4 Works by LyricaB in Sherlock (TV)
“Did you see that?” Sherlock exclaims and looks back at John for confirmation. There’s such a mix of surprise and indignation and delight warring on his long face that John almost laughs. Then, delight winning, Sherlock grins at him.
And John’s heart lurches up into his throat. “Sherlock, no!” he yells, but it’s like telling a child not to grab for a coveted toy.
Sherlock steps back, takes a deep breath. Plunges into the wall. And disappears.
”What’s ‘too funny’?” Sherlock asks.
John laughs. “It’s believed that the chair’s purpose was to make it easy to have sex with multiple partners. Everybody agrees on one-on-one usage, but not how it would benefit the king if he had multiple partners at once.”
Sherlock stares at the photo on the screen intently.
John smirks at him. “Got any ideas?”
Sherlock gives the photo another careful once over. “Sorry,” he says, his voice droll, “not my area.”
The only uncovered flat surface in the room is the bed. Even on John’s bedside table, the alarm clock and his computer sit atop stacks of the books he unpacked yesterday. He hadn’t intended to unpack books, not until he’d actually cleared a path to the bookcase, but...he’d been hoping he’d find his missing pants at the bottom of the box.
Possibly, the state of the room says something deep and existential about the state of his life, the boxes both clutter and metaphor for the stagnation through which he wades everyday. Since he moved back into 221B, he’s felt as though he’s in limbo. His life and his heart, still packed up in boxes. Balanced, precariously, on a knife edge, waiting. Waiting. For what, he doesn’t know.
It’s Mycroft’s bloody fault, pure and simple, that John’s sitting on a sofa in bloody Buckingham Palace with bees buzzing in his bloodstream and a mind that’s turned as thick as marmalade.
It had seemed odd, the way Sherlock’s gaze had dipped, the way his voice had lowered and sounded musing when he said, ‘Dominatrix’.
And Mycroft had pounced on it, smirking. ‘Don’t be alarmed. It’s to do with sex’.
Sherlock had drawn himself up tall and straight and had retorted, ‘Sex doesn’t alarm me’.
Mycroft’s rejoinder had been quick and snide. ‘How would you know’?
And something bright and crystalline had exploded at the base of John’s brain. Arousal, hot and treacherous, had blossomed in his belly. And the desire, the need, to be the first to run hot, greedy hands all over Sherlock’s pale skin had erupted, unbidden and unexpected, pushing out all other thoughts.