FIC: Surveilled, BBCs Sherlock, NC-17, Sarah/John, Sarah/John/Sherlock. KinkMeme fill.
Title: Surveilled
Author: saathi1013
Pairing: Sarah/John, Sarah/John/Sherlock
Spoilers: some for Series 1
Rating: NC-17. Smutty smut smut.
Summary: Sarah struggles with dating John, while Sherlock... is distracting. He watches them while they have sex. She catches him. OT3 porn ensues. IT WAS FOR A KINKMEME.
Word Count: ~ 3300.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: Done quick for a Sherlock_BBC kinkmeme prompt:
("I don't usually do detailed prompts but I really want something where Sarah and John are having sex and Sarah notices Sherlock watching, but instead of being creeped out, she keeps eye contact, while John is unaware. This develops into a threesome (IDC how), especially with some S/J action and Sarah watching. It doesn't have to be too graphic or squicky; just some hotness will do, I suppose...")
...and then beta'd & britpicked by the ever-lovely caoilin_noir , without me even having to ask her to go over old entries in the series. I'm absolutely thrilled!
*****
Sarah likes John, despite the occasional insanity of his life, she really does. If she were to be perfectly honest, it only endears him to her. He's attentive, and he's patient, and when she finally allows him into her bed, he's an astonishingly good lover.
But then there's Sherlock. Sarah hates him at first, for his incessant texts and his constant presence, even when he's not physically there. John talks about their latest cases with glowing admiration that she wishes he'd spare for her a little more often. She knows John's been with men, but also that he wouldn't leave her for Sherlock even if given the chance. Sherlock is very clearly not the kind of man who forms attachments the way normal people do, and Sarah can tell John needs that kind of thing, and has pinned his affections squarely on her.
But Sherlock keeps looking at her, with those too-pale eyes that strip her down to the bone. She knows he can tell everything about her at a glance even if John prevents him from saying any of it aloud.
Several months in, she's kidnapped again. When she's safe and John takes her home, Sarah pulls off his clothing and shoves him onto her bed, relief and the memory of John taking a firing stance, face stern and resolute, blending together and burning through her veins.
She doesn't think of Sherlock then, his careful hands removing her gag and restraints.
She thinks of it the next morning, though, still half asleep with a satisfied ache between her legs. John's in the shower; Sarah can hear him making pleased morning-after sounds over the water and it makes her feel vaguely guilty that her subconscious keeps supplying her with the feel of long gloved fingers on her skin. She thinks of Sherlock pulling the gag off and kissing her, slow but deep, and leaving the rope on her wrists while peeling everything else away.
When John comes out, Sarah pulls him back to bed, focussing on the reality of his sturdy frame, trying to blot out the images in her mind of long lean limbs, pale as moonlight.
She tries to avoid Sherlock after that, but it's impossible. She tells John to ignore Sherlock's texts when they're out at a restaurant, but when John complies, the man himself shows up less than five minutes later and drags John away with a veiled look of impatience.
She gives up after a few more weeks, lets John take her back to their his flat to curl up on the sofa and watch a film after an awful day at the surgery. She's long ago gotten used to the clutter, the more-laboratory-than-kitchen with its attendant samples and experiments in unexpected places. But the possible presence of Sherlock makes her nervous.
"Don't worry," John says to her, picking up on her mood if not the real reason. "He won't be back for hours." He smiles reassuringly, and Sarah lets him tuck her under his arm, even though she knows where this is going. Sure enough, by the end of the film, John's rucked up her skirt and peeled away her stockings, her blouse unbuttoned and damp prints on the pale blue cotton of her bra.
He's got two fingers beneath the edge of her knickers, his teeth set into the soft inside of her thigh, when the door opens behind her. "Don't mind me," Sherlock comments coolly. "I'll be in my room. Carry on." He sweeps past them and disappears down the short hallway past the kitchen.
John tucks his face against her leg and laughs silently, his fingers curling back and away from her. She reaches her hand down and touches his face. "Well?" she says, giving him a challenging look. "As you were."
A disbelieving chuckle escapes him. "What, really? He'll hear us."
"I don't care," she says defiantly. Something shifts in his eyes, adds a thrilling edge to his smile as it fades, and he bends his head again to exhale wetly against the cloth of her knickers. She winds her fingers in his hair and hangs on for dear life.
He outdoes himself this time. Sarah can't keep her eyes open. All she knows is that one moment, she's watching John happily humming against her clit, two fingers crooked just so inside her, and the next, she's looking at the door to the hallway and Sherlock's there, half-hidden by the shadows.
"Oh, God," she says, shocking herself with how loud she is, how wanton she sounds. Of course Sherlock likes to watch. She wonders if he'd come over if she beckoned, let her run a hand up his thigh towards the tented line in his trousers, if John would mirror the motion on the other side. "Yes," she says, keeping her eyes locked with that piercing gaze even as John drags her to the edge of reason. "God, yes," she says, tightening her grip on John's hair and arching upwards as she comes.
John kisses his way back up her body, burying his face in her neck. She doesn't take her eyes off Sherlock, afraid that he'll disappear if she so much as blinks. "All right, then?" John asks into her hair. "Sarah?" He follows her gaze, and she can feel his indrawn breath the moment he spots Sherlock in the doorway.
There is a long moment of quiet.
John exhales, a ragged edge to it that could be anger or something else. The hard line of his erection twitches low against Sarah's hip, and that decides her. She curls a reassuring hand around the back of John's neck, and raises the other towards Sherlock.
"Come on, then," she calls quietly, beckoning to Sherlock with a soft smile. "If you like."
***
Sherlock doesn't move, and for one heart-rending moment, Sarah thinks she's erred badly. Then slowly, painfully slowly, his hand drifts up to his collar, unbuttons the top of his shirt. John's breath ghosts across her face, an unsteady gasp. The rest of the buttons follow, and she shifts, grinding up against John's thigh.
When Sherlock reaches the waistband of his trousers, he lets his hand fall, almost negligently dragging the edge of his thumb across his zip. His eyes flicker closed, once then twice, at the sensation, the narrow pale vee of his exposed chest rising and falling into light and shadow as his lungs work.
She lifts her hand again, wanting to touch so badly that her teeth ache, but Sherlock ignores her, pivots on one foot, and disappears again down the hallway.
His bedroom door opens, but it does not close, a long band of light on the floorboards an answering challenge.
She looks at John. He's still staring at the empty doorway. "All right?" she murmurs quietly, trailing fingers down the side of his face. He blinks and turns to her, not quite meeting her gaze.
"Um," he says, the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "I don't," he says, laughing a little. "What-" She pulls him down for a kiss, making it sweet and reassuring but adds a wicked little bite to his lower lip at the end that makes him groan and buck his hips.
"Whatever you want, love," she says. "It's all fine." She doesn't know why this makes him laugh, but she winds her arms around him as the fit shakes through him.
"What do you want?" he asks, words muffled, forehead tucked in the crook of her neck.
I want filthy, awful, amazing sex with both you and your flatmate, she thinks to herself, but decides on, "I'm up for whatever."
He looks up at her sideways. "Really?"
She swats the back of his head affectionately. "Yes, really. If you want us to go, get up now, I can't stand dithering about it any longer."
John scrambles upright, clutching the undone belt of his jeans to keep them up with one hand. He lifts her to her feet with the other, pulling her close and giving her a searing kiss. She realises how she must look, hairdo straggling down in messy strands, blouse gaping and skirt rumpled. Her knickers are lost somewhere at the end of the sofa. It doesn't matter; she feels giddy and dreamy, as if none of this is real.
***
She leads the way. Behind her, John curses about condoms under his breath and goes back to snag them from her handbag. Sherlock's door is cracked open, the light almost blinding after the dim lighting from the television. The first thing she notices when she enters the room is that it's absolutely crammed with bookshelves, the only exposed patch of wall above the headboard.
That's all she has time to notice before Sherlock has her in a steely grip, spinning her round against one of those shelves, her arm twisted at the small of her back. His other hand seeks between her legs, up under her skirt, and she gasps in shock and suddenly blazing arousal.
"Hang on," she hears John say. "What-"
"Do you know why she likes you, John?" Sherlock interrupts, his voice low and rough and intimate against her neck. "You're safe. The only violence in you is to protect. She probably thinks of you in uniform or with your gun when she gets off." Each emphasised word is a rough drag of a fingertip between her folds, unerring and unrelenting. She tries to remember how to breathe and keep standing simultaneously. "That's not what she sees in me." His voice is a snarl, his erection burning a brand in the small of her back.
Sarah wishes she could turn her head, see John's expression. Is he angry, or shocked, or hurt? Because she can't really deny the truth of Sherlock's words, not when her hips are surging restlessly under the onslaught.
"In fact," Sherlock continues, "if there's one thing she wants from this little tableau other than this-" He sinks his teeth into the angle between neck and shoulder, hard and fast. Her knees buckle, but Sherlock catches her round the waist and twists her to face him, spinning them both and pushing her so that she tumbles down onto the bed. "It's this."
It takes her a second to get her bearings and realise that Sherlock hasn't followed her onto the bed. Instead, he's crowded John against the door and has his face bracketed with both hands, and they're kissing, wide and deep and dirty. John looks as overwhelmed as she feels, making those breathy moans she adores every time their mouths part.
"Clothes," she says, shouldering out of her blouse and fumbling with her bra. They both stop to look at her, all shiny swollen lips and hooded eyes.
"Obviously," Sherlock sneers at her, but she doesn't miss the way his eyes linger appreciatively on her chest. Sherlock turns back to John, pulling off his jumper impatiently and fanning his long pale fingers over John's ribcage. For his part, John fists his hands in the fine silk of Sherlock's shirt, pulling it free and shoving it down to Sherlock's elbows.
Shoulderblades stand in sharp relief, shifting beautifully under skin as Sherlock slides a hand into John's trousers, under the elastic of his pants. Sarah knows he's angling their bodies for her benefit; she can see Sherlock's knuckles as he strokes John's prick with agonising slowness. He's also murmuring in John's ear. She can hear the low tones of his voice but can't make out the words, just John's stutter-stop groan of reaction.
Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder, pinning her with his gaze. "Take you skirt off," he says, no, commands, and Sarah does as she's bid. "In the bedside table, there's a cigar box. Keep yourself occupied."
She pulls open the drawer, loathe to take her eyes off them, and finds an unmarked notebook, three syringes still in their sterilised packets, some latex gloves, a length of silk rope, and the aforementioned box. She pulls the latter out and flips the lid open.
Her breath catches. Within lies a vibrator, clean and glinting like new, the half-empty tube of lubricant next to it speaking volumes. She wonders if Sherlock uses it on himself, and closes her eyes against the image painted in her mind.
"Give John a good show. I'll be otherwise engaged," Sherlock calls out. She almost asks, but then she sees him kneeling, and oh.
John stares at her as she settles herself against the headboard, legs splayed and slightly bent at the knees. His heated gaze makes Sarah feel like she's ten years younger, drunk on the cheap wine she'd favoured then, reckless and fearless and powerful. She remembers her boyfriend from uni, who'd asked her to touch herself while he watched, so he could see what she liked, and how he hadn't been able to resist doing the same even before she'd been half-finished.
She didn't get it then, the fascination for looking without touching. She's starting to understand it now, watching Sherlock's tongue trace patterns on the underside of John's cock. Sarah starts working a hand between her legs, deciding she has better things to be doing than get shy now. The toy glides in next, and she hisses in appreciation, hearing John utter a curse simultaneously. Sherlock's taken him in to the root, one eye trained on her motions.
Matching me, Sarah realises, and a tremor runs down her spine. Clever man. As if she didn't know already. Sure enough, Sherlock matches each thrust with hollowed cheeks and firm hands on John's hips, keeping pace even as John starts breathing pleas for more.
She can feel orgasm gathering low in her spine, and angles deeper, twisting the mechanism at the base and feeling it jump against her pelvic bone. “Fuck,” she says, and “John,” and then she hears an echoing hum across the room from Sherlock before John cries out, his face shocked open in pleasure. She's close, so bloody close, eyes squeezing shut as she peaks-
There are hands on Sarah's wrists, clamping down with bruising force. Her eyes shoot open, to find Sherlock pinning her with a glare. “Not yet,” he says, and her hips twist, trying to move against the thrumming pleasure still within. He pulls her hands away, removes the toy, and tosses it aside despite the whimper that spills past her gritted teeth.
“John, against the headboard,” Sherlock says. “On your back.” John mutters something, clearly having difficulty getting his limbs to cooperate, but he complies. Sarah watches, curiosity and apprehension conflicting in her chest as Sherlock removes his belt. Catching sight of her expression, he pauses. “No,” he says, somehow cool and collected despite the erection that must be paining him by now. “Some other time.” He strips off his trousers and pants efficiently, and she reaches to touch him - his long neck, the lovely angle of his collarbone, the sharp line above his hipbones, anything - but he catches her hands in his and turns her away to face John.
Sarah shrugs mentally, not too terribly disappointed. Because John's there; he knows how to kiss her, how to touch her, and the comforting smell of him eases the terrible jangling of her raw nerves. His post-coital kisses are slow and sweet and just. Lovely, she thinks, sighing against him. His hands cradle her hanging breasts, thumbs flicking lightly against sensitised nipples, and she kneels up a little to deepen the kiss.
There are hands on her hips, then, and she gasps against John's mouth in surprise as she's spread open. There is a long wet stripe of pressure that drags from her clit all the way up through the cleft of her arse, and she jolts when she realizes that it's Sherlock's tongue. “Fuck,” she pants, pressing her forehead against the support of John's shoulder. She repeats it when she feels Sherlock's cock against her, blunt and hot and exactly what she needs.
“That's the idea,” Sherlock says, easing in and thrusting her open by inches. He sets an agonising pace, so slow and deep she wants to push back, but she can't find purchase caught between the two of them.
John must be watching over her shoulder, because she hears him make an appreciative noise then laugh softly. “She can take more than that,” he comments almost idly. He scratches his nails lightly across her shoulders and she makes a high, embarrassing noise in the back of her throat. “Harder,” John instructs and Sherlock complies, and fuck, it's good.
“You two are impossible,” Sherlock mutters against her spine, hands clutching her hips with bruising force. “You go up to John's bed and shag like rabbits, never realizing that our rooms share a vent.” He presses her down against John with one hand between her shoulder blades, and the new angle makes her want to beg, it's so perfect, but she can't remember how to work her voice. “I'd hear you, and imagine what you were doing to make each noise, no matter how quiet, and, fuck-” His teeth scrape against her skin as she flexes around him deliberately, just to hear him lose track of his thoughts.
She twists her head round a little to check on John. He's still staring at her. “I never get to see you from this angle,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how stunning you are like this...” He lifts her chin with two fingers and gives her a messy kiss, all affection and misaligned lips.
“Distracting, the pair of you,” she hears Sherlock mutter, and John grins against her mouth. Sherlock sounds almost annoyed. One of John's hands slips down between their bodies, searching, and Sarah hisses appreciatively as he lightly grazes her clit. He goes further, sliding fingers to where she's stretched wide, and now Sherlock's swearing, hips snapping harder against the back of her legs.
“Yes,” Sarah hisses against John's neck, just trying to brace herself against the impact, John's thumb circling right there. “John, Sherlock, God, please, yes-” There's a hand tangling in her hair, sliding to the roots and pulling hard, and that spike of sensation sets her shouting over the edge. Sherlock follows right after with three deep forceful thrusts that she's going to feel for a week.
***
She may have blacked out for a moment. The next thing she knows is that she's sprawled on her stomach, tucked against John's side with his hand combing through her hair. She lifts her head from his shoulder, even that little effort almost impossible. “Oh my God,” she groans. She can see Sherlock through the door to the bathroom, washing himself at the sink with brisk, efficient motions, still gorgeously naked.
John presses a kiss to her temple. “Back with us, love?”
“I think you broke me,” she says, and John huffs a laugh into her hair.
“Successful experiment, I take it?” Sherlock says, strolling back into the room.
Sarah raises herself on one elbow, indignant. “Experiment?” she asks. John puts a calming hand on her arm.
“He's winding you up,” John says. “Sherlock loves experiments.” He turns towards Sherlock, who's standing beside the bed, an unreadable expression on his face. “Besides, we'll need repetition to confirm results, eh?”
Sherlock scowls at them both and heaves a dramatic sigh. “As you say.” He flicks his fingers at them both. “Budge over, I didn't pick the bed out with this in mind, but we'll have to manage.”
It's close quarters, but they do manage, arms and legs tangled in pleasant warmth that lasts till morning.
- END -
(Sequel: Problems & Solutions, or...)
[ Lorem Ipsum Series Masterpost ]
This entry was originally posted at http://saathi1013.dreamwidth.org/1967.html; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.
Author: saathi1013
Pairing: Sarah/John, Sarah/John/Sherlock
Spoilers: some for Series 1
Rating: NC-17. Smutty smut smut.
Summary: Sarah struggles with dating John, while Sherlock... is distracting. He watches them while they have sex. She catches him. OT3 porn ensues. IT WAS FOR A KINKMEME.
Word Count: ~ 3300.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: Done quick for a Sherlock_BBC kinkmeme prompt:
("I don't usually do detailed prompts but I really want something where Sarah and John are having sex and Sarah notices Sherlock watching, but instead of being creeped out, she keeps eye contact, while John is unaware. This develops into a threesome (IDC how), especially with some S/J action and Sarah watching. It doesn't have to be too graphic or squicky; just some hotness will do, I suppose...")
...and then beta'd & britpicked by the ever-lovely caoilin_noir , without me even having to ask her to go over old entries in the series. I'm absolutely thrilled!
*****
Sarah likes John, despite the occasional insanity of his life, she really does. If she were to be perfectly honest, it only endears him to her. He's attentive, and he's patient, and when she finally allows him into her bed, he's an astonishingly good lover.
But then there's Sherlock. Sarah hates him at first, for his incessant texts and his constant presence, even when he's not physically there. John talks about their latest cases with glowing admiration that she wishes he'd spare for her a little more often. She knows John's been with men, but also that he wouldn't leave her for Sherlock even if given the chance. Sherlock is very clearly not the kind of man who forms attachments the way normal people do, and Sarah can tell John needs that kind of thing, and has pinned his affections squarely on her.
But Sherlock keeps looking at her, with those too-pale eyes that strip her down to the bone. She knows he can tell everything about her at a glance even if John prevents him from saying any of it aloud.
Several months in, she's kidnapped again. When she's safe and John takes her home, Sarah pulls off his clothing and shoves him onto her bed, relief and the memory of John taking a firing stance, face stern and resolute, blending together and burning through her veins.
She doesn't think of Sherlock then, his careful hands removing her gag and restraints.
She thinks of it the next morning, though, still half asleep with a satisfied ache between her legs. John's in the shower; Sarah can hear him making pleased morning-after sounds over the water and it makes her feel vaguely guilty that her subconscious keeps supplying her with the feel of long gloved fingers on her skin. She thinks of Sherlock pulling the gag off and kissing her, slow but deep, and leaving the rope on her wrists while peeling everything else away.
When John comes out, Sarah pulls him back to bed, focussing on the reality of his sturdy frame, trying to blot out the images in her mind of long lean limbs, pale as moonlight.
She tries to avoid Sherlock after that, but it's impossible. She tells John to ignore Sherlock's texts when they're out at a restaurant, but when John complies, the man himself shows up less than five minutes later and drags John away with a veiled look of impatience.
She gives up after a few more weeks, lets John take her back to their his flat to curl up on the sofa and watch a film after an awful day at the surgery. She's long ago gotten used to the clutter, the more-laboratory-than-kitchen with its attendant samples and experiments in unexpected places. But the possible presence of Sherlock makes her nervous.
"Don't worry," John says to her, picking up on her mood if not the real reason. "He won't be back for hours." He smiles reassuringly, and Sarah lets him tuck her under his arm, even though she knows where this is going. Sure enough, by the end of the film, John's rucked up her skirt and peeled away her stockings, her blouse unbuttoned and damp prints on the pale blue cotton of her bra.
He's got two fingers beneath the edge of her knickers, his teeth set into the soft inside of her thigh, when the door opens behind her. "Don't mind me," Sherlock comments coolly. "I'll be in my room. Carry on." He sweeps past them and disappears down the short hallway past the kitchen.
John tucks his face against her leg and laughs silently, his fingers curling back and away from her. She reaches her hand down and touches his face. "Well?" she says, giving him a challenging look. "As you were."
A disbelieving chuckle escapes him. "What, really? He'll hear us."
"I don't care," she says defiantly. Something shifts in his eyes, adds a thrilling edge to his smile as it fades, and he bends his head again to exhale wetly against the cloth of her knickers. She winds her fingers in his hair and hangs on for dear life.
He outdoes himself this time. Sarah can't keep her eyes open. All she knows is that one moment, she's watching John happily humming against her clit, two fingers crooked just so inside her, and the next, she's looking at the door to the hallway and Sherlock's there, half-hidden by the shadows.
"Oh, God," she says, shocking herself with how loud she is, how wanton she sounds. Of course Sherlock likes to watch. She wonders if he'd come over if she beckoned, let her run a hand up his thigh towards the tented line in his trousers, if John would mirror the motion on the other side. "Yes," she says, keeping her eyes locked with that piercing gaze even as John drags her to the edge of reason. "God, yes," she says, tightening her grip on John's hair and arching upwards as she comes.
John kisses his way back up her body, burying his face in her neck. She doesn't take her eyes off Sherlock, afraid that he'll disappear if she so much as blinks. "All right, then?" John asks into her hair. "Sarah?" He follows her gaze, and she can feel his indrawn breath the moment he spots Sherlock in the doorway.
There is a long moment of quiet.
John exhales, a ragged edge to it that could be anger or something else. The hard line of his erection twitches low against Sarah's hip, and that decides her. She curls a reassuring hand around the back of John's neck, and raises the other towards Sherlock.
"Come on, then," she calls quietly, beckoning to Sherlock with a soft smile. "If you like."
***
Sherlock doesn't move, and for one heart-rending moment, Sarah thinks she's erred badly. Then slowly, painfully slowly, his hand drifts up to his collar, unbuttons the top of his shirt. John's breath ghosts across her face, an unsteady gasp. The rest of the buttons follow, and she shifts, grinding up against John's thigh.
When Sherlock reaches the waistband of his trousers, he lets his hand fall, almost negligently dragging the edge of his thumb across his zip. His eyes flicker closed, once then twice, at the sensation, the narrow pale vee of his exposed chest rising and falling into light and shadow as his lungs work.
She lifts her hand again, wanting to touch so badly that her teeth ache, but Sherlock ignores her, pivots on one foot, and disappears again down the hallway.
His bedroom door opens, but it does not close, a long band of light on the floorboards an answering challenge.
She looks at John. He's still staring at the empty doorway. "All right?" she murmurs quietly, trailing fingers down the side of his face. He blinks and turns to her, not quite meeting her gaze.
"Um," he says, the tip of his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "I don't," he says, laughing a little. "What-" She pulls him down for a kiss, making it sweet and reassuring but adds a wicked little bite to his lower lip at the end that makes him groan and buck his hips.
"Whatever you want, love," she says. "It's all fine." She doesn't know why this makes him laugh, but she winds her arms around him as the fit shakes through him.
"What do you want?" he asks, words muffled, forehead tucked in the crook of her neck.
I want filthy, awful, amazing sex with both you and your flatmate, she thinks to herself, but decides on, "I'm up for whatever."
He looks up at her sideways. "Really?"
She swats the back of his head affectionately. "Yes, really. If you want us to go, get up now, I can't stand dithering about it any longer."
John scrambles upright, clutching the undone belt of his jeans to keep them up with one hand. He lifts her to her feet with the other, pulling her close and giving her a searing kiss. She realises how she must look, hairdo straggling down in messy strands, blouse gaping and skirt rumpled. Her knickers are lost somewhere at the end of the sofa. It doesn't matter; she feels giddy and dreamy, as if none of this is real.
***
She leads the way. Behind her, John curses about condoms under his breath and goes back to snag them from her handbag. Sherlock's door is cracked open, the light almost blinding after the dim lighting from the television. The first thing she notices when she enters the room is that it's absolutely crammed with bookshelves, the only exposed patch of wall above the headboard.
That's all she has time to notice before Sherlock has her in a steely grip, spinning her round against one of those shelves, her arm twisted at the small of her back. His other hand seeks between her legs, up under her skirt, and she gasps in shock and suddenly blazing arousal.
"Hang on," she hears John say. "What-"
"Do you know why she likes you, John?" Sherlock interrupts, his voice low and rough and intimate against her neck. "You're safe. The only violence in you is to protect. She probably thinks of you in uniform or with your gun when she gets off." Each emphasised word is a rough drag of a fingertip between her folds, unerring and unrelenting. She tries to remember how to breathe and keep standing simultaneously. "That's not what she sees in me." His voice is a snarl, his erection burning a brand in the small of her back.
Sarah wishes she could turn her head, see John's expression. Is he angry, or shocked, or hurt? Because she can't really deny the truth of Sherlock's words, not when her hips are surging restlessly under the onslaught.
"In fact," Sherlock continues, "if there's one thing she wants from this little tableau other than this-" He sinks his teeth into the angle between neck and shoulder, hard and fast. Her knees buckle, but Sherlock catches her round the waist and twists her to face him, spinning them both and pushing her so that she tumbles down onto the bed. "It's this."
It takes her a second to get her bearings and realise that Sherlock hasn't followed her onto the bed. Instead, he's crowded John against the door and has his face bracketed with both hands, and they're kissing, wide and deep and dirty. John looks as overwhelmed as she feels, making those breathy moans she adores every time their mouths part.
"Clothes," she says, shouldering out of her blouse and fumbling with her bra. They both stop to look at her, all shiny swollen lips and hooded eyes.
"Obviously," Sherlock sneers at her, but she doesn't miss the way his eyes linger appreciatively on her chest. Sherlock turns back to John, pulling off his jumper impatiently and fanning his long pale fingers over John's ribcage. For his part, John fists his hands in the fine silk of Sherlock's shirt, pulling it free and shoving it down to Sherlock's elbows.
Shoulderblades stand in sharp relief, shifting beautifully under skin as Sherlock slides a hand into John's trousers, under the elastic of his pants. Sarah knows he's angling their bodies for her benefit; she can see Sherlock's knuckles as he strokes John's prick with agonising slowness. He's also murmuring in John's ear. She can hear the low tones of his voice but can't make out the words, just John's stutter-stop groan of reaction.
Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder, pinning her with his gaze. "Take you skirt off," he says, no, commands, and Sarah does as she's bid. "In the bedside table, there's a cigar box. Keep yourself occupied."
She pulls open the drawer, loathe to take her eyes off them, and finds an unmarked notebook, three syringes still in their sterilised packets, some latex gloves, a length of silk rope, and the aforementioned box. She pulls the latter out and flips the lid open.
Her breath catches. Within lies a vibrator, clean and glinting like new, the half-empty tube of lubricant next to it speaking volumes. She wonders if Sherlock uses it on himself, and closes her eyes against the image painted in her mind.
"Give John a good show. I'll be otherwise engaged," Sherlock calls out. She almost asks, but then she sees him kneeling, and oh.
John stares at her as she settles herself against the headboard, legs splayed and slightly bent at the knees. His heated gaze makes Sarah feel like she's ten years younger, drunk on the cheap wine she'd favoured then, reckless and fearless and powerful. She remembers her boyfriend from uni, who'd asked her to touch herself while he watched, so he could see what she liked, and how he hadn't been able to resist doing the same even before she'd been half-finished.
She didn't get it then, the fascination for looking without touching. She's starting to understand it now, watching Sherlock's tongue trace patterns on the underside of John's cock. Sarah starts working a hand between her legs, deciding she has better things to be doing than get shy now. The toy glides in next, and she hisses in appreciation, hearing John utter a curse simultaneously. Sherlock's taken him in to the root, one eye trained on her motions.
Matching me, Sarah realises, and a tremor runs down her spine. Clever man. As if she didn't know already. Sure enough, Sherlock matches each thrust with hollowed cheeks and firm hands on John's hips, keeping pace even as John starts breathing pleas for more.
She can feel orgasm gathering low in her spine, and angles deeper, twisting the mechanism at the base and feeling it jump against her pelvic bone. “Fuck,” she says, and “John,” and then she hears an echoing hum across the room from Sherlock before John cries out, his face shocked open in pleasure. She's close, so bloody close, eyes squeezing shut as she peaks-
There are hands on Sarah's wrists, clamping down with bruising force. Her eyes shoot open, to find Sherlock pinning her with a glare. “Not yet,” he says, and her hips twist, trying to move against the thrumming pleasure still within. He pulls her hands away, removes the toy, and tosses it aside despite the whimper that spills past her gritted teeth.
“John, against the headboard,” Sherlock says. “On your back.” John mutters something, clearly having difficulty getting his limbs to cooperate, but he complies. Sarah watches, curiosity and apprehension conflicting in her chest as Sherlock removes his belt. Catching sight of her expression, he pauses. “No,” he says, somehow cool and collected despite the erection that must be paining him by now. “Some other time.” He strips off his trousers and pants efficiently, and she reaches to touch him - his long neck, the lovely angle of his collarbone, the sharp line above his hipbones, anything - but he catches her hands in his and turns her away to face John.
Sarah shrugs mentally, not too terribly disappointed. Because John's there; he knows how to kiss her, how to touch her, and the comforting smell of him eases the terrible jangling of her raw nerves. His post-coital kisses are slow and sweet and just. Lovely, she thinks, sighing against him. His hands cradle her hanging breasts, thumbs flicking lightly against sensitised nipples, and she kneels up a little to deepen the kiss.
There are hands on her hips, then, and she gasps against John's mouth in surprise as she's spread open. There is a long wet stripe of pressure that drags from her clit all the way up through the cleft of her arse, and she jolts when she realizes that it's Sherlock's tongue. “Fuck,” she pants, pressing her forehead against the support of John's shoulder. She repeats it when she feels Sherlock's cock against her, blunt and hot and exactly what she needs.
“That's the idea,” Sherlock says, easing in and thrusting her open by inches. He sets an agonising pace, so slow and deep she wants to push back, but she can't find purchase caught between the two of them.
John must be watching over her shoulder, because she hears him make an appreciative noise then laugh softly. “She can take more than that,” he comments almost idly. He scratches his nails lightly across her shoulders and she makes a high, embarrassing noise in the back of her throat. “Harder,” John instructs and Sherlock complies, and fuck, it's good.
“You two are impossible,” Sherlock mutters against her spine, hands clutching her hips with bruising force. “You go up to John's bed and shag like rabbits, never realizing that our rooms share a vent.” He presses her down against John with one hand between her shoulder blades, and the new angle makes her want to beg, it's so perfect, but she can't remember how to work her voice. “I'd hear you, and imagine what you were doing to make each noise, no matter how quiet, and, fuck-” His teeth scrape against her skin as she flexes around him deliberately, just to hear him lose track of his thoughts.
She twists her head round a little to check on John. He's still staring at her. “I never get to see you from this angle,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how stunning you are like this...” He lifts her chin with two fingers and gives her a messy kiss, all affection and misaligned lips.
“Distracting, the pair of you,” she hears Sherlock mutter, and John grins against her mouth. Sherlock sounds almost annoyed. One of John's hands slips down between their bodies, searching, and Sarah hisses appreciatively as he lightly grazes her clit. He goes further, sliding fingers to where she's stretched wide, and now Sherlock's swearing, hips snapping harder against the back of her legs.
“Yes,” Sarah hisses against John's neck, just trying to brace herself against the impact, John's thumb circling right there. “John, Sherlock, God, please, yes-” There's a hand tangling in her hair, sliding to the roots and pulling hard, and that spike of sensation sets her shouting over the edge. Sherlock follows right after with three deep forceful thrusts that she's going to feel for a week.
***
She may have blacked out for a moment. The next thing she knows is that she's sprawled on her stomach, tucked against John's side with his hand combing through her hair. She lifts her head from his shoulder, even that little effort almost impossible. “Oh my God,” she groans. She can see Sherlock through the door to the bathroom, washing himself at the sink with brisk, efficient motions, still gorgeously naked.
John presses a kiss to her temple. “Back with us, love?”
“I think you broke me,” she says, and John huffs a laugh into her hair.
“Successful experiment, I take it?” Sherlock says, strolling back into the room.
Sarah raises herself on one elbow, indignant. “Experiment?” she asks. John puts a calming hand on her arm.
“He's winding you up,” John says. “Sherlock loves experiments.” He turns towards Sherlock, who's standing beside the bed, an unreadable expression on his face. “Besides, we'll need repetition to confirm results, eh?”
Sherlock scowls at them both and heaves a dramatic sigh. “As you say.” He flicks his fingers at them both. “Budge over, I didn't pick the bed out with this in mind, but we'll have to manage.”
It's close quarters, but they do manage, arms and legs tangled in pleasant warmth that lasts till morning.
- END -
(Sequel: Problems & Solutions, or...)
[ Lorem Ipsum Series Masterpost ]
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