Chapter Ten: Eyes Dark and Full of Feelings
Author's Note: The rules of this site required I censor the sex scenes in this story
My phone chime woke me up at 4 am Pacific Time. I couldn't remember if I had set the alarm myself or if Sherlock had somehow set it for me. I was lying in roughly the same position I fell asleep in, on my stomach, on top of the duvet. My eyes were dry and stung, my face disgusting and crusty from the crying jag I went on right before I collapsed into bed the afternoon prior. I was grateful that I had slept so long, hoping it would preclude jet lag.
I stumbled into the bathroom with my toiletries, starting the shower and turning it on hot, leaning against the door as the water warmed up.
There was a small window overlooking the shower stall, but it was still pitch black outside and probably would be for another hour.
I planted myself under the stream of hot water and washed myself while I tried to imagine what an investigation with Sherlock would be like. I had seen some things while going through Sherlock's closed case files, but it did little to inform me of the process of actually doing detective work outside of a police force.
And beyond that, what sort of good would I be?
I would have to trust Sherlock to teach me. After all, he had taught people detective work before. John had been his partner for years and years but had started as a veteran Army doctor. Honestly, though, from that skillset alone, John would have been a better asset than I imagined myself to be.
But, I reminded myself, I actually did know a lot about detective work. I grew up being dragged to crime scenes, precincts, interrogation rooms. I saw my father and detectives better than him work for a decade and a half.
I couldn't start this all doubting myself or feeling sorry for myself. I had sold my resume and my experiences to John Watson and then again to Sherlock Holmes, and they decided to take a chance on me.
This was my opportunity to turn everything around. To really take hold of the second chance I had been given. And to find justice for my brother and sister.
With a feeling of renewed purpose, I shut off the water and wrapped a towel around myself, taking a moment to blow dry my hair as I got ready. Blow drying it made it look practically unrecognizable. Where it was usually an untamable mass of brown curls, now it was tamer, softer, longer over my shoulders and down my back. I put on a bit of makeup, some mascara, liquid liner elongating my eyes with a cat eye, berry lip gloss on my lips.
I put on black slacks and a white short sleeve, high-necked button up shirt, buttoning it all the way up the front.
When all was said and done, it was 5 am. I had fallen out of practice at quickly applying makeup.
Slipping on my black Chelsea boots, I headed downstairs to see what sort of breakfast I could make for myself and Sherlock.
I halfway expected Sherlock not to be there, but he was, sitting in an armchair by a dark fireplace, the beginnings of the late summer sun streaming in from the blinds beside him, lighting him from the left as a small table lamp lit him from the right. He was reading over what I assumed were files from Michael's case.
He looked up as I came down the stairs, and the double take he did at me made me realize that I really should be putting more effort into my appearance if 45 minutes of work changed my looks that greatly.
"Morning." I said brightly. The chipper-ness in my voice seemed to disturb Sherlock and he continued to stare at me as he closed and set down the files he was looking over.
He stood up and walked over to meet me as I reached the last step.
"Why do you look like that? Why do you sound like that?" He narrowed his eyes at me.
I gave him a weird look and walked around him to get to the kitchen.
"I don't know, I just decided to blow dry my hair."
He followed me closely into the kitchen as I located a coffee maker. Unfortunately, all that was available was a complicated looking espresso and brew machine. I wanted to be annoyed but instead decided to suck it up and teach myself how to use it. I leaned over it, looking at the knobs and trying dials.
I felt Sherlock get very close to me. He sniffed my hair.
I spun around and he took a step back.
"Did you just sniff me?" I asked him, incredulous.
"I was trying to ascertain whether you had taken anything." He spoke. "Smell is only one of several clues I can utilize to determine if this sudden switch in mood is due to chemical enhancement."
"Sherlock…no. Just no." I went to rub my eyes wearily and then remembered I had makeup on. "I just…I had a good sleep, and I got to thinking about everything, got to thinking about what you said yesterday. That I'm just seemingly very determined to assume the worst will happen and to remain miserable. So, I've turned over a new leaf."
I grabbed a cup out of the cupboard and pushed a couple buttons, and suddenly-thankfully, even- coffee was happening.
He looked at me skeptically. "So, you're just going to be…perky now?"
I slammed my hands onto the counter, closing my eyes and leaning forward, my head falling backward.
"Sherlock." I growled, opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling. "Do I seem like a perky woman to you? In general?"
Sherlock chuckled and stepped toward me, placing a hand on the small of my back and kissing my cheek.
"Ah. There she is."
He smacked my ass, causing me to jump as he walked back into the living room.
"Make me a cup, too. You know how I like it." He called as he left me blushing and nearly exactly where I had been two days before.
I watched the coffee finish pouring into one cup and started another, contemplating the new place my relationship with Sherlock was in. Because apparently, we did have a relationship. To Sherlock's definition, a sexual one. Though it was not solely sexual, and also not entirely sexual, as we did not have sex and also we were trying to solve a crime together.
It'sindefinable. I told myself. That's okay. Some things cannot be defined. Get over it.
I took Sherlock's coffee into the living room and sat it next to him.
"Do you want breakfast?" I asked him.
"Yes." He grunted, not looking up at me.
"Okay. Better get in there and make it then."
"Very funny." He grumbled, still not looking up. I rolled my eyes and headed back to the kitchen. If I did, in fact, serve as "integral" to the investigation, we were going to need to renegotiate the cooking duties, at the very least.
I headed back into the oversized, well stocked kitchen and curiosity crossed my mind, now that I was a bit more well-rested, less jet-lagged, less shell-shocked, regarding the ownership of the mansion. It was not surprising that Sherlock had rich friends; he had all sorts of friends of all social and economic calibers. But what of this partially furnished mansion in the hills of Long Beach, California. Semi-furnished with a fully stocked kitchen, no less.
I decided I absolutely would not be going out of my way to become a gourmet chef, though I was currently in a gourmet kitchen. I pulled the ingredients for a frittata and threw it together quickly, plating our breakfasts and taking Sherlock's into the living room for him. He did not look up from a set of gruesome photos as I set it beside him.
Gore did not bother me, but in relation to my sister's murder- supposedly at the hands of my brother, no less- I had a hard time looking at the photos.
I took my breakfast with me back up to my temporary room. I had noticed last night that there was an arcadia door at the far end of the room. Outside the door was a spacious balcony overlooking the fully fenced in backyard and, on the other side of the fence, a vast deserty area, probably about 100 acres in its entirety, full of nothing but scrub, rocks, dirt, and palo verde trees, on the other side of which was a very small mountain with a water tank atop it. The location was incredibly private, it seemed, and so was perfect for Sherlock's intention to make ourselves as scarce as possible.
By this time the sun had fully crested the horizon and was casting the desert world around us in shades of gold punctuated in long shadows. The air was cool and humid, just like I remembered it from all those lifetimes ago. I imagined that when I closed my eyes I could hear the surf in the distance, though I knew from casting a glance to the West that we were not close enough to actually hear it.
I thought to myself that I was steeped, entirely, in triggers. Triggers to post traumatic stress responses, triggers directly to my previous drug use. Was this all incredibly stupid? Or was this an important step for me to finally move forward in my life, to claim the mantle of intentional existence rather than this constant, overarching trend of provocation and reaction.
I finished my breakfast, thinking about the pattern in my life of very rarely reaching out and making moves, but rather being subjected to circumstance and acting as best as I could accordingly.
When was the last time I took initiative?
Even moving to London was in response to my father's needs. I got this job with Sherlock because I needed a job to afford London. I let him move me in because it was cheaper than continuing with my flat.
Even my relationship with Sherlock was a constant reaction to his whims and experiments. He took me where he wanted when he wanted to. He took my motorcycle. He brought me to California under false pretenses for longer than he had portrayed.
The more I thought about my life and the things I had gone through, been subjected to, all without my consent or direction, the more annoyed I became.
I grabbed my plate and stormed back into my room, slamming the door behind me, stomping downstairs back into the kitchen.
I put my dishes down loudly and stormed into the living room.
Sherlock didn't look up as I entered, although I noted he had eaten most of the breakfast I made.
"Hey." I said, or rather barked, although I had not meant for the utterance to come out quite so forcefully.
Sherlock looked up with his eyes only, an eyebrow quirking as he looked at me though the thick hair of his eyebrows.
"You bellowed?" He answered.
I stomped over to him as he followed me with his eyes, an amused glint in the blue of them. As I came to stand over him, he leaned back, casting his face up to me and closing the folder he was looking through.
I leaned against the arms of his chair and got closer to him. I expected him to flinch or back away in some manner, but he did not, and so I was very quickly very close to him.
"Can I help you, Delilah?" He said, his voice lower than usual, but the same cavalier smirk on his lips. I noticed he hadn't bothered to shave again. Judging by the musky smell of him, I wasn't sure he had showered since yesterday morning, either.
"Holmes." I growled at him, to which he snorted but controlled himself as my glare darkened. "Tell me what we are doing today. You have to start filling me in on the plans for this investigation. If I am really going to be your assistant, you have to start communicating with me."
"Yes, quite." He agreed easily, finally shifting uncomfortably under my gaze. "Today I was hoping to conduct a debriefing with you, and then depending on how the entire situation struck you, we could go down to the police station and put in a FOIA request for some materials that I feel will be relevant to the case. After that, I will go through all of it with you, and we will work together regarding how you feel about my deductions and what our next steps will be."
"Oh. Okay." I didn't intend for him to give so easily. It seemed as if he had already come to conclusions regarding how I should be involved, and it all seemed incredibly fair and, dare I say, kind. My angry resolve dissipated a bit and I stood up from my menacing lean over Sherlock.
"Not so fast." He said gruffly, grabbing my wrists as I stood up and pulling me back down roughly, planting my hands even farther back on the arms of the chair, pulling me mere inches away from him and forcing me off balance. I stumbled and had to plant my knee into the chair beside Sherlock's left leg. He moved his leg under me until I was forced off of my left leg and was, in essence, straddling his leg, resting my ass on his knee. He looked down at my positioning and smirked, releasing my arms and moving his right leg under me also until I was fully straddling him, sitting on his lap with my legs tucked against the chair cushion on either side of his.
He reached up with his right hand and grabbed my face, squishing my cheeks and lips the way he seemed to like for some reason. He pulled my chin downward to look at him.
"What was all of that about, hmm?" He asked me, his tone attempting levity but his timbre low and breathy. The way his eyes moved over mine betrayed an interest contrary to the detached facade he was attempting.
"I'm just tired of letting things happen to me." My words were muffled due to my mouth being squished and I yanked my head upward to try and wrest my chin from his grasp, but his grip on my face tightened and he yanked it back down.
"Eh." He made a disapproving noise at me and I stilled beneath his grasp.
His eyes were laser focused on my mouth and as his lips parted, I thought for a second that he was about to kiss me, but at the last moment he released my face so that I could speak freely.
"Explain." He demanded, his eyes lingering on my lips but then meeting mine.
"I can't keep being a victim." I explained to him. "I need to take accountability. Take some action. I don't want to just keep going with the flow. I'm done." I said with certainty, though my voice was quiet, it was confident.
"And what does that mean for our relationship?" Sherlock asked. "Beyond professionally, obviously. I intend to start working with you on a more equitable basis, as becomes appropriate. Are you done playing with me, then?"
"Playing with you?" I asked, confused and incredulous.
"This back and forth. This tension play. I have enjoyed it, but perhaps you feel I am…provoking you into reaction too much? Is this a new aspect of your theoretical ego?"
I wanted to immediately answer him in the negative, but I thought about it for a second. Was continuing to let him pseudo-dominate me another play on this old, tired pattern that had led me to ruin and frustration?
As Sherlock watched me mull, from underneath me, I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of me having these deep second thoughts while I was sitting on his lap.
He looked at me in confusion, brows knit but a small, amused smile on his lips. Those beautiful, full, slightly dusky lips, the ones parted, pointed at me, small wrinkles cutting into the edges because he still smoked too many cigarettes and time spares no one, no matter how angelic their faces might look as they gaze up at me.
I leaned my pelvis forward, spreading my clothed legs farther, as far as they would go in the armchair. This had the effect of pushing my sex up against his groin, and I heard the breath he was drawing in catch in his throat.
He was trying so hard to look unaffected as I looked over his face, but his pupils had blown wide open, as I knew mine had.
But I wasn't going to hide what our proximity was doing to me. My superpower in this next stage of our power struggle was a turnabout of what had started out being a weakness- my inability to hide my arousal.
He couldn't hide his much, either. I could feel that he was already at least half as excited as I was, just from the feel of it on my inner thigh alone.
"It depends." I said, answering his question finally. "Are you asking, 'do I now have a need to be in total control'? No. Not in the slightest. But I'm not going to just keep playing confused anymore. Don't expect me to go high when you go low. Expect a fully engaged response." As I finished, I leaned backward, putting my hands behind myself and resting them and my weight on his knees.
He didn't say anything then but took the opportunity to test the new parameters of the experiment.
He placed his hand, fingers open and palm down on my belly, on the tight fabric of my blouse. He slid his hand upward slowly over my torso, over the fabric taut between my breasts, over my chest as my heart fluttered underneath his touch.
He continued moving it upward, flagina first, to the place where the high collar of my shirt covered the hollow of my throat. His fingers curled lightly around my neck, his hand moving higher still, meeting my windpipe under my chin. He didn't tighten his fingers or apply additional pressure, but I ever so slightly tipped my head backward, allowing him to do what he wanted with my vulnerable neck.
My breath was coming fast under his touch, but my body language belied a total trust and willingness.
I looked down at Sherlock over the bridge of my nose, but his gaze was fixed on his hand on my throat. He didn't look scared, but he didn't look predatory. He didn't look blank either, though. He looked…struck. Like he had just made a discovery.
His left hand found my right knee and he touched me in the same way, his hand open and palm flat, fingers loose as his hand pushed forward, moving from my knee up my thigh, up toward my hip. But when he got to the soft flesh over the jut of my hip, his rotated off course, moving inward toward my core and suddenly his thumb was moving over the fabric stretched over my crotch. I could barely feel it as he stroked his thumb over my slacks-covered-center.
And then suddenly he pressed hard, pushing with enough force through my slacks and hit my most sensitive spot directly.
I whimpered suddenly, forcing myself to keep my eyes open so I could watch Sherlock's face. He looked pleased, continuing to study the movement of his own hands on my body. It looked like he was trying to decide what to do next, and I divined a measure of comfort from the fact that he seemed to be treating this experience as a continuation of the experiment. It was good to know where we stood, good to know that it wasn't a matter of flirtation with romance, it certainly wasn't love, it was Sherlock testing his sexuality and me being a willing- and eager- participant.
The hand at my throat made its way around my neck to the nape, as he leaned forward. His fingers threaded into the hair at the back and grabbed in a fist, except instead of forcing my head further back, he forced it forward, his left hand at the same time moving back over my hip and on over to my ass. He leaned toward me as I was pulled toward him and my arms went, almost automatically, around the back of his neck.
Suddenly he stood up, unexpectedly lifting me as he did. I was very impressed by his strength as I held on tight, wrapping my legs around him as he hefted me by the hand on my ass. He walked a few strides and put me down on the li-lo perpendicular to the armchair and fireplace. He followed my body down, still wrapped in my arms and legs, resting his lower weight on my pelvis between his legs, propped up on his arms. I released his neck and fell backward onto the li-lo, looking up at him propped over me. My long hair spilled out around me and cascaded off of the couch, tangling around his wrists by my head.
He moved upward a little, my legs less around his waist and more around his hips, the firmness of his length in his pants pressed against my own sex. He thrust his hips against mine, and we both gasped in reaction to the friction.
"I see what you mean about…engaged response." He said finally, his voice little more than a growl at this point. He acted as if I he was unaffected by the stimulation. It was obvious he was not.
He looked down at me and I think at that moment it dawned on both of us that this is the furthest we had ever gotten with one another, and it was still a matter of awkward half-way-theres and in-betweens.
We hadn't even kissed. Would Sherlock want to kiss me? Did he kiss people? And would he kissme?
Here is what had changed since we had begun all this three weeks ago:
We had emotionally charged discussions. We had both discussed our pasts and exposed secrets to one another.
We had discussed the definition of our relationship and the expectations and limits we had regarding it.
We had cleared up assumptions, misapprehensions, and fears.
We were at a point freer than we had ever been. Before this, we were constrained by unwritten rules of our game, all of which we had traversed over the last few weeks.
We were in the exact same place, seemingly. Consent intact. No question, we were both interested and engaged.
So, what was stopping us?
Oh, that's right. We were both terrified of unknown outcomes. And as much as we had dissected the situation and the possible outcomes, we had no way of knowing what chemical reaction we would achieve when our ingredients were finally poured into the same beaker.
I wasn't thinking as my hands moved from their position near my shoulders, to his forearms, traveling upward much in the same way that they had yesterday in the plane as I tested his limbs for evidence of heroin use.
My hands rested on his biceps and then his body responded by bending his arms and resting on his elbows.
As his torso met mine and his face came toward my own, my hands moved over his shoulders.
His mouth dropped to mine and my right hand moved over the back of his head.
My fingers threaded through the hair at the nape of his neck and Sherlock's mouth was over my lips, open, breath warm against me. I opened my mouth and met his kiss tongue first.
We finally kissed, a hot, messy, open mouthed exploration as my arms and legs wrapped around him. His hands tangled into my hair above my head.
As soon as his mouth was joined to mine, his tongue pushing into my mouth, requiring me to give way to his exploration, I felt like my body couldn't get close enough to his. I pushed myself into him, in turns arching my back upward, and then my hips against his, opening my clothed legs and pushing forward to meet his own insistent, firm thrusts. Sherlock's left hand had come down from my hair to move over the left side of my torso, caressing the curve of my waist between my hip and bust, dragging upward and grabbing my right breast, squeezing through the layers of shirt and bra, eliciting a moan from deep in my throat, delivered into his open mouth.
Sherlock broke our kiss and pulled back, looking downward at my body as if to determine what item of clothing to divest me of first. My hands grasped at the fabric of his shirt over his chest, watching his face intently as he leaned on his right elbow, propped over me.
His eyes moved back up to my face, and his look of planning and determination faded, as if distracted, as his eyes met mine. His gaze raked over my face, and he looked suddenly…sad?
"What?" I asked him carefully, my brows knitting together. His face flushed and, unthinkingly, my right hand released his shirt and traveled up to his face, holding my hand gently against his jaw and cheek. He flinched at my hand but did not pull away, and my thumb swept lazily over his cheek.
I hoped his hesitation would not lead to the complete cessation of our activities, but just as the thought crossed my mind, he leaned down and placed his lips against mine, kissing my bottom lip softly.
Compared to our previous kiss it was almost chaste, but compared to that kiss, this one felt like the first. Actually, it felt like a lot of things. It felt deeply personal, which was crazy to think, being that we had just been groping and dry humping one another for the last 20 minutes, he had already seen me naked, and his hand had been all over my ass multiple times.
But this? This made my heart not just race, but do flips. The soft breath from his nose caressing my face warmly felt downright intimate, not just sexual.
My eyes had fluttered closed for a moment, breathing in his exhaled breaths, as the surprising feeling of shyness moved through me, and with trepidation I opened my eyes a slit. To my vast surprise his eyes remained gently closed. I knew the open or shut status of his eyelids was not in itself meaningful, but seeing his face so relaxed so close to me was touching, somehow.
I shut my eyes again and he deepened our kiss, running his tongue over my top lip, and I parted my lips for him. His hand moved over my face and back toward my chest. I took that as a cue to reach between us and begin unbuttoning my shirt. As I reached the bottom of my blouse, Sherlock broke our kiss again and raised up off of me, sitting back onto his heels. I sat up and pulled the shirt backward off of my torso. As I did so, Sherlock began unbuttoning his shirt, wrists first and then pulling it untucked from his trousers, moving from the bottom buttons up to the collar, pulling his shirt off as well as I unhooked and discarded my bra.
We had both been completely naked in front of one another at various times over the last three weeks, but again this seemed different. Something about the way he looked at my naked breasts made me feel like it was the first time he ever had. I unbuttoned my slacks and pulled them off of my legs, kicking them onto the floor, and then I was naked in front of him again, save my black cotton thong underwear.
Suddenly, Sherlock stood up, and before I had a chance to ask him where he was going, he held out his hand, palm down, looking at me expectantly. I took his hand and stood up and he led me out of the room and over to the staircase, motioning for me to go ahead of him. I did as he had indicated and he followed behind me up the stairs. I waited at the top for him to join me and he took my hand again, leading me into the master bedroom.
The Master Bedroom was half again larger than the bedroom I was occupying. It also had a door out to a balcony facing the mountain, but the balcony looked larger. There was another door that appeared to lead to a bathroom. Against the same wall was the bed, a California King with a four post bedframe and canopy. It was probably the largest bed I had seen in my life, made of solid, tooled oak and covered in a purple brocade duvet.
As soon as he entered the room, he was quickly upon me, his hands cupping the sides of my face and drawing my mouth to his. I kissed him back eagerly and he pushed me toward the bed, the back of my legs hitting the edge and I sat down, looking up at him. He held my gaze as he unbuttoned his black trousers, shucking them off of his hips and letting them pool around his feet before kicking them away. He had on white Calvin Klein briefs, his excitement more than evident through their tight fabric.
I reached up my hand and ran it over the hard length through his underwear and I heard him take a quick breath in. His hands found both of my breasts, running his palms over them roughly, then cupping them and rubbing his thumbs around my nipples, which hardened at his touch. We were finally in unexplored territory in regards to one another, meeting each other as players of the same pace. And now it felt less like a game. It didn't feel like a game. Or an experiment.
At all.
I moved onto the bed, laying back as he slid over me, his weight fully on my body, my legs parting to allow him to rest between them. He kissed me deeply again, his right arm wrapping over my head and left massaging my breast, kneading and pinching my nipple as my hands moved freely over his arms, back, flanks.
As he groped my breast and kissed me deeply, I moved my hand into his briefs. In the tight space of his underwear I wrapped my fingers around him and stroked him, his hips involuntarily bucking forward and breath coming raggedly as he became unable to maintain our kiss.
I honestly wanted to just finish him off right there, with my hand, like we were in high school. I wanted to make him come, desperately.
He looked down into my eyes, reason gone from within them. He was willing to let me do it. I think he would have been willing to let me do anything in that moment. But as our eyes met we both decided that's not how we wanted it to go.
As he rolled away from me to remove his underwear, I did the same, slipping off my thong and discarding it. Sherlock rolled back on top off me and reached down between us. I gasped as his hand brushed over me. I was completely ready for him.
Without any more words, or looks, or hesitation he righted himself into my path and pushed into my core, ensuring there were no spaces left between us.
Time stood still as I looked up at his face, which was flushed, eyes dark and full only of feelings.
My inner dialog stopped for the first time in my life and I felt everything.
I felt it as he leaned down to kiss me and I leaned up to meet his kiss, as he began moving.
I felt him shudder, felt his flanks tense and goosebump as my hands moved over him.
I felt him drop his weight, heavy on top of me and bury the side of his face against mine, pressing kisses against my head and neck as he tried desperately to cease being alone in his universe.
He wrapped his arms around my head and neck and I wrapped my arms and legs around him. He gasped open mouthed against my neck, his trapped breath hot against my skin.
I arched upward and cried out, which immediately harkened his body to respond in kind.
His movements became erratic and he made gasping noises, as if startled or in pain, higher pitched and more vulnerable than I would have imagined.
Although my body had continued to blossom, I focused on him, his reddened skin, my hands stroking over the back of his neck and through his hair.
It all happened fairly quickly. As waves of spent pleasure washed over us, Sherlock rested his head against my neck, panting. Seemingly dazed.
He remained against me, as we both wrapped our heads around what had just happened.
After a long time, Sherlock carefully propped himself up on his shoulders.
He looked down at my face and though I intellectually wanted to meet his gaze with some sort of haughtiness, or triumph, or even indifference, I couldn't.
I didn't know if it was the oxytocin or what, but I couldn't meet his eyes with a look of anything less than adoration.
'Stupid, stupid', my brain told my body. In response my core spasmed lazily one last time.
I couldn't see the thoughts that were running through Sherlock's head, but he bent down and kissed me on the lips and I kissed him back, eyes closing.
To my surprise, he shifted around, laying on his back and drawing me closer to him. I tucked in underneath his arm, and we cuddled.
I don't know how long it took me to fall asleep like that, but when I woke up three hours later, Sherlock was gone.
Not just gone from the bed, or the room, gone from the house entirely. He left a scrawled note on the kitchen island, but it only said that he would be back, and didn't even indicate when.