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r_scribblesYep. I'm posting yet more porn. And this, I must warn you, is the most ridiculous porn I think I've ever written. It's heavily Cumberholmes RP Inspired, featuring the RP's incarnation of Irene Adler, a Threesome/Slash mad Sarah, a very easily persuaded & apologetic John and a ridiculously kinky Sherlock. And 'Berglind'.
So yeah. It's 7,500 word long PWP. And a foursome fic. You want content warnings? Het, Slash, FemmeSalsh, Threeway, Fourway, Oral, Vaginal, Anal, Pegging, Crossdressing, Spanking, Mozart Abuse.
COUPLES NIGHT
-x-
It wasn’t all that often that John managed to find a significant period of time when he had both 221b and Sarah all to himself. On those few occasions, he tried to make the most of it. On this particular balmy, bright midsummer’s evening, they’d rushed through dinner, and decided to skip the film altogether and go straight back to the flat. They kissed and giggled and fumbled their way up the stairs, grateful that, just this once, they could take all the time they liked and make all the noise they wanted and wouldn’t have to get past Sherlock staring coolly up at them from whatever experiment or article or email he was currently busy with in order to scurry up to John’s bedroom.
So wrapped up was John in Sarah’s lips and arms and hips as they slipped into the flat that for a moment, he didn’t notice the other figures already in the living room. It was a sound which alerted John to their presence – the crack of skin sharply hitting skin and a strangled, androgynous sounding ‘Ah! Ten!’
That was when John pulled away from Sarah suddenly, and saw them – a large, Black woman in a faintly crumpled designer skirt suit, sitting in his armchair. Draped over the woman’s knee was a tall, skinny Blonde - long, thick, golden hair draping over the face and hanging right down to the floor, the short dress pulled right up to reveal a corset that nipped in the waist and pushed out the bum, complete with French knickers, stockings, suspenders and PVC boots.
The woman sitting in the chair – herself all round, deceptively soft looking curves of hair, lips and breasts, looked across at John and Sarah, unfazed, her hand raised to deliver another slap to the upturned backside of the corset clad Blonde over her lap.
‘Company, Dear,’ she murmured.
‘Yes,’ replied the Blonde, not looking up, the once androgynous voice now sounding decidedly masculine, not to mention irritable, ‘I know.’
‘Hello, Irene,’ muttered Sarah, still trying to re-do up the buttons of her blouse. ‘Hello, Berglind.’
”Berglind” parted her hair just enough for one of Sherlock’s eyes to glare accusitorally out from beneath it. ‘Sarah. John. You have a bedroom. I suggest that you use it. We were here first. You’re breaking my concentration.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be in Singapore,’ seethed John, trying to look away from the sexual experiment in front of him – in his armchair – only to be greeted with the sight of his girlfriend drinking in the scene before her with fascination.
‘The Golden Monkey was easier to recover than we’d anticipated,’ Irene replied.
‘Depressingly so,’ Sherlock added, still from beneath Berglind’s wig. ‘All that way and it was a case so easy, Lestrade could have solved it. We were going to stick around for a night or two anyway, but it turned out somebody’s on their Most Wanted list over there for Fraud, Bank Robbery and assaulting three police officers.’ He gave the woman above him a pointed glare.
Irene shrugged a little “oh well, these things happen” shrug at Sarah and John. ‘And I was talking myself out of it quite nicely, until somebody horribly offended the American Ambassador.’
‘I only stated that he was a Homosexual and that his marriage was therefore a sham,’ replied Sherlock, ‘which was all obviously true.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Irene, ignoring the dragged-up detective, still talking, over her knee, ‘we escaped. And here we are.’
‘And,’ added Sarah, ‘the point of Berglind…?’
‘That’s personal,’ Sherlock replied. ‘And I can’t help but notice that, although both sets of us have managed to catch each other inflagrante, you two still haven’t hurried upstairs to finish off what you started and allow us to do the same in peace.’
Irene’s eyes sparked up, and her deceptive, pouting mouth split into one of the grins that always sent shivers down John’s spine – that reminded him that this generally sweet natured, caring woman was capable of emptying bank vaults and museum displays single handed, not to mention committing GBH and murder if pressed. These grins, John had found, usually came with a brilliant idea or sudden realisation. And the words that came out of that grin were never, ever kind.
‘I’m pretty sure they want to watch, Dear.’
John rubbed his face, exasperated, but determined not to be bullied out of the room.
Still over Irene’s knee, Sherlock regarded them, dispassionately. ‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘They want to join in.’
‘What?’ snapped John.
‘That is,’ added Sherlock, ‘they want John to take over from you while Sarah watches, then for you and Sarah to join in.’
‘No, we don’t,’ John laughed, incredulously.
‘Oh, come on,’ Sherlock replied. ‘Sarah’s been itching for a threesome ever since the night she met me.’
‘No she hasn’t!’
‘Um,’ said Sarah, quietly.
John blinked at Sarah, feeling his eyebrows almost hit his hairline. ‘Sarah? No. No!’
Sarah gave a small, embarrassed shrug of confirmation. ‘It’s just… he’s very striking. And sometimes, the idea of you and him… together…’
‘Don’t make her feel bad,’ ordered Irene. ‘Men fantasise about being with two women together all the time. I bet you have.’
‘Why is this suddenly something I’ve done wrong?’ asked John.
‘It’s not Sarah’s fault you’re so repressed,’ Sherlock told him.
‘I am not repressed! I’ve… experimented, you know. I…’
‘…fancy me,’ Sherlock said, finishing off his sentence.
‘I do not!’
‘You do. A little bit. Especially when I’m being Berglind. I know she bothers you.’
‘I…’ John faltered, remembering that first time he saw Sherlock as Berglind – the shock as the door of the taxi he’d been waiting in had been thrown open and through had tumbled a stunningly dishevelled mess of golden hair and long, long legs. The troubled night afterwards, telling himself over and over again ‘it’s just Sherlock. Just Sherlock in a dress’, finally having to masturbate into the toilet before he could get any sleep. If he was being honest with himself, the sight in front of him now was going to haunt him for a while.
‘You’re thinking about taking Irene’s place right now,’ added Sherlock, through the dangling wig.
‘Jesus, Sherlock! No. No, I don’t want any part in this… this spanking session or whatever it is.’ John tried to ignore the disappointed sigh issuing from Sarah. ‘What on earth would make you think I’d want to do that?’
‘Because you fancy me.’
‘Wrong.’
‘Because you’d find it very cathartic for dealing with all the things I do that frustrate you.’
John blinked. That, at least was a good point.
‘And besides.’ John could make out a smug grin through the strands of blonde wig over Sherlock’s face. ‘Just look at this arse. It’s beautiful. Of course you want to give it a little slap – you’re only human.’
John snorted a little laugh. ‘Your arse isn’t that irresistable, Sherlock.’
Irene shrugged again. ‘Well, I certainly think it is. Your loss, I guess, John.’ She gave the backside over her knee another hard slap, causing Sherlock to gasp and laugh at the same time. ‘Lost count have we, Berglind?’ she asked, gently rubbing the lace knickers with the palm of her hand afterwards, watching the flimsy material slide over the taut flesh.
‘Eleven,’ sighed Sherlock in Berglind’s voice.
John and Sarah still hadn’t moved anywhere near the stairs up to John’s room. John felt a tug at his arm and turned his face to Sarah. There was an urgent look in her eyes, only when she spoke, it certainly wasn’t to demand that they go upstairs.
‘I want you to do that.’
‘To you?’ asked John, hoping to hang on to one last shred of normalcy about this evening.
Sarah bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Please? Sometimes when I watch you and him have your little domestic rows, I think about this – about you taking him over your knee, and… and the corset, God.’ She paused. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’
He watched as Irene locked eyes with him and gave Sherlock another slap. Somehow, the idea of Sarah fantasising about him and Sherlock together didn’t seem as wrong as he supposed it probably should. It was pretty sexy, actually, come to think about it. And at least now he didn’t feel guilty about that argument they’d had in front of Sarah over the state of the bathroom any more. God, Sherlock made a mess of the bathroom. Sometimes, it made him want to…
‘Get up, Irene,’ he said, his voice only wavering slightly.
Irene did so, graciously, lifting Sherlock up as she stood ad then depositing him back down over John’s knee once he was seated. The two women sat down on the settee together as John ran a hand over the tight corset and the false curves it formed in Sherlock’s back, ending in smooth, small, lace clad buttocks and elasticated suspenders running over white thighs and good God, the man must have Immaced almost everywhere. He tried to ignore the erection already pushing into his thigh – he was sure that that was Irene’s doing. He looked up at the women. Both were watching him intently – Irene with an air of amusement, Sarah intently – pink cheeked with excitement.
He looked back down at the man over his lap. He ran the fingers of one hand through Berglind’s long wig, and brought the palm of the other hand down hard on Sherlock’s backside. He heard Sarah give a little squeak of approval as he did.
‘Don’t let her lose count,’ Irene told John, settling comfortably back into the settee.
‘Thirteen,’ gasped Sherlock in Berglind’s voice.
John slapped again. And again, and again, and Sherlock had been right. It was very cathartic. More than that. By the time they reached ‘eighteen’, he was hard enough for Sherlock to be able to feel him through their clothes, he was sure. A little embarrassed, he faltered and looked back up again.
Oh, God.
Sarah and Irene were all over one another.
He knew Sarah had had girlfriends in the past, and he was sure Irene had taken female lovers too, but he’d never noticed any sort of spark between the two women before.
Well. These were different circumstances, he supposed. It seemed that, tonight, everything that had gone before was likely to fly out of the window. Again, that didn’t bother him as much as he thought it might. That must be what living with Sherlock Holmes did to somebody. He watched as his girlfriend kissed another woman, making fast work of both of their clothes, watching him back as he fondled his best friend’s arse.
Irene broke out of the kiss just as Sarah liberated her from her bra, and Christ, that woman had the biggest, roundest breasts John had seen in person outside of a professional capacity.
‘What have you stopped for?’ Irene complained to John. ‘Berglind needs 20 of the best…’
‘Oh Irene,’ murmured Sarah over her. ‘These tits. They’re amazing.’
Irene grinned. ‘Of course they are. I grew them myself. Oh, is that’s what’s distracting you away from the needs of our Icelandic slut, John?’
She got up, and walked over to John’s chair, with Sarah close behind her, discarding her own bra. Irene pushed herself up at the side of the chair, with one knee on an armrest so that her impressive breasts were against John’s face. She was at Sherlock’s head end, and John noticed that as she positioned herself, she pulled off Berglind’s wig so that she could run fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sarah settle herself on the other side of the chair, her hands brushing over John’s as they both stroked Sherlock’s backside. John suddenly found himself in a world of breasts. He turned his head one way and ran a tongue over one of Irene’s dark nipples as his administered the nineteenth slap, then took his mouth to Sarah’s breasts for the last smack.
Irene pulled Sherlock up from John’s knees again and pulled him away from the chair. His lap suddenly bereft, John pulled Sarah down into the chair with him, and kissed her. Sherlock, clearly never one to be outdone, launched himself at Irene’s lips.
John had been witness to Sherlock and Irene’s kissing several times before. There was always something very life affirming, but rather disturbing about the passion between them. Every time they kissed, it was as if they believed for all the world that this would be the last time they’d be doing it. Well, considered John, for a couple of commitment-phobes based opposite sides of the Atlantic and sort-of on opposite sides of the law enforcement/law evasion divide, who met with mortal danger far more often than they met with one another, that was probably a pretty reasonable assumption for them to make. Watching them kiss was as exhillerating as watching either of them work, but there was something a little sad about it, too – as if each of them was desperately searching for something within the other one, that they never could quite reach.
‘John,’ murmured Sarah against his lips, ‘I don’t want to go upstairs.’
‘No,’ breathed John. ‘No, me neither.’
‘I knew it,’ said Sherlock, pulling away from Irene.
‘So…’ John cleared his throat. ‘So, how are we going to do this?’
‘Well, for starters, John, you’re still fully clothed. And with the women down to very little indeed and me in fetishwear, that’ll hardly do, will it?’
‘Oh!’ John began to fumble at his shirt buttons. ‘Oh, of course. Right.’
Sarah pulled John up out of the chair and moved behind him, running her hands over his chest. ‘John. I think I’d like Sherlock to do that for you, if that’s OK.’
‘Um…’ began John, but with a roll of his eyes, Sherlock had already walked up to him and started nimbly unbuttoning his clothes.
‘OK,’ managed John.
John didn’t find Sherlock’s rather clinical approach to removing his clothes particularly arousing, rather Sarah’s excitement at the sight of it. In any case, Sherlock’s fingers were so fast that he was completely naked in very little time. In the meantime, Irene had stripped herself and Sarah of what clothes they had remaining, leaving Sherlock the only one wearing any clothes whatsoever. John reached across to pull the little black dress Sherlock had been wearing as Berglind off over his head and unclasp his bra. Berglind’s silicone breasts fell to the floor, heavily. Sherlock was now just in a corset that reached up to the bottom of his ribs, knickers, stockings, suspenders and boots. He was breathtaking. It seemed a shame to take any of it off him. Still, fair was fair. John undid the topmost fastening of the corset.
Sarah clucked disappointedly. ‘Don’t, John.’
‘But…’
‘It’s OK.’ She smiled, knowingly. ‘Knickers like that you can just nudge to one side.’
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Sarah Sawyer,’ murmured he, sounding almost impressed.
‘I have an even better solution,’ added Irene, with a smirk. She got to her knees in front of Sherlock and, with two firm yanks, ripped the lace knickers at the sides so that they fell away.
Oh, now there was a sight.
Sherlock sighed dramatically, as though appealing to John for emotional support. ‘She couldn’t just have unclipped the suspenders, could she? I lose so many knickers that way.’
‘Sherlock,’ warned Irene, ‘quiet.’ And, without a word of warning, she took Sherlock into her mouth.
‘Oh,’ sighed Sarah, running her hands over John, watching the scene in front of them. John kissed
Sarah again. Well, if this was how this was going to go, he might as well make a good a show for the other couple as they were getting.
In fact, he bet himself that he could do it better. He loved giving head. Especially to Sarah, with her little moans and gasps. He took pride in it. He considered himself very good at that particular act. He guided Sarah down to lie on her back on the floor, and settled himself between her legs. For some time, his concentration was on her – on teasing her open with the tips of his fingers and tongue, on the gentle kisses upon her clitoris that made her moan his name. He didn’t really notice the soft footsteps on the carpet, although he was aware of Sherlock and Irene sitting down next to where he and Sarah lay.
‘Seems your boyfriend’s rather good at that, Dr Sawyer,’ said Irene, conversationally.
‘He is.’
John flicked his tongue over the entrance to Sarah’s vagina, making her gasp. ‘He really is.’
‘Bet you’re pretty good at it, too,’ added Irene, ‘from the way you kissed me.’
‘Don’t like to brag,’ said Sarah. ‘Never had any complaints.’
‘Why don’t you show me?’ Irene asked. ‘I’m a pretty good judge of these matters.’
Sarah grinned. ‘My pleasure.’
Good Lord, John had seen videos like this as a teenager, but he’d never imagined he’d actually live it out. Never. And yet, there he was, going down on a beautiful Doctor as a stunning, curvy career criminal straddled her face, sideways on, and gracefully lowered herself down to meet Sarah’s waiting tongue. John kissed and watched and watched and licked and watched until he too felt a long, lingering lick along the length of his cock. For a moment, he thought it was Irene, but he quickly realised that the angle she was at against Sarah meant that it would be impossible for her to reach John, in the position she was in. Indeed, as his eyes scanned along Irene’s body, he saw a long leg in a PVC boot caressing her back as she knelt on all fours. Irene’s head was bowed down over Sherlock’s crotch, teasing his erection with little nips and sucks.
Which meant that the person currently giving John’s cock another slow lick, and slipping the tip between their lips was… yeah.
It was OK, he told himself. It was OK. He’d done this with a bloke before. It was OK. Admittedly, he hadn’t been living with that guy already, and that guy hadn’t been amazing and brilliant and seemingly untouchable and oh GOD, Sherlock’s tongue wasn’t just really, really clever at spitting out words, was it? What he was doing with his lips and tongue right at that moment was more impressive than saying ‘Red Lorry Yellow Lorry’ ten times in a row at high speed.
This was amazing. There wasn’t a bit of this that wasn’t amazing – not him going down on Sarah, or Sarah giving head to another woman, or watching Sherlock getting sucked off, or the things Sherlock was doing to him with his mouth. John could do this all night… in theory. In practice, he was already having to concentrate in order to make himself last as long as possible. He didn’t want this to stop, though. He definitely, definitely didn’t want this to…
‘Stop.’
It was Sherlock who’d spoken, pulling away from John in order to do so, leaving John frustratingly close to the edge. John muttered a wordless complaint as the others stopped what they had been doing and looked at Sherlock.
Sherlock settled himself flat on his back, grabbed a cushion from a chair and put it under his head.
‘I’m going to fuck you all at the same time,’ he announced, blithely.
‘Are you serious?’ asked Sarah, talking over John quietly asking why they couldn’t just carry on with what they’d been doing.
‘You know Sherlock,’ replied Irene, getting up off her hands and knees. ‘Always gotta be all about him. I call shotgun on his penis, by the way.’
‘Oh,’ grumbled Sarah, disappointedly.
‘Why,’ repeated John, louder, ‘can’t we just carry on with what we were doing?’
‘I’m perfectly happy to finish off what I started with you, John.’ Sherlock smirked. ‘I knew you’d like that. I’ve been informed I excel in that area. So. Irene gets genital intercourse, John gets oral…’
‘And what about me?’ asked Sarah with a tut.
‘Don’t worry, Sarah. I’m a violinist. I’m very good with my hands.’
‘Oh,’ added Irene, wistfully, as she rummaged through the large Chanel handbag she’d left on the living room floor, ‘he is. He really is.’ She pulled a 12 pack of condoms from the bag, then paused, thoughtfully. ‘Actually, could I do a trade off?’
‘No,’ chorused Sherlock and Sarah.
‘You should have thought of that before you called shotgun.’ He beckoned to Irene. ‘Come along, Dear. On you pop.’
‘Things I put up with from you…’ muttered Irene, rolling on the condom. Sarah was already enthusiastically straddling Sherlock’s midriff, facing his groin and watching intently as Irene eased herself down onto his erection. She smiled at Sarah, and gently lifted her face up so that they were looking each other in the eyes.
‘He doesn’t care much for kissing during sex,’ Irene told her with a nod down at Sherlock.
‘I do,’ replied Sarah.
‘I thought you might,’ smiled Irene.
John watched the two women kiss for a moment, then shuffled up towards Sherlock’s head. It took him a bit of awkward maneouvering to get into a position where he wasn’t crushing Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock was able to reach him with his mouth and get his arms around him to touch Sarah, but they managed it. Sherlock was laid out with his head close to the settee, so John was able to reach out and hold onto the seat, taking most of his weight on that instead of onto Sherlock. At first, when Sherlock had him in his mouth again, John all but forgot about the two women enjoying his friend and one another behind him. For a while, it was just him kneeling over Sherlock’s reclined head, watching him shut his eyes and open his mouth, and turn that tongue and those lips on to his erection, and then seeing the whole of his penis slide inside the man’s mouth and hearing the mantra loud in his head; “the cleverest man in the world is sucking your cock. The cleverest man. In the world, John Watson. Is sucking your cock”.
And oh, it was good. It was ridiculously good. John was distracted for a second or two by little breathy gasps issuing from the women behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see that Sarah had moved her kisses downwards and was now running her tongue over Irene’s impressive breasts, much to the other woman’s approval.
That was when the vibrations began on his cock. He snapped his attention down to Sherlock again. Sherlock still had his eyes closed and his mouth full, and was acting for all the world as if he hadn’t started humming the finale of Don Giovanni. Which, he had.
‘Oh,’ said Irene from behind, attempting to keep her tone light and mocking, despite the aroused tension in her voice, ‘we’re getting opera tonight. Mozart. An improvement on “Land of Hope & Glory” from last time.’
Sherlock hummed a little louder. The vibrating sensation on John’s cock increased. He struggled to control himself. He didn’t want this to be over just yet.
‘I do remember,’ he said, with difficulty, ‘hearing “Modern Major General” coming from his room when you were in town a couple of months ago.’
‘It’s his little distraction technique,’ explained Irene, clearly having trouble, herself, ‘keeps him from grinding his teeth.’
‘Yes,’ John told Sherlock, ‘don’t grind your teeth right now please, Sherlock.’
Sherlock opened his eyes again just long enough to give him a withering glare, and put a finger against John’s lips. John snapped at the finger, gently holding it between his teeth, then sucking it into his mouth, running his tongue along it. It tasted of Sarah.
Sarah reached around from behind him and pulled Sherlock’s hand away from John’s mouth, guiding the spit slicked finger back on to her.
‘Don’t you shush him, Sherlock Holmes,’ she demanded. ‘I want to hear him come.’
It was all getting too much for John. Sarah talking dirty just to him in bed was often the final straw, but talking dirty to Sherlock, about him? God. And the humming was getting louder, the vibrations more intense. God, Oh God…
‘I want to know,’ continued Sarah, ‘when your vicious little mouth is helplessly pumped full of John Watson’s hot, salty…’
Yep, that was it. That was the tipping point. He was usually quite quiet during orgasm, but on this occasion, he moaned through the waves of pleasure as per Sarah’s request. Even if he hadn’t done, it was very obvious from the new sounds Sherlock was making that his mouth was filling up with semen.
Whether it was Sherlock getting a mouthful, or Sarah talking filth, or John groaning or a combination of the three, Irene too began to cry out in orgasm shortly after John began, filling the living room with wordless, Soprano exclamations of joy that made his grunts and moans sound as dry as the Shipping Forecast in comparison.
As John shuddered out the last of his own orgasm, he wondered what he should do next. Funnily enough, he wasn’t sure of the usual etiquette in these situations. He was getting soft, and Sherlock’s mouth was getting very full with a combination of semen and saliva, but he didn’t really think he should just dismount and go off to make a drink while everyone else was still at it.
Luckily, Irene wasn’t so concerned about breaking the spell.
‘OK, Sweetie,’ she announced, stilling Sherlock’s hips, ‘I need to take a break for a moment. And I’m sure Sarah would like to have a turn on this particular donkey ride.’
All four of them took that as their cue to switch positions. John was the first to pull out, brushing a tiny spilled speck of come from Sherlock’s lips as his friend swallowed the rest. Sherlock and Sarah barely broke rhythm as they shifted so that it was now Sarah lying on her back with Sherlock on top of her, his long fingers still teasing and rubbing at her clitoris. Irene removed the condom they’d been using and broke open a new one.
This was like a Formula One Pitstop, John thought. He snorted a little laugh at the thought as he eyed the condom, very aware that he was currently sitting around doing nothing.
‘May I?’ he asked Irene.
She passed over the condom. ‘Be my guest.’
He reached around Sherlock and rolled the condom on to him from behind, as though he were doing it to himself. As though putting a condom on his best mate so that he could shag his girlfriend was the most normal thing in the world.
Sarah all too eagerly pulled Sherlock down on to her while John’s fingers were still on the base of Sherlock’s cock. Whether he liked it or not, John was made a part of the act of guiding Sherlock in.
Sherlock, finally on top of somebody but still not looking particularly masculine for it in his corset, boots and suspenders, took up the rhythm as he rocked his hips against Sarah’s – the same rhythm, as it happened, as that of the end of Don Giovanni as he started quietly singing it to himself again. Irene slipped herself behind Sherlock and toyed with his hair and torso as he hummed and thrust. Yet again, John found himself with little to do. Sherlock was going a bit too slow for what John knew from experience was to Sarah’s liking, and John tried to subtley suggest as such, but either wasn’t heard or was heard but simply ignored. He watched as Irene’s hands slipped further and further down Sherlock’s sides, over his hips, with her palms finally resting on his backside as he worked his way into Sarah at Mozart’s slightly-too-slow pace. The volume of Sherlock’s operatic murmurings increased as Irene stroked and pinched at his buttocks.
‘Dear?’ Irene asked, ‘Do you want Roger?’
‘Please,’ breathed Sherlock.
Irene reached for her handbag again, pulling out a dildo that looked for all the world like a silver bullet big enough to kill a Werewolf the size of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. John really, really hoped that Irene hadn’t tried to take that handbag through as hand luggage on the way back from Singapore.
‘Is that…?’ John began.
‘Roger,’ explained Irene, as though formally introducing him to the sex toy. ‘He helps us out, sometimes.’ She turned her attention back to Sherlock, still going through her bag. ‘Dear? What kind of lube did you want? The tingling kind, or regular?’
Jesus Christ, what else was in that handbag, John wondered. Handcuffs? A ball gag? A taser? Actually, knowing Irene, all three were possibilities, and not necessarily just for use in sexy emergencies.
‘Normal,’ managed Sherlock though Don Giovanni’s descent into Hell.
‘Whatever you say.’ Irene slicked up the dildo with one long stroke of her hand.
‘Oh,’ muttered John, when Irene knelt behind Sherlock again, taking one of his hips in her free hand and controlling his movements.
‘Oh,’ he repeated when she slid a slippery finger inside Sherlock as he rocked on top of Sarah.
‘Oh!’ said he again, much louder, when Irene removed her finger and carefully positioned the smooth, chrome tip of “Roger” against the corseted man’s anus, and let his movements slowly work it in.
John realised that his mouth had fallen open as he watched the silver shaft disappear gradually into his friend. And, as slack as the sight made his jaw, it was having quite the opposite effect on another part of his body.
Which, in itself, was pretty impressive, John felt. He hadn’t been able to have that sort of reaction only a few minutes after orgasm since his early 20s. Still, now wasn’t exactly the right time to crow about it. Everybody else in the room was still rather busy. Irene, with Roger, on Sherlock, on Sarah. Despite the sight of his girlfriend sighing blissfully as Sherlock slid in and out of her – gracefully, but still too slow for her liking, John gauged – it was that damned silver dildo that he just couldn’t take his eyes off. Again, he’d sort-of worked out for himself that Sherlock partook in the receiving end of anal sex from time to time – in fact, for a man who repeatedly claimed to be married to his work, there didn’t actually appear to be much that Sherlock didn’t partake in from time to time - but to actually be a witness to it… and the thing in Irene’s grasp was shiny and sleek and slick… warm by now, too, he bet. He tried to imagine what it would feel like in his hand.
Of course, he told himself, he didn’t have to just imagine, if that was what he wanted… he reached out and ran his fingers over Irene’s as she guided “Roger”. It was slippery and warm, just as he had expected. He felt its smooth shaft as it slid into Sherlock – brushing soft buttocks that Sherlock must have Immaced too… good God, how much preparation did that man go to to drag up?
‘John,’ murmured Sarah, watching him playing with the dildo and Sherlock’s backside. John flicked his attention back across to her. She still wasn’t about to come any time soon. Sherlock was still going at the wrong pace.
‘You’re going too slowly for her,’ John muttered into Sherlock’s ear. He placed his hand on
Sherlock’s hip and guided his speed. ‘She likes it like this.’
‘John,’ breathed Sarah again, approvingly.
‘And you’re not paying any attention to her breasts,’ added John, encouraged by Sarah’s reaction and the gradual crescendo of Sherlock’s Mozart. ‘Lick her nipples.’
Sherlock did so, far too roughly.
John tugged at his hair, feeling himself grow harder still and telling himself that it wasn’t just in reaction to getting to order Sherlock around for once. ‘Gently!’ He paused, as Sherlock ran his tongue over Sarah’s left nipple again, far more gently this time. ‘And stop bloody humming!’
Irene cleared her throat. When John looked across at her, she had another condom in her hand.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Knock yourself out.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, please. You want to screw him.’
‘No I don’t!’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Yes, you do,’ echoed Sherlock.
‘It’s fine, John,’ Irene continued. ‘He wants you to do it, too.’
‘She’s got a point,’ Sherlock told him. ‘For God’s sake, John, I’ve already given you a blowjob tonight. The fact that you’re hard again in itself speaks volumes about what you want to get up to next.’
John brushed the tip of his thumb over the taut, muscular opening as the dildo pushed its way back in again. Anal. Now there was something he’d never experimented with – with either gender. It had just never appealed to him, before. Mind you, neither had a foursome, and here he was.
‘Oh,’ said Sherlock, matter of factly, ‘you’ve never done it before. Irene will help you, won’t you, Irene?’
Irene rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, fine. Are you OK with the condom, John, or did you need help with that, too?’
John rolled the latex on, still wondering what the Hell he was actually doing. He frowned across at Sarah, and the look of absolute lust filled him with a new burst of confidence.
‘Oh God, yes, John,’ she panted. ‘You in him and him in me… that’s how I want it. That’s what I’ve been dreaming about.’
‘Right.’ John nodded. ‘OK, then…’
Irene pulled “Roger” out completely, and helped John position himself.
‘Roger’s warmed him up for you,’ Irene told John, softly, ‘but it’ll still be tight and very delicate. Go slow…’
John started to push himself in and Jesus, Irene was right, it was tighter than anything he’d experienced before. In front of him, Sherlock took in a faintly shuddering breath and let out a shaky ‘cinque… dieci…’
‘That’s right,’ murmured Irene. ‘Like that. And none of that thrusting ‘til he’s ready… although I imagine we can take it from the fact he’s just moved on from Don Giovanni to Figaro that he’s good to go.’
‘Sherlock…?’
‘Venti… trenta… Yes, John. Do carry on. Don’t mind me.’
John began to move inside Sherlock – as gently as he could, but guiding his speed on Sarah once more.
Sarah cried out, happily. ‘Oh, yes! Oh God, John, it’s like you’re making love to me through him.’
Sherlock pulled a nauseated face, but didn’t stop. ‘I’m not a giant sex toy!’
‘Trussed up like that, you look like one,’ called Irene, getting up and walking off into the kitchen.
‘That’s not what this is,’ John assured him, just in case he did need assurance. ‘Is this all right for you? Do you like it like this?’
‘Mm,’ muttered Sherlock, before breaking quietly into song again. ‘Trenta… trentasei… quarantatre…’
‘Ora sì ch'io son contenta,’ sang Irene from the kitchen, ‘sembra fatto inver per me.’
‘Cinque…’
‘Guarda un po' mio caro Figaro…’
‘Dieci…’
John marvelled at how his evening had managed to get even stranger as the sound of Irene’s soprano accompaniment to Sherlock’s latest operatic offerings approached the writhing pile that Sherlock, Sarah and he formed on the floor.
‘guarda adesso il mio cappello.’
John felt Irene’s soft, hot body press against his back, and… oh. With Sherlock’s arse occupied as it was, Irene had settled now for John’s, instead. Nimble thief fingers teased and toyed over his buttocks, playing closer and closer to his own sphincter.
He was hardly going to tell her stop. Not tonight. Not with his best friend’s hips rocking in his hands.
‘Roger’s all clean and ready,’ Irene murmured, ‘if you want it.’
Well, why not? He’d never had that done to him before, but then he’d never buggered anyone before and he was really rather enjoying that. He might as well give this a try, too.
He nodded, and sank his open mouth into the crook of Sherlock’s neck when he felt an unfamiliar pressure on his anus. The pressure increased on the sensitive opening and something slid inside. Not big enough to be Roger – not yet. Just a lubricated finger, but still intimate and odd and God, so arousing. He felt a slight scratch and flinched at the sensation.
‘She needs to cut her nails,’ Sherlock announced between Figaro’s lines. ‘They’re too sharp for anal penetration.’
‘I told you last night,’ replied Irene, ‘I am not ruining a perfectly good manicure just because you enjoy the odd foreign object where the sun, in your humble opinion, shines out of.’
She removed the finger and replaced it with something much bigger but mercifully lacking fingernails, at least.
Roger.
At first she just held it in position, its bullet head teasing the opening of John’s arse, but slowly, gently, she began to push – working with the tempo that he was keeping up on Sherlock. Gradually, he could feel it work its way in – plugging him, filling him in a way that he’d never taken it upon himself to imagine being filled. It felt good enough as it was – the strange dual sensations of buggering and being buggered – the tightness around him and inside him, but when the tip of the sex toy hit his prostate, he couldn’t suppress a groan into Sherlock’s neck, followed by a bite that wasn’t as gentle as he’d intended it to be.
Sherlock stopped singing.
‘Sorry,’ muttered John.
‘Don’t…’ Sherlock’s voice came out in a shaky whisper, his head bowed, his own hair falling over his face now, reminding John of the way Berglind’s wig had tumbled over his features when he’d first burst in on him that night.
‘Sorry,’ repeated John, helplessly, wondering if he should stop. He hadn’t meant to hurt him, really he hadn’t.
‘John…’ Sarah was so close to coming now, he could tell from the pinkness of her cheeks and the tautness of her limbs. ‘Now’s not the time.’
‘Ah,’ he said, before adding, automatically, ‘sorry about that…’
‘Oh God,’ gasped Sherlock, ‘stop apologis….AH!’
Oh, perfect. He’d just ruined the orgasm Sherlock had just spent all evening building up to by apologising at the wrong moment. He had to force himself not to apologise yet again, and concentrated instead on the sensations of the moment. The sight of Sherlock, shuddering, his head crooked over Sarah’s body. Sarah herself, underneath him, finally giving way to her own intense orgasm. The sounds they were making. The feel of Sherlock, tightening and jolting as John continued to fuck him and be fucked by Irene. The sweat between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. John always felt an odd little thrill when he was witness to those few moments where Sherlock was simply human – having to wake him from an unscheduled nap or oversleeping and seeing those first few seconds of unkempt confusion as he surfaced from deep sleep; giggling at the sneezing fits that horseradish always gave him; noticing his annoyance at not being able to reach an itch in the middle of his back. Seeing Sherlock sweat – seeing him come, and knowing that it was him, at least in part, causing that reaction…
He hadn’t realised how close he was to another orgasm until Sherlock tightened again in the final throes and Roger hit his prostate once more at the same time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come twice in the same evening, but he knew that it had been a very, very long while ago. It wasn’t as strong as the first one had been, but God, it was good.
It was Sarah who was the last to come down from climax. John pulled away from Sherlock and, once Roger had been removed, collapsed down onto the floor. Sherlock managed to pull himself up onto the sofa where he draped himself, as though his limbs and spine were filled with water.
‘That was interesting.’
Irene got up and joined him on the sofa.
‘Show’s not over ‘til the fat lady sings, Sweetie.’
‘You sang earlier.’
‘I’m not done, yet.’ Irene nodded down at Sarah. ‘Neither’s she. Look at her.’
On the floor, Sarah nestled into John. Irene was right. Sarah was very rarely satisfied with just one orgasm, and tonight was no exception. She ran her hands over his body, hungry for more. John was very much spent, but then he often was by this point in the proceedings with Sarah. She never minded. She always seemed to so enjoy being brought off again with his fingers.
On the sofa, Sherlock sighed dramatically. ‘Women.’
John looked up to see Sherlock and Irene in a very similar position to himself and Sarah – Sherlock’s hand slipping down between Irene’s thighs.
Grumbling something about it not being comfy on the floor, Sarah dragged herself onto the settee with them, pulling John up along with her.
The settee was only meant for two people at the most. All crushed together like that with the men on the sides and the women in the middle, hands were bound to wander. John ended up with one hand on Sarah and one on Irene, and was pretty certain that Sherlock was in the same position at the other end of the settee. Slender, clever fingers ran under his, and over his, and between his as they both attended to the two women. As adept as Sherlock’s hands were, John found that, yet again, he was the one setting the pace, on both Sarah and Irene. He kissed Sarah and Sarah kissed Irene and Sherlock, John noticed, kissed nobody. This time, it was Sarah who came first, fast and hard and silently gasping, with Irene singing their praises shortly after.
A peace descended once the women had finished. John’s hands didn’t only still, but withdrew completely from Irene and settled solely on Sarah. Sherlock copied his movements, keeping his own hands to Irene. It seemed that whatever spell it was that had made the two lots of two a four was starting to come undone now that the moment had passed.
They rested for a while – the four of them cramped on that settee, gradually splitting into two couples once more. They were still bathed in the tangerine light of the glorious June evening – an evening when normal people had Barbeques or supped pints in Beer Gardens, and didn’t spend all night fucking their best friend and his sort-of girlfriend. After a while, John got up and padded upstairs to go to the loo and clean himself up. He swung via his bedroom and picked up his duvet for the others on the settee.
When he got downstairs again, Sarah was the only one still curled up on the settee where he’d left her. Sherlock had shed the corset, boots and stockings, slung on a pair of pyjama bottoms and dressing gown and was checking his emails. Irene was hurriedly dressing.
‘I have to go,’ explained Irene in a superficially apologetic tone that John had come to learn wasn’t apologetic at all. ‘Got to catch a Red Eye. I’ve got an appointment to keep in the morning, and if you think I’m telling you where, Sherlock Holmes, you really have another thing coming…’
‘It’s in Moscow,’ muttered Sherlock, not looking up from his laptop. ‘Bring me back a Russian Doll or something.’
Irene’s eyes narrowed as she buckled her belt. ‘It is not in Moscow,’ she said in a tone that could only possibly mean ‘how the Hell did you work out it was Moscow’.
‘Have fun,’ John told her, pulling the duvet over Sarah.
‘Mmf,’ said Sarah. ‘Enjoy Moscow.’
Sherlock rose, nonchalantly, as Irene stooped to pick up her bags.
‘I’ll get you in a taxi,’ he told her. ‘Make sure you don’t steal any of the silverware on the way out.’ Sherlock pulled his dressing gown about his chest and unceremoniously guided Irene out.
John moved to the window as Sarah reclined, and watched. Sherlock and Irene appeared in the street below and beckoned for a cab. They drew one another close as the cab approached and idled, and there it was again, Another of their “this is probably the last time we’ll ever be able to do this” kisses. John would have said it was like one of the kisses you see in the movies, only it wasn’t. It was sadder than that, more sacred than that. More thrilling than that. Sometimes, when John saw Sherlock and Irene together, he wished he had a relationship like that. But most of the time, they only served to make him really, really glad of what he had with Sarah. He left the window, and got under the duvet with his girlfriend.
‘You don’t… regret any of what just happened?’ asked Sarah, sleepily.
‘No,’ John told her. ‘Not that I imagine any of this will ever happen again, mind you…’
‘I don’t know,’ Sarah replied. ‘You never can tell. Maybe the next time both of us couples are in the same town together again… maybe not the full orgy, next time. Maybe we can just have tacos and a movie. See how we go.’
‘We’re not a couple.’ Sherlock moved from the doorway towards the kitchen.
‘Of course, you’re not,’ smiled Sarah.
‘We’re not!’ Sherlock gave the kitchen the most cursory of sweeping glances. ‘Where’s the kettle? John, have you hidden the kettle?’
‘I’m midway through de-scaling the thing.’ John got up from beneath the blissfully warm duvet. ‘It’s under the sink to stop you drinking limescale remover from it.’
‘Business as usual, then?’ Sarah called as he went to help the Great Detective locate his own kettle.
John grinned. ‘Business as usual.’
-x-
THE END
So yeah. It's 7,500 word long PWP. And a foursome fic. You want content warnings? Het, Slash, FemmeSalsh, Threeway, Fourway, Oral, Vaginal, Anal, Pegging, Crossdressing, Spanking, Mozart Abuse.
COUPLES NIGHT
-x-
It wasn’t all that often that John managed to find a significant period of time when he had both 221b and Sarah all to himself. On those few occasions, he tried to make the most of it. On this particular balmy, bright midsummer’s evening, they’d rushed through dinner, and decided to skip the film altogether and go straight back to the flat. They kissed and giggled and fumbled their way up the stairs, grateful that, just this once, they could take all the time they liked and make all the noise they wanted and wouldn’t have to get past Sherlock staring coolly up at them from whatever experiment or article or email he was currently busy with in order to scurry up to John’s bedroom.
So wrapped up was John in Sarah’s lips and arms and hips as they slipped into the flat that for a moment, he didn’t notice the other figures already in the living room. It was a sound which alerted John to their presence – the crack of skin sharply hitting skin and a strangled, androgynous sounding ‘Ah! Ten!’
That was when John pulled away from Sarah suddenly, and saw them – a large, Black woman in a faintly crumpled designer skirt suit, sitting in his armchair. Draped over the woman’s knee was a tall, skinny Blonde - long, thick, golden hair draping over the face and hanging right down to the floor, the short dress pulled right up to reveal a corset that nipped in the waist and pushed out the bum, complete with French knickers, stockings, suspenders and PVC boots.
The woman sitting in the chair – herself all round, deceptively soft looking curves of hair, lips and breasts, looked across at John and Sarah, unfazed, her hand raised to deliver another slap to the upturned backside of the corset clad Blonde over her lap.
‘Company, Dear,’ she murmured.
‘Yes,’ replied the Blonde, not looking up, the once androgynous voice now sounding decidedly masculine, not to mention irritable, ‘I know.’
‘Hello, Irene,’ muttered Sarah, still trying to re-do up the buttons of her blouse. ‘Hello, Berglind.’
”Berglind” parted her hair just enough for one of Sherlock’s eyes to glare accusitorally out from beneath it. ‘Sarah. John. You have a bedroom. I suggest that you use it. We were here first. You’re breaking my concentration.’
‘I thought you were supposed to be in Singapore,’ seethed John, trying to look away from the sexual experiment in front of him – in his armchair – only to be greeted with the sight of his girlfriend drinking in the scene before her with fascination.
‘The Golden Monkey was easier to recover than we’d anticipated,’ Irene replied.
‘Depressingly so,’ Sherlock added, still from beneath Berglind’s wig. ‘All that way and it was a case so easy, Lestrade could have solved it. We were going to stick around for a night or two anyway, but it turned out somebody’s on their Most Wanted list over there for Fraud, Bank Robbery and assaulting three police officers.’ He gave the woman above him a pointed glare.
Irene shrugged a little “oh well, these things happen” shrug at Sarah and John. ‘And I was talking myself out of it quite nicely, until somebody horribly offended the American Ambassador.’
‘I only stated that he was a Homosexual and that his marriage was therefore a sham,’ replied Sherlock, ‘which was all obviously true.’
‘Anyway,’ continued Irene, ignoring the dragged-up detective, still talking, over her knee, ‘we escaped. And here we are.’
‘And,’ added Sarah, ‘the point of Berglind…?’
‘That’s personal,’ Sherlock replied. ‘And I can’t help but notice that, although both sets of us have managed to catch each other inflagrante, you two still haven’t hurried upstairs to finish off what you started and allow us to do the same in peace.’
Irene’s eyes sparked up, and her deceptive, pouting mouth split into one of the grins that always sent shivers down John’s spine – that reminded him that this generally sweet natured, caring woman was capable of emptying bank vaults and museum displays single handed, not to mention committing GBH and murder if pressed. These grins, John had found, usually came with a brilliant idea or sudden realisation. And the words that came out of that grin were never, ever kind.
‘I’m pretty sure they want to watch, Dear.’
John rubbed his face, exasperated, but determined not to be bullied out of the room.
Still over Irene’s knee, Sherlock regarded them, dispassionately. ‘No,’ he said after a moment. ‘They want to join in.’
‘What?’ snapped John.
‘That is,’ added Sherlock, ‘they want John to take over from you while Sarah watches, then for you and Sarah to join in.’
‘No, we don’t,’ John laughed, incredulously.
‘Oh, come on,’ Sherlock replied. ‘Sarah’s been itching for a threesome ever since the night she met me.’
‘No she hasn’t!’
‘Um,’ said Sarah, quietly.
John blinked at Sarah, feeling his eyebrows almost hit his hairline. ‘Sarah? No. No!’
Sarah gave a small, embarrassed shrug of confirmation. ‘It’s just… he’s very striking. And sometimes, the idea of you and him… together…’
‘Don’t make her feel bad,’ ordered Irene. ‘Men fantasise about being with two women together all the time. I bet you have.’
‘Why is this suddenly something I’ve done wrong?’ asked John.
‘It’s not Sarah’s fault you’re so repressed,’ Sherlock told him.
‘I am not repressed! I’ve… experimented, you know. I…’
‘…fancy me,’ Sherlock said, finishing off his sentence.
‘I do not!’
‘You do. A little bit. Especially when I’m being Berglind. I know she bothers you.’
‘I…’ John faltered, remembering that first time he saw Sherlock as Berglind – the shock as the door of the taxi he’d been waiting in had been thrown open and through had tumbled a stunningly dishevelled mess of golden hair and long, long legs. The troubled night afterwards, telling himself over and over again ‘it’s just Sherlock. Just Sherlock in a dress’, finally having to masturbate into the toilet before he could get any sleep. If he was being honest with himself, the sight in front of him now was going to haunt him for a while.
‘You’re thinking about taking Irene’s place right now,’ added Sherlock, through the dangling wig.
‘Jesus, Sherlock! No. No, I don’t want any part in this… this spanking session or whatever it is.’ John tried to ignore the disappointed sigh issuing from Sarah. ‘What on earth would make you think I’d want to do that?’
‘Because you fancy me.’
‘Wrong.’
‘Because you’d find it very cathartic for dealing with all the things I do that frustrate you.’
John blinked. That, at least was a good point.
‘And besides.’ John could make out a smug grin through the strands of blonde wig over Sherlock’s face. ‘Just look at this arse. It’s beautiful. Of course you want to give it a little slap – you’re only human.’
John snorted a little laugh. ‘Your arse isn’t that irresistable, Sherlock.’
Irene shrugged again. ‘Well, I certainly think it is. Your loss, I guess, John.’ She gave the backside over her knee another hard slap, causing Sherlock to gasp and laugh at the same time. ‘Lost count have we, Berglind?’ she asked, gently rubbing the lace knickers with the palm of her hand afterwards, watching the flimsy material slide over the taut flesh.
‘Eleven,’ sighed Sherlock in Berglind’s voice.
John and Sarah still hadn’t moved anywhere near the stairs up to John’s room. John felt a tug at his arm and turned his face to Sarah. There was an urgent look in her eyes, only when she spoke, it certainly wasn’t to demand that they go upstairs.
‘I want you to do that.’
‘To you?’ asked John, hoping to hang on to one last shred of normalcy about this evening.
Sarah bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Please? Sometimes when I watch you and him have your little domestic rows, I think about this – about you taking him over your knee, and… and the corset, God.’ She paused. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’
He watched as Irene locked eyes with him and gave Sherlock another slap. Somehow, the idea of Sarah fantasising about him and Sherlock together didn’t seem as wrong as he supposed it probably should. It was pretty sexy, actually, come to think about it. And at least now he didn’t feel guilty about that argument they’d had in front of Sarah over the state of the bathroom any more. God, Sherlock made a mess of the bathroom. Sometimes, it made him want to…
‘Get up, Irene,’ he said, his voice only wavering slightly.
Irene did so, graciously, lifting Sherlock up as she stood ad then depositing him back down over John’s knee once he was seated. The two women sat down on the settee together as John ran a hand over the tight corset and the false curves it formed in Sherlock’s back, ending in smooth, small, lace clad buttocks and elasticated suspenders running over white thighs and good God, the man must have Immaced almost everywhere. He tried to ignore the erection already pushing into his thigh – he was sure that that was Irene’s doing. He looked up at the women. Both were watching him intently – Irene with an air of amusement, Sarah intently – pink cheeked with excitement.
He looked back down at the man over his lap. He ran the fingers of one hand through Berglind’s long wig, and brought the palm of the other hand down hard on Sherlock’s backside. He heard Sarah give a little squeak of approval as he did.
‘Don’t let her lose count,’ Irene told John, settling comfortably back into the settee.
‘Thirteen,’ gasped Sherlock in Berglind’s voice.
John slapped again. And again, and again, and Sherlock had been right. It was very cathartic. More than that. By the time they reached ‘eighteen’, he was hard enough for Sherlock to be able to feel him through their clothes, he was sure. A little embarrassed, he faltered and looked back up again.
Oh, God.
Sarah and Irene were all over one another.
He knew Sarah had had girlfriends in the past, and he was sure Irene had taken female lovers too, but he’d never noticed any sort of spark between the two women before.
Well. These were different circumstances, he supposed. It seemed that, tonight, everything that had gone before was likely to fly out of the window. Again, that didn’t bother him as much as he thought it might. That must be what living with Sherlock Holmes did to somebody. He watched as his girlfriend kissed another woman, making fast work of both of their clothes, watching him back as he fondled his best friend’s arse.
Irene broke out of the kiss just as Sarah liberated her from her bra, and Christ, that woman had the biggest, roundest breasts John had seen in person outside of a professional capacity.
‘What have you stopped for?’ Irene complained to John. ‘Berglind needs 20 of the best…’
‘Oh Irene,’ murmured Sarah over her. ‘These tits. They’re amazing.’
Irene grinned. ‘Of course they are. I grew them myself. Oh, is that’s what’s distracting you away from the needs of our Icelandic slut, John?’
She got up, and walked over to John’s chair, with Sarah close behind her, discarding her own bra. Irene pushed herself up at the side of the chair, with one knee on an armrest so that her impressive breasts were against John’s face. She was at Sherlock’s head end, and John noticed that as she positioned herself, she pulled off Berglind’s wig so that she could run fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sarah settle herself on the other side of the chair, her hands brushing over John’s as they both stroked Sherlock’s backside. John suddenly found himself in a world of breasts. He turned his head one way and ran a tongue over one of Irene’s dark nipples as his administered the nineteenth slap, then took his mouth to Sarah’s breasts for the last smack.
Irene pulled Sherlock up from John’s knees again and pulled him away from the chair. His lap suddenly bereft, John pulled Sarah down into the chair with him, and kissed her. Sherlock, clearly never one to be outdone, launched himself at Irene’s lips.
John had been witness to Sherlock and Irene’s kissing several times before. There was always something very life affirming, but rather disturbing about the passion between them. Every time they kissed, it was as if they believed for all the world that this would be the last time they’d be doing it. Well, considered John, for a couple of commitment-phobes based opposite sides of the Atlantic and sort-of on opposite sides of the law enforcement/law evasion divide, who met with mortal danger far more often than they met with one another, that was probably a pretty reasonable assumption for them to make. Watching them kiss was as exhillerating as watching either of them work, but there was something a little sad about it, too – as if each of them was desperately searching for something within the other one, that they never could quite reach.
‘John,’ murmured Sarah against his lips, ‘I don’t want to go upstairs.’
‘No,’ breathed John. ‘No, me neither.’
‘I knew it,’ said Sherlock, pulling away from Irene.
‘So…’ John cleared his throat. ‘So, how are we going to do this?’
‘Well, for starters, John, you’re still fully clothed. And with the women down to very little indeed and me in fetishwear, that’ll hardly do, will it?’
‘Oh!’ John began to fumble at his shirt buttons. ‘Oh, of course. Right.’
Sarah pulled John up out of the chair and moved behind him, running her hands over his chest. ‘John. I think I’d like Sherlock to do that for you, if that’s OK.’
‘Um…’ began John, but with a roll of his eyes, Sherlock had already walked up to him and started nimbly unbuttoning his clothes.
‘OK,’ managed John.
John didn’t find Sherlock’s rather clinical approach to removing his clothes particularly arousing, rather Sarah’s excitement at the sight of it. In any case, Sherlock’s fingers were so fast that he was completely naked in very little time. In the meantime, Irene had stripped herself and Sarah of what clothes they had remaining, leaving Sherlock the only one wearing any clothes whatsoever. John reached across to pull the little black dress Sherlock had been wearing as Berglind off over his head and unclasp his bra. Berglind’s silicone breasts fell to the floor, heavily. Sherlock was now just in a corset that reached up to the bottom of his ribs, knickers, stockings, suspenders and boots. He was breathtaking. It seemed a shame to take any of it off him. Still, fair was fair. John undid the topmost fastening of the corset.
Sarah clucked disappointedly. ‘Don’t, John.’
‘But…’
‘It’s OK.’ She smiled, knowingly. ‘Knickers like that you can just nudge to one side.’
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Sarah Sawyer,’ murmured he, sounding almost impressed.
‘I have an even better solution,’ added Irene, with a smirk. She got to her knees in front of Sherlock and, with two firm yanks, ripped the lace knickers at the sides so that they fell away.
Oh, now there was a sight.
Sherlock sighed dramatically, as though appealing to John for emotional support. ‘She couldn’t just have unclipped the suspenders, could she? I lose so many knickers that way.’
‘Sherlock,’ warned Irene, ‘quiet.’ And, without a word of warning, she took Sherlock into her mouth.
‘Oh,’ sighed Sarah, running her hands over John, watching the scene in front of them. John kissed
Sarah again. Well, if this was how this was going to go, he might as well make a good a show for the other couple as they were getting.
In fact, he bet himself that he could do it better. He loved giving head. Especially to Sarah, with her little moans and gasps. He took pride in it. He considered himself very good at that particular act. He guided Sarah down to lie on her back on the floor, and settled himself between her legs. For some time, his concentration was on her – on teasing her open with the tips of his fingers and tongue, on the gentle kisses upon her clitoris that made her moan his name. He didn’t really notice the soft footsteps on the carpet, although he was aware of Sherlock and Irene sitting down next to where he and Sarah lay.
‘Seems your boyfriend’s rather good at that, Dr Sawyer,’ said Irene, conversationally.
‘He is.’
John flicked his tongue over the entrance to Sarah’s vagina, making her gasp. ‘He really is.’
‘Bet you’re pretty good at it, too,’ added Irene, ‘from the way you kissed me.’
‘Don’t like to brag,’ said Sarah. ‘Never had any complaints.’
‘Why don’t you show me?’ Irene asked. ‘I’m a pretty good judge of these matters.’
Sarah grinned. ‘My pleasure.’
Good Lord, John had seen videos like this as a teenager, but he’d never imagined he’d actually live it out. Never. And yet, there he was, going down on a beautiful Doctor as a stunning, curvy career criminal straddled her face, sideways on, and gracefully lowered herself down to meet Sarah’s waiting tongue. John kissed and watched and watched and licked and watched until he too felt a long, lingering lick along the length of his cock. For a moment, he thought it was Irene, but he quickly realised that the angle she was at against Sarah meant that it would be impossible for her to reach John, in the position she was in. Indeed, as his eyes scanned along Irene’s body, he saw a long leg in a PVC boot caressing her back as she knelt on all fours. Irene’s head was bowed down over Sherlock’s crotch, teasing his erection with little nips and sucks.
Which meant that the person currently giving John’s cock another slow lick, and slipping the tip between their lips was… yeah.
It was OK, he told himself. It was OK. He’d done this with a bloke before. It was OK. Admittedly, he hadn’t been living with that guy already, and that guy hadn’t been amazing and brilliant and seemingly untouchable and oh GOD, Sherlock’s tongue wasn’t just really, really clever at spitting out words, was it? What he was doing with his lips and tongue right at that moment was more impressive than saying ‘Red Lorry Yellow Lorry’ ten times in a row at high speed.
This was amazing. There wasn’t a bit of this that wasn’t amazing – not him going down on Sarah, or Sarah giving head to another woman, or watching Sherlock getting sucked off, or the things Sherlock was doing to him with his mouth. John could do this all night… in theory. In practice, he was already having to concentrate in order to make himself last as long as possible. He didn’t want this to stop, though. He definitely, definitely didn’t want this to…
‘Stop.’
It was Sherlock who’d spoken, pulling away from John in order to do so, leaving John frustratingly close to the edge. John muttered a wordless complaint as the others stopped what they had been doing and looked at Sherlock.
Sherlock settled himself flat on his back, grabbed a cushion from a chair and put it under his head.
‘I’m going to fuck you all at the same time,’ he announced, blithely.
‘Are you serious?’ asked Sarah, talking over John quietly asking why they couldn’t just carry on with what they’d been doing.
‘You know Sherlock,’ replied Irene, getting up off her hands and knees. ‘Always gotta be all about him. I call shotgun on his penis, by the way.’
‘Oh,’ grumbled Sarah, disappointedly.
‘Why,’ repeated John, louder, ‘can’t we just carry on with what we were doing?’
‘I’m perfectly happy to finish off what I started with you, John.’ Sherlock smirked. ‘I knew you’d like that. I’ve been informed I excel in that area. So. Irene gets genital intercourse, John gets oral…’
‘And what about me?’ asked Sarah with a tut.
‘Don’t worry, Sarah. I’m a violinist. I’m very good with my hands.’
‘Oh,’ added Irene, wistfully, as she rummaged through the large Chanel handbag she’d left on the living room floor, ‘he is. He really is.’ She pulled a 12 pack of condoms from the bag, then paused, thoughtfully. ‘Actually, could I do a trade off?’
‘No,’ chorused Sherlock and Sarah.
‘You should have thought of that before you called shotgun.’ He beckoned to Irene. ‘Come along, Dear. On you pop.’
‘Things I put up with from you…’ muttered Irene, rolling on the condom. Sarah was already enthusiastically straddling Sherlock’s midriff, facing his groin and watching intently as Irene eased herself down onto his erection. She smiled at Sarah, and gently lifted her face up so that they were looking each other in the eyes.
‘He doesn’t care much for kissing during sex,’ Irene told her with a nod down at Sherlock.
‘I do,’ replied Sarah.
‘I thought you might,’ smiled Irene.
John watched the two women kiss for a moment, then shuffled up towards Sherlock’s head. It took him a bit of awkward maneouvering to get into a position where he wasn’t crushing Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock was able to reach him with his mouth and get his arms around him to touch Sarah, but they managed it. Sherlock was laid out with his head close to the settee, so John was able to reach out and hold onto the seat, taking most of his weight on that instead of onto Sherlock. At first, when Sherlock had him in his mouth again, John all but forgot about the two women enjoying his friend and one another behind him. For a while, it was just him kneeling over Sherlock’s reclined head, watching him shut his eyes and open his mouth, and turn that tongue and those lips on to his erection, and then seeing the whole of his penis slide inside the man’s mouth and hearing the mantra loud in his head; “the cleverest man in the world is sucking your cock. The cleverest man. In the world, John Watson. Is sucking your cock”.
And oh, it was good. It was ridiculously good. John was distracted for a second or two by little breathy gasps issuing from the women behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see that Sarah had moved her kisses downwards and was now running her tongue over Irene’s impressive breasts, much to the other woman’s approval.
That was when the vibrations began on his cock. He snapped his attention down to Sherlock again. Sherlock still had his eyes closed and his mouth full, and was acting for all the world as if he hadn’t started humming the finale of Don Giovanni. Which, he had.
‘Oh,’ said Irene from behind, attempting to keep her tone light and mocking, despite the aroused tension in her voice, ‘we’re getting opera tonight. Mozart. An improvement on “Land of Hope & Glory” from last time.’
Sherlock hummed a little louder. The vibrating sensation on John’s cock increased. He struggled to control himself. He didn’t want this to be over just yet.
‘I do remember,’ he said, with difficulty, ‘hearing “Modern Major General” coming from his room when you were in town a couple of months ago.’
‘It’s his little distraction technique,’ explained Irene, clearly having trouble, herself, ‘keeps him from grinding his teeth.’
‘Yes,’ John told Sherlock, ‘don’t grind your teeth right now please, Sherlock.’
Sherlock opened his eyes again just long enough to give him a withering glare, and put a finger against John’s lips. John snapped at the finger, gently holding it between his teeth, then sucking it into his mouth, running his tongue along it. It tasted of Sarah.
Sarah reached around from behind him and pulled Sherlock’s hand away from John’s mouth, guiding the spit slicked finger back on to her.
‘Don’t you shush him, Sherlock Holmes,’ she demanded. ‘I want to hear him come.’
It was all getting too much for John. Sarah talking dirty just to him in bed was often the final straw, but talking dirty to Sherlock, about him? God. And the humming was getting louder, the vibrations more intense. God, Oh God…
‘I want to know,’ continued Sarah, ‘when your vicious little mouth is helplessly pumped full of John Watson’s hot, salty…’
Yep, that was it. That was the tipping point. He was usually quite quiet during orgasm, but on this occasion, he moaned through the waves of pleasure as per Sarah’s request. Even if he hadn’t done, it was very obvious from the new sounds Sherlock was making that his mouth was filling up with semen.
Whether it was Sherlock getting a mouthful, or Sarah talking filth, or John groaning or a combination of the three, Irene too began to cry out in orgasm shortly after John began, filling the living room with wordless, Soprano exclamations of joy that made his grunts and moans sound as dry as the Shipping Forecast in comparison.
As John shuddered out the last of his own orgasm, he wondered what he should do next. Funnily enough, he wasn’t sure of the usual etiquette in these situations. He was getting soft, and Sherlock’s mouth was getting very full with a combination of semen and saliva, but he didn’t really think he should just dismount and go off to make a drink while everyone else was still at it.
Luckily, Irene wasn’t so concerned about breaking the spell.
‘OK, Sweetie,’ she announced, stilling Sherlock’s hips, ‘I need to take a break for a moment. And I’m sure Sarah would like to have a turn on this particular donkey ride.’
All four of them took that as their cue to switch positions. John was the first to pull out, brushing a tiny spilled speck of come from Sherlock’s lips as his friend swallowed the rest. Sherlock and Sarah barely broke rhythm as they shifted so that it was now Sarah lying on her back with Sherlock on top of her, his long fingers still teasing and rubbing at her clitoris. Irene removed the condom they’d been using and broke open a new one.
This was like a Formula One Pitstop, John thought. He snorted a little laugh at the thought as he eyed the condom, very aware that he was currently sitting around doing nothing.
‘May I?’ he asked Irene.
She passed over the condom. ‘Be my guest.’
He reached around Sherlock and rolled the condom on to him from behind, as though he were doing it to himself. As though putting a condom on his best mate so that he could shag his girlfriend was the most normal thing in the world.
Sarah all too eagerly pulled Sherlock down on to her while John’s fingers were still on the base of Sherlock’s cock. Whether he liked it or not, John was made a part of the act of guiding Sherlock in.
Sherlock, finally on top of somebody but still not looking particularly masculine for it in his corset, boots and suspenders, took up the rhythm as he rocked his hips against Sarah’s – the same rhythm, as it happened, as that of the end of Don Giovanni as he started quietly singing it to himself again. Irene slipped herself behind Sherlock and toyed with his hair and torso as he hummed and thrust. Yet again, John found himself with little to do. Sherlock was going a bit too slow for what John knew from experience was to Sarah’s liking, and John tried to subtley suggest as such, but either wasn’t heard or was heard but simply ignored. He watched as Irene’s hands slipped further and further down Sherlock’s sides, over his hips, with her palms finally resting on his backside as he worked his way into Sarah at Mozart’s slightly-too-slow pace. The volume of Sherlock’s operatic murmurings increased as Irene stroked and pinched at his buttocks.
‘Dear?’ Irene asked, ‘Do you want Roger?’
‘Please,’ breathed Sherlock.
Irene reached for her handbag again, pulling out a dildo that looked for all the world like a silver bullet big enough to kill a Werewolf the size of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. John really, really hoped that Irene hadn’t tried to take that handbag through as hand luggage on the way back from Singapore.
‘Is that…?’ John began.
‘Roger,’ explained Irene, as though formally introducing him to the sex toy. ‘He helps us out, sometimes.’ She turned her attention back to Sherlock, still going through her bag. ‘Dear? What kind of lube did you want? The tingling kind, or regular?’
Jesus Christ, what else was in that handbag, John wondered. Handcuffs? A ball gag? A taser? Actually, knowing Irene, all three were possibilities, and not necessarily just for use in sexy emergencies.
‘Normal,’ managed Sherlock though Don Giovanni’s descent into Hell.
‘Whatever you say.’ Irene slicked up the dildo with one long stroke of her hand.
‘Oh,’ muttered John, when Irene knelt behind Sherlock again, taking one of his hips in her free hand and controlling his movements.
‘Oh,’ he repeated when she slid a slippery finger inside Sherlock as he rocked on top of Sarah.
‘Oh!’ said he again, much louder, when Irene removed her finger and carefully positioned the smooth, chrome tip of “Roger” against the corseted man’s anus, and let his movements slowly work it in.
John realised that his mouth had fallen open as he watched the silver shaft disappear gradually into his friend. And, as slack as the sight made his jaw, it was having quite the opposite effect on another part of his body.
Which, in itself, was pretty impressive, John felt. He hadn’t been able to have that sort of reaction only a few minutes after orgasm since his early 20s. Still, now wasn’t exactly the right time to crow about it. Everybody else in the room was still rather busy. Irene, with Roger, on Sherlock, on Sarah. Despite the sight of his girlfriend sighing blissfully as Sherlock slid in and out of her – gracefully, but still too slow for her liking, John gauged – it was that damned silver dildo that he just couldn’t take his eyes off. Again, he’d sort-of worked out for himself that Sherlock partook in the receiving end of anal sex from time to time – in fact, for a man who repeatedly claimed to be married to his work, there didn’t actually appear to be much that Sherlock didn’t partake in from time to time - but to actually be a witness to it… and the thing in Irene’s grasp was shiny and sleek and slick… warm by now, too, he bet. He tried to imagine what it would feel like in his hand.
Of course, he told himself, he didn’t have to just imagine, if that was what he wanted… he reached out and ran his fingers over Irene’s as she guided “Roger”. It was slippery and warm, just as he had expected. He felt its smooth shaft as it slid into Sherlock – brushing soft buttocks that Sherlock must have Immaced too… good God, how much preparation did that man go to to drag up?
‘John,’ murmured Sarah, watching him playing with the dildo and Sherlock’s backside. John flicked his attention back across to her. She still wasn’t about to come any time soon. Sherlock was still going at the wrong pace.
‘You’re going too slowly for her,’ John muttered into Sherlock’s ear. He placed his hand on
Sherlock’s hip and guided his speed. ‘She likes it like this.’
‘John,’ breathed Sarah again, approvingly.
‘And you’re not paying any attention to her breasts,’ added John, encouraged by Sarah’s reaction and the gradual crescendo of Sherlock’s Mozart. ‘Lick her nipples.’
Sherlock did so, far too roughly.
John tugged at his hair, feeling himself grow harder still and telling himself that it wasn’t just in reaction to getting to order Sherlock around for once. ‘Gently!’ He paused, as Sherlock ran his tongue over Sarah’s left nipple again, far more gently this time. ‘And stop bloody humming!’
Irene cleared her throat. When John looked across at her, she had another condom in her hand.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Knock yourself out.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, please. You want to screw him.’
‘No I don’t!’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Yes, you do,’ echoed Sherlock.
‘It’s fine, John,’ Irene continued. ‘He wants you to do it, too.’
‘She’s got a point,’ Sherlock told him. ‘For God’s sake, John, I’ve already given you a blowjob tonight. The fact that you’re hard again in itself speaks volumes about what you want to get up to next.’
John brushed the tip of his thumb over the taut, muscular opening as the dildo pushed its way back in again. Anal. Now there was something he’d never experimented with – with either gender. It had just never appealed to him, before. Mind you, neither had a foursome, and here he was.
‘Oh,’ said Sherlock, matter of factly, ‘you’ve never done it before. Irene will help you, won’t you, Irene?’
Irene rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, fine. Are you OK with the condom, John, or did you need help with that, too?’
John rolled the latex on, still wondering what the Hell he was actually doing. He frowned across at Sarah, and the look of absolute lust filled him with a new burst of confidence.
‘Oh God, yes, John,’ she panted. ‘You in him and him in me… that’s how I want it. That’s what I’ve been dreaming about.’
‘Right.’ John nodded. ‘OK, then…’
Irene pulled “Roger” out completely, and helped John position himself.
‘Roger’s warmed him up for you,’ Irene told John, softly, ‘but it’ll still be tight and very delicate. Go slow…’
John started to push himself in and Jesus, Irene was right, it was tighter than anything he’d experienced before. In front of him, Sherlock took in a faintly shuddering breath and let out a shaky ‘cinque… dieci…’
‘That’s right,’ murmured Irene. ‘Like that. And none of that thrusting ‘til he’s ready… although I imagine we can take it from the fact he’s just moved on from Don Giovanni to Figaro that he’s good to go.’
‘Sherlock…?’
‘Venti… trenta… Yes, John. Do carry on. Don’t mind me.’
John began to move inside Sherlock – as gently as he could, but guiding his speed on Sarah once more.
Sarah cried out, happily. ‘Oh, yes! Oh God, John, it’s like you’re making love to me through him.’
Sherlock pulled a nauseated face, but didn’t stop. ‘I’m not a giant sex toy!’
‘Trussed up like that, you look like one,’ called Irene, getting up and walking off into the kitchen.
‘That’s not what this is,’ John assured him, just in case he did need assurance. ‘Is this all right for you? Do you like it like this?’
‘Mm,’ muttered Sherlock, before breaking quietly into song again. ‘Trenta… trentasei… quarantatre…’
‘Ora sì ch'io son contenta,’ sang Irene from the kitchen, ‘sembra fatto inver per me.’
‘Cinque…’
‘Guarda un po' mio caro Figaro…’
‘Dieci…’
John marvelled at how his evening had managed to get even stranger as the sound of Irene’s soprano accompaniment to Sherlock’s latest operatic offerings approached the writhing pile that Sherlock, Sarah and he formed on the floor.
‘guarda adesso il mio cappello.’
John felt Irene’s soft, hot body press against his back, and… oh. With Sherlock’s arse occupied as it was, Irene had settled now for John’s, instead. Nimble thief fingers teased and toyed over his buttocks, playing closer and closer to his own sphincter.
He was hardly going to tell her stop. Not tonight. Not with his best friend’s hips rocking in his hands.
‘Roger’s all clean and ready,’ Irene murmured, ‘if you want it.’
Well, why not? He’d never had that done to him before, but then he’d never buggered anyone before and he was really rather enjoying that. He might as well give this a try, too.
He nodded, and sank his open mouth into the crook of Sherlock’s neck when he felt an unfamiliar pressure on his anus. The pressure increased on the sensitive opening and something slid inside. Not big enough to be Roger – not yet. Just a lubricated finger, but still intimate and odd and God, so arousing. He felt a slight scratch and flinched at the sensation.
‘She needs to cut her nails,’ Sherlock announced between Figaro’s lines. ‘They’re too sharp for anal penetration.’
‘I told you last night,’ replied Irene, ‘I am not ruining a perfectly good manicure just because you enjoy the odd foreign object where the sun, in your humble opinion, shines out of.’
She removed the finger and replaced it with something much bigger but mercifully lacking fingernails, at least.
Roger.
At first she just held it in position, its bullet head teasing the opening of John’s arse, but slowly, gently, she began to push – working with the tempo that he was keeping up on Sherlock. Gradually, he could feel it work its way in – plugging him, filling him in a way that he’d never taken it upon himself to imagine being filled. It felt good enough as it was – the strange dual sensations of buggering and being buggered – the tightness around him and inside him, but when the tip of the sex toy hit his prostate, he couldn’t suppress a groan into Sherlock’s neck, followed by a bite that wasn’t as gentle as he’d intended it to be.
Sherlock stopped singing.
‘Sorry,’ muttered John.
‘Don’t…’ Sherlock’s voice came out in a shaky whisper, his head bowed, his own hair falling over his face now, reminding John of the way Berglind’s wig had tumbled over his features when he’d first burst in on him that night.
‘Sorry,’ repeated John, helplessly, wondering if he should stop. He hadn’t meant to hurt him, really he hadn’t.
‘John…’ Sarah was so close to coming now, he could tell from the pinkness of her cheeks and the tautness of her limbs. ‘Now’s not the time.’
‘Ah,’ he said, before adding, automatically, ‘sorry about that…’
‘Oh God,’ gasped Sherlock, ‘stop apologis….AH!’
Oh, perfect. He’d just ruined the orgasm Sherlock had just spent all evening building up to by apologising at the wrong moment. He had to force himself not to apologise yet again, and concentrated instead on the sensations of the moment. The sight of Sherlock, shuddering, his head crooked over Sarah’s body. Sarah herself, underneath him, finally giving way to her own intense orgasm. The sounds they were making. The feel of Sherlock, tightening and jolting as John continued to fuck him and be fucked by Irene. The sweat between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. John always felt an odd little thrill when he was witness to those few moments where Sherlock was simply human – having to wake him from an unscheduled nap or oversleeping and seeing those first few seconds of unkempt confusion as he surfaced from deep sleep; giggling at the sneezing fits that horseradish always gave him; noticing his annoyance at not being able to reach an itch in the middle of his back. Seeing Sherlock sweat – seeing him come, and knowing that it was him, at least in part, causing that reaction…
He hadn’t realised how close he was to another orgasm until Sherlock tightened again in the final throes and Roger hit his prostate once more at the same time. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d come twice in the same evening, but he knew that it had been a very, very long while ago. It wasn’t as strong as the first one had been, but God, it was good.
It was Sarah who was the last to come down from climax. John pulled away from Sherlock and, once Roger had been removed, collapsed down onto the floor. Sherlock managed to pull himself up onto the sofa where he draped himself, as though his limbs and spine were filled with water.
‘That was interesting.’
Irene got up and joined him on the sofa.
‘Show’s not over ‘til the fat lady sings, Sweetie.’
‘You sang earlier.’
‘I’m not done, yet.’ Irene nodded down at Sarah. ‘Neither’s she. Look at her.’
On the floor, Sarah nestled into John. Irene was right. Sarah was very rarely satisfied with just one orgasm, and tonight was no exception. She ran her hands over his body, hungry for more. John was very much spent, but then he often was by this point in the proceedings with Sarah. She never minded. She always seemed to so enjoy being brought off again with his fingers.
On the sofa, Sherlock sighed dramatically. ‘Women.’
John looked up to see Sherlock and Irene in a very similar position to himself and Sarah – Sherlock’s hand slipping down between Irene’s thighs.
Grumbling something about it not being comfy on the floor, Sarah dragged herself onto the settee with them, pulling John up along with her.
The settee was only meant for two people at the most. All crushed together like that with the men on the sides and the women in the middle, hands were bound to wander. John ended up with one hand on Sarah and one on Irene, and was pretty certain that Sherlock was in the same position at the other end of the settee. Slender, clever fingers ran under his, and over his, and between his as they both attended to the two women. As adept as Sherlock’s hands were, John found that, yet again, he was the one setting the pace, on both Sarah and Irene. He kissed Sarah and Sarah kissed Irene and Sherlock, John noticed, kissed nobody. This time, it was Sarah who came first, fast and hard and silently gasping, with Irene singing their praises shortly after.
A peace descended once the women had finished. John’s hands didn’t only still, but withdrew completely from Irene and settled solely on Sarah. Sherlock copied his movements, keeping his own hands to Irene. It seemed that whatever spell it was that had made the two lots of two a four was starting to come undone now that the moment had passed.
They rested for a while – the four of them cramped on that settee, gradually splitting into two couples once more. They were still bathed in the tangerine light of the glorious June evening – an evening when normal people had Barbeques or supped pints in Beer Gardens, and didn’t spend all night fucking their best friend and his sort-of girlfriend. After a while, John got up and padded upstairs to go to the loo and clean himself up. He swung via his bedroom and picked up his duvet for the others on the settee.
When he got downstairs again, Sarah was the only one still curled up on the settee where he’d left her. Sherlock had shed the corset, boots and stockings, slung on a pair of pyjama bottoms and dressing gown and was checking his emails. Irene was hurriedly dressing.
‘I have to go,’ explained Irene in a superficially apologetic tone that John had come to learn wasn’t apologetic at all. ‘Got to catch a Red Eye. I’ve got an appointment to keep in the morning, and if you think I’m telling you where, Sherlock Holmes, you really have another thing coming…’
‘It’s in Moscow,’ muttered Sherlock, not looking up from his laptop. ‘Bring me back a Russian Doll or something.’
Irene’s eyes narrowed as she buckled her belt. ‘It is not in Moscow,’ she said in a tone that could only possibly mean ‘how the Hell did you work out it was Moscow’.
‘Have fun,’ John told her, pulling the duvet over Sarah.
‘Mmf,’ said Sarah. ‘Enjoy Moscow.’
Sherlock rose, nonchalantly, as Irene stooped to pick up her bags.
‘I’ll get you in a taxi,’ he told her. ‘Make sure you don’t steal any of the silverware on the way out.’ Sherlock pulled his dressing gown about his chest and unceremoniously guided Irene out.
John moved to the window as Sarah reclined, and watched. Sherlock and Irene appeared in the street below and beckoned for a cab. They drew one another close as the cab approached and idled, and there it was again, Another of their “this is probably the last time we’ll ever be able to do this” kisses. John would have said it was like one of the kisses you see in the movies, only it wasn’t. It was sadder than that, more sacred than that. More thrilling than that. Sometimes, when John saw Sherlock and Irene together, he wished he had a relationship like that. But most of the time, they only served to make him really, really glad of what he had with Sarah. He left the window, and got under the duvet with his girlfriend.
‘You don’t… regret any of what just happened?’ asked Sarah, sleepily.
‘No,’ John told her. ‘Not that I imagine any of this will ever happen again, mind you…’
‘I don’t know,’ Sarah replied. ‘You never can tell. Maybe the next time both of us couples are in the same town together again… maybe not the full orgy, next time. Maybe we can just have tacos and a movie. See how we go.’
‘We’re not a couple.’ Sherlock moved from the doorway towards the kitchen.
‘Of course, you’re not,’ smiled Sarah.
‘We’re not!’ Sherlock gave the kitchen the most cursory of sweeping glances. ‘Where’s the kettle? John, have you hidden the kettle?’
‘I’m midway through de-scaling the thing.’ John got up from beneath the blissfully warm duvet. ‘It’s under the sink to stop you drinking limescale remover from it.’
‘Business as usual, then?’ Sarah called as he went to help the Great Detective locate his own kettle.
John grinned. ‘Business as usual.’
-x-
THE END
