherlock had said should've been a warning, but the man's overall expression didn't show anger or exasperation.
"John, would you mind passing me the slide labelled with an eight? I'd rather not stand up, I don't want to lose my concentration."
Now John was dumbfounded.
"Of course, Sherlock," he said, still not believing his ears. He saw something crossing Sherlock's face - pain? Love? Tenderness? (Was it even possible for Sherlock to feel tenderness?). John couldn't help it: he approached Sherlock slowly, never looking anywhere else than his face, put the slide next to the microscope, cupped Sherlock's neck with one hand and kissed him on the cheek, slowly, sensuously, savouring the moment. He felt Sherlock's Adam's apple rising and then falling, and then his slender arm circling his waist. John felt instantly aroused. So quickly, so intensely aroused - Sherlock had his collar open again, dammit, one couldn't not stare at that - and then look at his eyelashes, at his slender but obviously manly hands manipulating the microscope -
"John," he heard Sherlock saying, and the rumble in his voice made John's heart beat faster. "I'm sorry, but I've got to continue investigating. Three teenagers disappeared." His smile was small and incredibly lovable. John felt a tiny bit disgruntled, but he knew work was work, especially for Sherlock. He grinned.
"Maybe don't do the smiling, then," he shot back, and marvelled at Sherlock's amused face.
Jesus, how could he hold onto any kind of resentment at him?
OOOXOOO
This was awkward. Not like with John, at all.
And it felt foreign. Mary seemed like an alien, sitting on his bed. She didn't even look at him. At least she kept her composure. Didn't start crying, or whispering "I love you", or strip-teasing. No film thing. That was positive. But now Sherlock felt impatient. And angry at himself.
It was so obvious even he saw what was wrong.
They weren't attracted to each other. Not enough, at least.
His perfect solution to the equation didn't seem to work. And Sherlock wasn't used to his intellect failing him. It was annoying. He felt frustrated. He needed John to explain human behaviour to him. It was irritating how humans always failed to meet his expectations.
Including Mary. Most inconvenient. What was her expression again? Guilt, probably. So irrational. Think, Sherlock. Think! Why would Mary not feel attracted to you?
No. Wrong question. There were thousands of answers to that. Impractical. Think of another.
How to persuade Mary to go through with this?
...
Damn it. The first question had thousands of answers, the second one had none.
Mary hadn't said or done anything and Sherlock was conscious he had little time left to think of a way to go through with the plan. He needed time. What to do? What to do?
I could ask her to go make tea for us. It works with John. He almost said it, then remembered the last time he asked that of Janine. She'd laughed and called him a male something - he didn't remember. Irrelevant. Point was, when he insisted, she grew angry and didn't comply. Only John does, Sherlock thought fondly. Oh, for Christ's sake, Sherlock. Think!
He glanced at Mary and found her fixing her gaze to the window. She had no make-up, but wore her Clair de lune perfume, he could smell it. What did it mean? She didn't always wear perfume did she? Oh. Maybe. Maybe Mary didn't wear it, but Anja did?
Good gracious. He'd found the question, and he'd found the answer while he was at it. No wonder John admired him, he sometimes couldn't help admiring himself.
The right question with which to start was: Who is she?
She's both Mary and Anja.
And the next question wasn't 'how to persuade Mary to go through with this?', but 'how to persuade Anja to go through with this?'.
He chose to test the waters. He took a deep breath to speak in a deep voice - he read somewhere women liked that. Ridiculous, but he hated losing, so he wouldn't risk failure.
"Anja," he said, and Mary turned her face towards him so fast she must've hurt her neck. She looked at him in silence, highly expectant, with a strange look in her eyes. Right track? Must continue experimenting. "Do you still take time to train your shooting skills?"
Her eyes seemed sharp daggers. Stop thinking like John, you fool. No. No, wait. Maybe it was the moment to think like John did.
"I do," she answered. "Why?"
Sherlock shrugged and looked through the black window, feigning indifference. "Pretty cool," he baited. Bingo. Mary - Anja, rather - had a proud half-smile she hadn't been able to hide. He tried to go further. "But I suppose that's not the only thing you're good at."
"I'd never have believed you'd be one for bed-talk and innuendos, Sherlock."
I'm not, he thought, but smiled instead. "One has to adapt to the circumstances."
Anja snorted. Then her face turned sad so quickly it didn't seem possible. What have I done wrong? thought Sherlock. How to proceed?
"Sherlock," Mary whispered. "How about sleeping together? I mean, with no sex or anything. We shouldn't force things."
Sherlock was stupefied. No, no, no! What the hell was wrong?! Weren't they just getting in the mood or something? He had felt a difference. Hadn't he? Jesus Christ, Mary never stopped surprising him with unexpected actions. If human emotions were hard to predict, Mary's were a mystery. Right when he thought he'd managed to look through the keyhole, the room behind it was pitch black and he could only make out vague movements in the shadows. It was frustrating. He felt an old but frighteningly acute rancour towards women. They always failed him.
I always fail them.
It had all seemed so simple when he first thought of a ménage-à-trois.
There was no intimacy that night.
OOOXOOO
It still felt ridiculous to her, but hey, things had improved at least.
It was her second time in 221b Baker Street. Sherlock had seemed disgruntled and surprised last night, when she'd suggested just sleeping. Mary felt a bit guilty. But she couldn't help feeling sad when she was with him - with Sherlock. Sadness. Melancholy. A pain that was sweet, yes; but pain nonetheless. Those weren't feelings that aroused her. And one thing she was certain of, if she wasn't aroused, she wasn't going to have sex.
But things hadn't been so simple. Oh, no. Because, as obtuse as Sherlock seemed to be about all things human, last night he'd nailed it. Nailed it so much it'd frightened Mary. Whether it'd been a blind shot or not, she didn't know, but it had worked. Sherlock had summoned the Anja deep inside her; that young, wild, indomitable woman who still swore in German. The Anja who took pride in being deadly, dangerous. The Anja who felt flattered when asked to show off her shooting skills. The Anja who was very sure of herself and of what she wanted. And he had tempted her. He'd challenged her. Was he aware that the thrill of competition was one of the few things that still exhilarated Anja out of Mary? That wanting the prize pushed her to play the game, no matter how dangerous, questionable or bound to failure her actions might be?
She'd felt that fleeting spark. And then he had to mention adapting to the circumstances - and Mary's fear and melancholy took over Anja's aggressive excitement. She'd closed the half-opened doors with a bang.
And now, here they were again, alone in 221b Baker Street. Sherlock's face was even blanker than usual. Of course. Mary knew he was a sore loser. He probably hadn't forgotten, nor forgiven, last night. He didn't like to be beaten. Mary felt uncomfortable. He might very well choose to be uncooperative, if things weren't done the way he wanted. She had to be very careful tonight.
OOOXOOO
Was she flirting with him? Sherlock frowned. She was. Damn her, she was. For God's sake. So now she did want to be sensible and go through with the plan? Well, little Missus Watson. Don't think you can toy with me. Don't think I'm bloody John.
"Maybe we should just sleep tonight, Mary. You were right, we shouldn't force ourselves."
OOOXOOO
John was restless. He'd tried to chill out reading the newspaper with a cup of tea, but the third time he read the same paragraph and realised he didn't know what it was about, he gave up.
Sherlock and Mary. Sherlock and Mary. Were they attracted to each other even before all this started? Had it been a move he hadn't foreseen? Was it vengeance? How could he think so ill of the people he loved most?
It was the third time Mary was staying over at Baker Street. They hadn't talked about what'd happened the other two nights. The bed felt so cold and big without her; he didn't want to go through that again.
He was alone. John groaned. No, not truly alone. Yet.
Thank God the baby's fast asleep.
Oh this was nuts. They couldn't continue like this. It was barely two weeks and he felt he might explode. Sometimes he imagined them having sex. It was ironic how easily he could picture them naked and aroused. Sometimes, that image made him feel a stabbing pain. Sometimes, he felt aroused. Most of the time it was a mixture of both.
It was barely 19:30. Mary hadn't been home when he came back.
To hell with everything. He couldn't take it any more. How had they even borne it?
John got out of the bed and looked for his mobile phone. When he found it, he hesitated. Should he ring Mary or Sherlock?
And an evil, Mr. Hyde-like idea took form inside his mind.
Neither of them, he thought. Ring Mike. Mike Stamford. They might take care of baby Sherlock. And you could go over to 221b Baker Street to make your point.
Mr Hyde gloated. Dr Watson clicked his tongue. John groaned and covered his eyes with his hands. After some time, he finally decided to dial Mike's number. Then he looked at the phone. Hesitated. Didn't call. Then he looked at the phone again - the numbers shone with upsetting indifference.
Oh, to hell with everything.
"..."
"..."
"..."
Finally.
"Hello? John, is it you?" Mike's voice was so friendly John felt a knot in his stomach. "What's up?"
He shouldn't leave the baby as if she were a package, thought John guiltily. Mr. Hyde snorted. The Stamfords are good people. She's gonna be all right.
"John, mate?" he heard Mike saying, cleared his throat, and answered: "Yes, Mike, sorry. How are you?"
Mike laughed good-heartedly. "Oh, I'm doing fine, mate, as always. Did you ring me about having a beer together or something? Or is it something serious?"
John felt even more guilty than before. It'd been a long time since he'd asked him to go out for a drink. "Hmm... no, sorry, Mi - mate. We definitely have to have a beer sometime," he rushed, " - but I'm not calling for that right now. See, Mary and I - " A lie, fast! " - want to spend some time alone, you know what I mean, and - and we wondered if you'd mind taking care of our baby. Just for tonight, promise. Please."
When Mike didn't answer for some time, John started to worry. Perhaps it was a lot to ask of Mike; they were friends, but were they intimate enough to ask him that? Or perhaps he sucked at persuading people. Or maybe Mike thought they were monsters who didn't care about their daughter. Just when John was starting to regret ringing him, Mike laughed warmly.
"Of course, John, mate! You know you can ask us for help any time you want, right? Only, I'd rather you warned us in advance. But no worries! Hannah and I're used to kids. Where do you want to meet?"
John sighed inwardly. "Half an hour, next to The Arrow? Is that OK?"
"Of course, John, no problem. See you!"
John's heart was pounding fast and he must have had goose pimples. After leaving baby Sherlock with the Stamfords, he'd go straight to Baker Street. Fuck everything.
OOOXOOO
It was the third time they tried and it wasn't working. Mary sighed.
Well, it kind of was going better than the other times, since she'd made up her mind to try to summon her inner Anja, and Sherlock seemed satisfied with last night's petty vengeance. He had even made the obvious effort to dress in an alluring way, and in fact, so had she. He was lovely to look at. He was slender, fluid. Graceful. Suave, even. Yet masculine. But, somehow, despite her efforts, Mary's mind kept drifting to John. Guilt. It was stupid to feel it, really, they were doing nothing wrong. Nothing worse than what John'd been doing. But. Her position and John's were different. John'd been attracted to Sherlock's arse way before she'd appeared in the picture.
That made a huge difference. One had but to observe how the men looked at each other; she could tell they were momentarily oblivious to everything around them. They stared at each other like thirsty men stared at a well. Embarrassingly, remembering those encounters - their mute, mutual attraction - aroused her more and longer than any previous attempt at seduction Sherlock or she had made. She felt both ashamed and depressed. She didn't know she had voyeuristic tendencies, but she must have. She was so messed up.
She was sitting on what'd been John's armchair, and Sherlock was sitting on his own. He had made an especial effort to light the place with candles and the scene was - well, first of all, very clichéand verging on the ridiculous, but then again, it did succeed in creating a dreamy, relaxed atmosphere - when you let yourself believe in the smoke and mirrors. He was handsome - she felt almost rude for not feeling so attracted to him as, say, John was - but she couldn't pretend either. She had pretended so much in the past - for different reasons - she didn't want to any more. Not with Sherlock. Mary felt a new pang of guilt. She'd silenced so many things already...
Suddenly, Sherlock's whole demeanour changed and he looked at the door.
"Can't be," he mumbled, and Mary felt a shiver down her spine. Danger? Her old instincts kicked in and she tensed.
"How many, would you say?" she whispered, already reaching for her concealed gun, and felt confused when Sherlock looked at her, puzzled.
"Just John," he cleared, and Mary felt another kind of shiver. And indeed, some seconds later, John appeared through the living room. She'd seldom seen him like that.
She felt unaccountably aroused.
OOOXOOO
When John entered the living room, Sherlock couldn't help smirking.
"My, John, it seems I'm not the only one prone to dramatic entrances," he purred.
"I learnt from the best, Sherlock," John shot back, his expression even wilder.
Excellent.
"John," said Mary, "you haven't let the baby alone, have you?"
John's expression lost some of its fierceness. "No, I haven't, Mary. I left her with the Stamford's. They're good people. Old friends."
"Yes, I know, John, dear." A tense silence. Mary licked her lips. John took a shaky breath. Sherlock saw an opportunity.
"Then, John," he said, using that deep voice he knew John liked, "You have no objections to staying over."
John suddenly seemed dubious, deflated, like a pricked balloon. Why? What's the problem?
"Weren't you... I mean...Just you two..." John stammered.
"It's not working as well as we thought," Mary said quickly.
Sherlock felt irritated - no need to tell John they had - he had - failed.
"Nonetheless," Sherlock said, "I'd think our achievements or lackthereof don't really matter to you, John, since you came here anyway. Isn't that so?"
John had the decency to turn pink. He was so endearing when he was defenceless. Not that he didn't appreciate his strong side either. Sherlock smiled. He felt as predatory as when he chased after a criminal.
The game was on.
OOOXOOO
To say John felt awkward was an understatement. He'd come in a fury, intending to say all this had been a bad idea, a fucked up experiment, a sick arrangement, what the hell were they even thinking, we're married Mary, let's go home; and fuck you Sherlock, you selfish bastard, set me fucking free, you demand too much, you toy with me, I want to be normal again, lead a normal life with its normal complications and die old, not of a fucking heart attack.
Instead, he was now in a situation he could almost imagine the tumbleweed rolling on the floor. Sherlock was right. He'd come to send everything to rot in hell. He'd expected to find Sherlock and Mary engaged in steamy sex, enjoying themselves, and he'd expected them to be angry at him. What he'd found though, was a pair of very nicely dressed sexy bodies looking at him as if they'd been waiting him all along. John swallowed, nervous. This changed things.
Sherlock stood up. He was being his predatory self, John could see. It was difficult not to be mesmerised by Sherlock's commanding grace. But at the same time, John was abnormally conscious of Mary's presence. He couldn't let himself be drown in Sherlock's eyes in front of her. Damn him. Sherlock. John felt as if his eyes were physically locked with Sherlock's. With great effort, he averted his gaze. But only to notice Mary's eyes, which burnt like he'd seldom seen them burn. His heart started beating faster. It was a delicate moment, but if they got it right... he felt himself hardening. He felt his own inner predator waking up, and he could almost hear Mr Hyde's smug snigger. He started breathing shallowly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"What are you waiting for, John?" he baited, and that was the last straw. John felt his heart pound like a hammer.
"I'm waiting for you to lie down on your bed," he growled. "We can't play doctor if the patient refuses to collaborate."
Sherlock's cheeks turned pink, and John smiled. He'd won.
OOOXOOO
"I'm waiting for you to lie down on your bed," John replied, startling Mary. His tone was darker and meaner than usual; a tone he never used with her. She shivered. "We can't play doctor if the patient refuses to collaborate."
Mary observed with embarrassed curiosity Sherlock's cheeks turn pink. Jesus. She really didn't know that side of John – their love-making had never relied on performing elaborate fantasies... nor on that kind of bed-talk.
"We've never played doctor before," she said to him, half-embarrassed and half-excited. John seemed suddenly abashed.
"You've never had a patient before," replied Sherlock with a cheekiness that was clearly intended to combat the awkwardness.
Mary felt a grin on her face."True," she said. The game was luring her. "Well, Dr. Watson. Need a nurse?"
John smiled, visibly relieved to see her playing along. "I do," he said with fake gravity, "He's a problematic one."
Mary suppressed a smile and pretended to speak with professional detachment. "I see. Does he need to be bound?"
Sherlock seemed genuinely embarrassed. "That won't be necessary," he muttered lifting his chin, and strode towards his bedroom, not looking back even once. Mary looked at John, and he smiled, suddenly timid. A giggle bubbled out of her.
They followed Sherlock.
OOOXOOO
John couldn't believe they were finally doing it. He felt both aroused and embarrassed - he'd never shown his darker self to Mary, those questionable desires that seemed so natural when he was with Sherlock; that frighteningly strong and irrational urge to dominate in which he'd never let himself indulge, never, in any aspect of his life. Except...
Enough. He was at home now, more at home than ever, not over there. He was about to have what would probably be one of his most amazing, steamy sex experiences of his life. He had to focus, he had to make everything go perfectly, he had to...
Mary's reassuring smile cut through his thoughts and he felt calmer. He then looked at Sherlock, at Sherlock and his burning eyes. He was sitting on his bed like a king on his throne. John swallowed. He didn't have to do anything, that was the very point. He let everything go. He approached Sherlock, slowly, carefully; kissed his cheek and felt Sherlock's hand caressing him from underneath his shirt. He smelled so good, so confusingly masculine. So himself. So Sherlock.
John took a shaky breath and licked Sherlock's salty neck. He could barely think straight.
OOOXOOO
Mary looked at the scene and felt oddly aroused by it. She'd never have thought she'd enjoy voyeurism, even less if the scene included her husband, but surprise! She was a pervert after all. She didn't feel as bad about it as she thought she should, though. And she didn't feel left out either.
But Mary did feel a bit unsure about taking action and touching Sherlock. John walked away from him and she took it as a sign, now that Sherlock was lying down. Slowly, she touched Sherlock's cheek with tentative fingers. They had never managed to go as far when they'd been on their own. Sherlock closed his eyes, expectant, and she cupped his face. Sherlock's skin was smoother than John's, clean shaven as he was. Her husband approached her and hugged her from behind, in such a tender way that Mary's heart started to beat harder. John's breath was hot against her ear. "Caress his face," he said with a husky voice. "Comb his hair." Mary took a deep breath and did as she was told. When her fingers touched Sherlock's head, he exhaled in contentment. She could feel John's breath becoming shallower and his grip tightening – he was getting turned on, and they had barely started. Mary felt her own breath quickening.
John stopped hugging her; he left an arm around her waist but used the other one to touch Sherlock's clothed chest gently and then to grip one of his shoulders. Sherlock opened his eyelids languidly and shot John an intense look; John approached his face slowly, calmly, and kissed him – first a chaste kiss, then another, then a French kiss, then another; each one more heated than the previous. They practically vibrated with passion, with something so deep and intense that Mary couldn't help having her eyes glued on their faces. She had felt a bit uncomfortable at first, seeing John so blatantly in love and aroused by another person, but then her mood swayed – because she was part of that too, part of that hot passion and love and lust that she gave and received as much as they did. She felt warm, she felt her heart pounding painfully against her chest, she felt aroused watching them kiss and she felt John's arm suddenly burning against her waist again. She decided to be more active and started massaging John's scalp as well – which made him groan. The room temperature shot up.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock felt giddy, almost drunk in a warmth that he couldn't define. His recently discovered – or rather, rediscovered – feelings of love and lust still overwhelmed him. This love-making was getting even more intense than the previous ones with John. His loyal friend was kissing him with a fire that rivalled their first encounter. Maybe fuelled by Mary being there? He felt a knot in his stomach and a weight of molten lead in his chest. He felt himself hardening, and shot a hand out to grip Mary's arm. He didn't know why he'd done it, but she gripped his in return.
He let himself go.
OOOXOOO
Oh God, Mary thought. Jesus. The men had stopped kissing, leaving their lips redder than before – almost as if they had put a discreet lipstick on. The queer thought turned her on so strongly that she felt confused, abashed, and had to close her eyes. John urged her towards him with his arm. "Let's undress him," he said in a hoarse voice that provoked goose pimples on Sherlock's skin - she could feel them - and made Mary shiver. They started to undress Sherlock, who remained limp to help them, until he was completely bare. Bony, skinny, lanky, white and flushed. He was less hairy than her husband, and he had tell-tale bruises inside of his left elbow. She shot a glance at John, but they both chose to ignore them. They started to undress in silence.
Mary felt suddenly unsure. "John," she quietly said. "I think... I need to do this slowly." God, how she loved him. He was slightly flushed and breathing shallowly. She loved each of his wrinkles, each little expression of his good-natured face, and God, his eyes – those big, liquid eyes that looked at her with deep feelings of trust and friendship and affection and love and lust and –
Mary closed her eyes, feeling pained and guilty. She reached for John, carefully caressing John's chest, then his neck, then his cheek, then his scalp. Her husband leant into her touch, his eyes closed. When he opened them again, they looked at each other and - Mein Gott, he knew. He'd known all along.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock suddenly felt a lack of air in his lungs. That look. That burning look. Mary – no, Anja. It was Anja looking at him. Nonsense. Absurd. Yet true. Those eyes, that feeling, that... and understanding fell into him like a crumbling building. He felt himself panicking, then pleased, and then worried – and turned his guilty gaze to John. John and his sad smile, John and his utter humbleness.
Nobody dared to say anything, but everybody understood, Sherlock realised. And he also realised he was in shock. He felt his heart pounding, swelling like never before, utterly overwhelmed by the revelation.
Anja liked him. She had said so since the beginning, John had told him – but it wasn't that. Anja liked him. He'd felt it in her eyes just now. He recognised that look – it was similar to John's. Not as intense, certainly. Even so, it was too much. Too much sentiment, too suddenly – too good to be true – too terrifying. It was a mess, such a confusing mess – Sherlock broke down. With sudden energy, he approached John and Mary and hugged them tightly – hugged them with a strength and a desperation that burned and scalded; what felt like molten steel boiled in his eyes and fell in unstoppable drops.
He was loved. Sincerely loved. Not just by one person – but by two. Two of the people he cared for the most – but no. There had been others that loved and liked him, that still loved and liked him. He just hadn't been able to fully appreciate it. His parents. Mycroft, in his way. Molly. Mrs Hudson. Even Lestrade.
He was such an idiot. Such an insecure, arrogant, coward prick. It wasn't alone that had protected him, he realised. He'd never been truly alone. And now, even less than ever.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock hadn't whimpered, hadn't uttered a sound; John wouldn't have noticed his collapse if he hadn't seen his agonised face; felt his spasms. It was terrifying, like watching the fall of a kingdom, the bombing of an ancient city. He looked at Sherlock and then at Mary, overwhelmed and taken aback. It felt both right and wrong to see his cold, stoic friend so broken down by emotions, so utterly vulnerable. Mary seemed as dubious as he felt; she blinked rapidly and pointed to the bed with her chin. John understood her message and nodded. When Sherlock calmed down a bit, they coaxed him gently to lie on the mattress once more. He seemed so shocked and so lost he must be beyond feeling shame for his human error. Mary quietly agreed with a look not to speak about anything that had happened there. They didn't attempt anything else that night; they just slept together, warm skin on warm skin. John let his eyes busy themselves searching the ceiling, since his mind was weary of searching his heart.
OOOXOOO
Next morning, Mary awoke with a lazy sleepiness weighing on her eyelids. It was some time before she realised that the warm male body touching her was lankier than John's – and she remembered, and she blushed. Last night she had had a revelation; she had dared to see deep into her heart and had discovered Sherlock there, next to John. Not as deep as John, true – but there he was, much deeper than what she'd thought he'd be. Sherlock had his back pressed to hers; she slowly turned until she was looking up at the ceiling; she pushed herself up onto her elbows, then carefully sat down and looked at the men. The sheet was in a mess and only covered half of each man's body. They were fast asleep; Sherlock was spooning John's smaller frame, their faces so relaxed and contented, Mary's heart started beating faster. She remained like that for some minutes, until she felt a warm tide of desire slowly taking her body over. What the hell, she thought. Sometimes, they really liked to complicate things with feelings and morals and shit. They – she – should remember to forget; to simplify, to not overthink, to simply act. She felt emboldened, much younger and more courageous; she lightly caressed Sherlock's bare forearm, her heart pounding in her throat. Anja lowered her head, slowly, and brushed his temple with her lips – then his cheek, then his jawline, then his neck. Sherlock hummed lightly, still asleep. Mary moved away from Sherlock, and she quietly approached John. She kissed him on his cheek, sweetly, softly; then his lips. And John, slowly but steadily, woke up.
"Mary – " he said in a raspy voice.
"Shh," she answered, smiling, and caressed his lips with her fingertips. John smiled back. "Sherlock's still asleep," she clarified, and kissed John deeper. She pressed her body to his, almost lying on him, while they kissed and licked and caressed each other's skin.
OOOXOOO
At first, John hadn't been a hundred per cent awake, but he certainly was now. He tried to shift his body a bit so that he could lie, and in the process, he shot a glance towards Sherlock.
And his heart jumped to his throat.
Sherlock wasn't asleep; in fact, his pale blue eyes were fixed on him with a hunger that made John's stomach clench and his groin twitch. Mary sensed something; looked at John in the face and then at Sherlock and a slow smile took over her face.
"Good morning, Sherlock," she said. He flashed a smile.
"Mind if I join in?" he asked, and they smiled – no, obviously not. Sherlock raised a tentative hand towards John and caressed his cheek with such unusual tenderness it left John - and by her look, Mary too - perplexed. Sherlock's face would've appeared neutral or unfeeling to an estranger, but not to John - he knew Sherlock enough to see the sentiment behind the façade.
John licked his lips.
OOOXOOO
Mary inhaled sharply. She was aroused, aroused like she hadn't been in a long time. John had started massaging her breasts, squeezing and rolling her nipples. Sherlock looked somewhat timidly at John's fingers, and his own hand raised tentatively to touch one of Mary's breasts. She closed her eyes and exhaled a shaky breath; opened them again and said, "Kiss". They looked at her in confusion.
"I mean, kiss each other."
Her voice had become huskier with desire. Something seemed to crack inside John, who looked from her to Sherlock with such predatory intensity that he almost made her tremble in anticipation. John used one of his hands to coax Sherlock's head towards his; for some heated moments, they just stared at each other – and then Sherlock complied, closed his eyelids, and John kissed him in a languid and sensuous French kiss. Mary's heart started beating faster. Her husband was so much more... primal when he was with Sherlock; she couldn't believe how sweet and yielding he was with her in bed – but Sherlock awoke something else in him, something that mesmerised Mary. It was as if John... didn't hold backwith Sherlock. The idea was thrilling. And then, she felt them, as they switched to their sides: John's erection rubbing her stomach, and Sherlock's rubbing her thigh. She was soaking wet by then, her folds pounding as if her heart was down there.
She inhaled sharply.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock's blood was racing. He could barely think straight. That would have worried him some time ago, but not now – no, now he was enjoying one of the best highs ever. He still wasn't used to John being so domineering. There was something predatory, aggressive in the way he moved against Sherlock, in the way he kissed him. It was a pleasant thrill, a simulation of danger, not a true threat. Sherlock knew John would never hurt him, and that kind of made his domineering ardour more appealing, melting Sherlock's armour and relaxing him, leaving him in John's hands. Because he knew that despite the power John held, he'd never crush him. He'd rather use his strength to protect him, to please him. Sherlock moaned softly at the idea, his hips rubbing against Mary's thigh before he noticed it was hers, pleasure building up and his penis rock hard. John. His John. His loyal, loyal love.
OOOXOOO
Sherlock wasn't the only one with a rock-hard erection. John was breathing fast, pinned under his wife and glued to Sherlock. He could barely believe it was real, that he was in bed with both his loves, together – and enjoying one of the most intense sex he'd ever had. And they had barely begun.
He felt Mary licking his neck and groaned. He was so aroused he didn't know if he'd be able to talk, but he had an idea, and he wanted to share it. "Mary. Sherlock," he said. "Wait. Let's try something." Both of them stopped and looked at him expectantly. "I want to try something... new."
Mary gave him a lazy smile turned sensual because of her arousal. "We already are doing something new to us, dear."
John smirked. "Just humour me, please?" he said. He looked at Sherlock, and his eyes made him hold his breath.
"Of course," croaked Sherlock, and his voice sent a shiver down John's spine. He cleared his throat, suddenly a bit nervous.
"Mary, please, lie down on your back. Here, next the edge of the bed." She looked at him curiously, but did as he'd said. He got out of the bed and stood on the floor. "No, like that," John said; took Mary's feet and gently pulled towards where he wanted her to be. She suddenly seemed to understand, and moved so as to have her knees on the very edge, and her lower legs dangling out of the bed.
"Sherlock...," he continued, then stopped. Sherlock's look was burning him. Had he guessed what John wanted to do? "Get up on your knees, please," he said, and his friend obeyed. "Straddle Mary. No, look at me. Like this."
John felt it, the moment they understood what he wanted to do. It'd be a bit tricky for him to perform, but he'd been fantasising about it from the moment a threesome became a possibility. Sherlock was on his knees, straddling Mary over her breasts and facing him. John inhaled sharply. Sherlock's eyes burnt like ice, his cock was proudly erect once more, and when he looked at Mary, he discovered one of the wildest looks he'd ever seen on her face.
John swallowed. He'd lost his domineering stance, he knew that, because he didn't feel domineering any more. The bed's height was perfect. He walked slowly towards Mary's knees, and licked his lips when he noticed her groin was glistening with moisture. His own dick twitched. He bent down slowly, carefully, until he managed to rub Mary's folds - her clit - just right. Mary whimpered, Sherlock's cock trembled, and John felt an inferno building low inside him. He approached his mouth towards Sherlock's groin. As unfair as it seemed, he'd never actually given Sherlock a blowjob yet. It felt odd, unusual, yet so very arousing at the same time.
John tentatively licked Sherlock's cock, and heard him sighing in pleasure. It was difficult to look at Sherlock's face from that position, but when he licked the head more thoroughly, he risked a glance upwards. Oh, sweet goodness. Sherlock's eyes were half closed and glassy, looking at him with contentment. John grabbed Sherlock's dick with one hand to steady it, but it became too difficult to continue rubbing against Mary with only one arm as support. John groaned in frustration and supported himself on both arms again, defeated by gravity. The moment he did, he felt Sherlock's hand moving - one cupped John's face, the other grabbed his own cock. John managed to look up and what he found made his heart skip a beat.
Sherlock's face showed love. Needy, desperate, sweet love. Vulnerability. John felt as if he were looking straight to the sun and getting his eyes burnt; he closed his eyelids and took a breath. The air was heavy and smelled of sex; his heart beat fast, his groin was wet with Mary's pleasure. John felt his body quivering. He took Sherlock's dick into his mouth, and Sherlock hissed; he started rubbing against Mary again, and she moaned. They were perfect. They were so very sexy, the three of them, so very triumphant, so strong and courageous. Sherlock petted his hair like he'd done with Sherlock's so many times before, and John felt unexpectedly aroused by it. Mary quivered and raise her pelvis to meet his in such a wanton fashion John felt himself losing it. They were naughty, they were cheeky, powerful; and did whatever they wanted to, including threesomes, and fuck you, hypocritical moralists. He was a cocksucker and he enjoyed it, as much as he enjoyed his cock being sucked. Mary's moans turned raspier and louder, more needy, and something not very usual happened - she came first, her hips moving erratically, her moans not moans but shouts. And then John lost it completely; pleasure shot up his groin and he poured himself on Mary's body, bliss almost blinding him, a needy grunt escaping his teeth; and soon after he felt something hot and liquid and sticky flowing down his lips, he felt the stiffness of Sherlock's hand against his scalp, the twitch of Sherlock's cock against his tongue, the sigh of pleasure that couldn't be concealed. And John smiled, he smiled broadly and stupidly, still half knocked out by pleasure, still not sober enough to feel the fatigue, the cold and the discomfort of the position.
It'd taken him decades to experience this kind of mind-blowing sex. What'd he been waiting for, for fuck's sake?