John Hooks Up
Jan. 9th, 2014 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
majestic_duxkPairing: Sherlock/John
Fandom: Sherlock
Kinks: cross dressing, bottom john
Summary: John has a night our, and meets an impossibly sexy woman who reminds him of Sherlock. Although John will do his best to put that out of his mind
notes: complete at this stage
“Where are you going, John?”
Sherlock’s voice came from the shadows. John huffed in exasperation. “I told you not half an hour ago! I am going to the pub.”
Sherlock looked at him for a moment. “Another attempt to allow some action in the barren wasteland that is your sex life.”
John rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Sherlock. I am just going to the pub for a beer. I like the pub. And I like beer. And what do you mean ‘a barren wasteland’?”
Sherlock sneered. “Please, John. Must you forever underestimate my powers of observation. You are wearing your second best jumper – you wear that one when you are not sure of the outcome of the evening, saving the best for when you are sadly mistaken that you will ‘score’.”
John winced at the sound of ‘score’ coming out of Sherlock’s mouth. The question though, was what would sound better. ‘Engage in sexual conduct’? John snickered to himself. Much more Sherlock, and so incredibly non sexy.
“I do understand that you have a short attention span John, but if you ask a question you should at least have the manners to listen to the answer.”
“Manners?” exploded John. “Manners? Given you are the rudest git I have ever…” John trailed off. “Forget it. Sorry Sherlock. Please, continue to fascinate me with stories of my lackluster love life.”
“It isn't lackluster John. It’s nonexistent. I calculate that you haven’t had a date in 3 months, and haven’t engaged in sexual conduct” (Aha! John thought to himself) “in at least 8 months.” Sherlock pinned him with a look. “Although, I would think it is closer to 12 months. The ‘best’ jumper has not made an appearance since New Year’s Eve, and it did not appear to herald any significant change to your…”
“OK, Sherlock. OK. Thanks for that.” John looked at as his flat mate with his standard expression: something caught somewhere between affection and exasperation. “It must be a boring evening if you have lowered yourself to comment on my sex life.” John held up a hand to ward off the interruption. “Or lack thereof. Anyway, wish me luck then, and I will be back. Well, hopefully not for a while.”
John happily bumbled his way out of the 221b Baker Street. He was unable to hail a taxi, but continued on with undaunted good spirits. He had a feeling tonight was going to be good night.
Sherlock’s grey eyes followed John. Sherlock too, had a feeling tonight was going to be a good night.
John sat at a table looking at the people around him. Although it could be far more interesting (and embarrassing) with Sherlock (‘Look John, those two couples over. It is boring watching them try to pretend that they are not all having affairs’), he enjoyed the time alone. He could sit and just watch the world. Listening to the ebb and flow of conversation, observe the allure of a shapely behind, feel the cold beer on his throat. And he had the time just to let his mind cant along at its own lazy pace. Not that he was not smart, he huffed into his beer. In his own way, John Watson was a clever man. And loyal. With excellent taste in jumpers.
John snickered into his beer. He must be drunk. He didn’t normally think of himself in the third person. Or about his jumpers that much. Although sometimes… sometimes he thought there might have been a hint of interest in Sherlock’s eye as he observed John in a particularly fetching jumper. John sighed. ((Already?( he thought. (I must be out of practice if I am already in the melancholy stage. Must remember to meet up with Greg more regularly.()
Pulling himself together, he reminded himself he was a wearing his second best jumper. (Oh god. How sad. It really is my second best jumper) and that women didn't like a man who moped.
“What a wonderful jumper you‘re wearing” a deep, throaty voice murmured beside him. “It brings out the blue of your eyes.”
John looked up. And kept looking up. The woman standing in front of him was rather tall (as tall as Sherlock, he would hazard a guess), with stunning grey eyes. John blinked and took more of her in. Unruly black curls hit her shoulder blades. Her lean form was encased in a purple silk shirt teamed with a black skirt that, should she turn around, John was sure would highlight a shapely behind.
John blinked again. This woman was like Sherlock but in female form. Surely he couldn't be that lucky?
A couple of beers later, John decided that yes, yes he could be that lucky.
He didn't quite understand how it had happened, but this sexy and intelligent and magnificent and amazing woman had approached him. Captured his attention, and somehow taken over. She kept the conversation flowing. And Annabelle had kept the beers flowing all night. Every time he had stood to get her a drink, or had called for a round, she had somehow been there before him, pushing him down, and just managing to conjure the drinks, like Sherlock and his taxis. It unmanned him a little. (Bad John, he thought to himself. No thinking of Sherlock. You are here with this amazingly sexy and intelligent woman! Who seems to be interested in you!)
This magnificent woman (Annabelle, what a magnificent name!) was, to put it quite simply, magnificent. And amazing. She probably liked amazing.
“You’re amazing,” John said, looking straight into her eyes. Annabelle looked down into his eyes.
“Why, thank you John,” Annabelle purred. “I am enjoying the time I spend with you. I find it… stimulating.”
John’s cock jumped a little at that. At her voice, at the movement of those delicious lips... John could imagine them wrapped around his cock, he would beg for it happily. He frowned and subtly rubbed his cock. Sure, it was a little hard. But just a little. If Sherlock had said the same thing, he imagined he would be completely hard. Ah, enough with the Sherlock. Maybe it was the alcohol. But… surely he hadn't drunk so much that just when the possibility of incredible sex (any sex his mind reminded him. (Any sex is better than what you've had in the last year).
Annabelle was speaking again. “… and of course that is the wrong decision. But what do you think, John?”
John blinked owlishly. He hadn't heard, being too busy having a conversation with himself, regarding his lack of a sex life. Huh! He didn't even need Sherlock to remind him of his barren wasteland. But it would keep being barren unless he could somehow show he had been listening… Ah! John was hit by a wave of sheer genius. “I never had much of an opinion Sherl-Annabelle! Magnificent Annabelle! But your argument was very persuasive.”
He smiled sunnily at Annabelle. Then attempted to change it to sexy. It mustn't have worked, because Annabelle looked vaguely concerned.
“So tell me more about what you do, John.”
Yes! Here was a question he could answer. “I write a blog,” he said, somewhat bashfully. “I write about my flatmate, and the crimes he solves. He is reasonably well known, so the blog is quite popular.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” Annabelle stated. “You write in an engaging manner, for everyday people.”
John frowned slightly. “Have you read my blog? That sounds like something Sherlock would say.” He laughed. “Why do you write it like this, John? It is obvious( from the clues what happened. Why do people need to know about what you were wearing(.” John remembered the conversation. It was a time he had been stabbed (again) but his woolliest jumper had saved him from a more serious injury. Perhaps John sharing his wardrobe with the world had saved tens – no! hundreds!! – of people from being fatally stabbed.
But Sherlock hadn't seen the point of even mentioned he had been almost hurt. Because he hadn't been. But then again, it was John who had the popular blog.
“That is a charming story, John. Now, at some point in the near future I would like to engage in sexual conduct.”
John spat his beer across the table. Coughing a little he reached for a napkin, mopping the front of his jumper, then the table. “Ahh.. right.”
That was not sexy. Not even in the slightest. Right?
Annabelle looked him for a moment. She was giving a distinct feeling of nonplussed. “With you John,” she helpfully filled in. “I wish to have sexual relations with you. How much have you had to drink? Surely my intent was clear.” She sighed.
And somehow that sounded like the annoyed sigh of someone else he knew, someone who was also high handed… but no. He was drunk. He wasn't going to imagine that it was Sherlock he would soon be fucking. It was the magnificent Annabelle. The tall, and sexy woman who had sashayed (and Sherlock would never sashay) over and had his full attention from the moment she had opened her plush, red lips and spoken in that deep and smoky voice.
He should just trust in the pulling power of his second best jumper.
After procuring a cab (was he the only person in the city unable to hail a cab?) they ended up in John’s room. Did I even give my address? he foggily wondered. He must have, after all, here they were at 221b Backer Street. Luckily, Sherlock wasn't home. At least, he hadn't been on the couch, which is where he would have been if he had still been here. John vaguely wondered where he was. Sherlock would probably like Annabelle.
Annabelle was a take charge kind of woman. She had helped him to his feet (and god help him if she wasn’t as tall as Sherlock. John’s head fit under her chin! But that was fine. John Watson was man enough for a woman like Annabelle!), and ushered him out of the building. He had attempted to put an arm around her waist and pull her close (and she was remarkable slender. With not much in hip department. Or waist. Or bust either now that he thought about it. But she carried it well. Annabelle was definitely a woman. An amazingly womanly woman). While shifting his arm, trying to find the most comfortable position on her she had sighed, slid her arm in front of his and pulled him in close. He almost said something at that point. Something like “A gentleman always escorts a lady”. Or maybe he had said something, because Annabelle had responded with “This is much more comfortable for both of us.” (But it isn't’t really John had told her. Well, not her. Himself. Inside his head. She would probably just disagree. It is much nicer for the man to escort the woman, rather than the other way round. And I am the man. Plus he wanted to hold her. It didn't feel quite the same when he was on the one being cuddled.)
John had slowly followed Annabelle up to his room. (And while that didn't seem quite right, he was willing to let it pass.)
Thoughts of what was to come flickered across his mind. Softly kissing those gorgeous lips. Running his hands down her shoulders, skimming over the (very slight) curve of her breasts. Maybe venturing southward to cup her delectable arse. That thought had come and gone numerous times throughout the evening. Pulling her to him, biting her lower lip until with a moan she opened for him… oh yes. That had been a particularly pleasant idea.
But not once had John imagined being held down on the bed with Annabelle pretty much doing what she pleased.
“Ummm. Annabelle?” He asked. She didn't give much response.
Just moved in to softly kissing him. Then started running his hands over his shoulders, skimming over his (very manly) chest. Stopping to tweak his nipples. (A manly squeak was forced out of him at that). Her strong hands moved southwards, pausing at his hips before flipping him quickly onto his stomach.
This is fine, John told himself. Not what he planned, but then again, he didn't usually date such… forceful women. For some reason John had always dated quiet, kind types, who he seems to forget whenever he Sherlock calls. He couldn't imagine Annabelle putting up with that. Oh god! I’m in bed and thinking of Sherlock. This was a bit not good! But what if Sherlock was here? Would Sherlock be on top? Probably not. Because out of the two of them, John was definitely the man.
While John was daydreaming about topping Sherlock, Annabelle pressed herself against him. And Annabelle seemed to be filling out her knickers better than any other part of her wardrobe.
“Ummm… Annabelle?” John’s voice came out in an embarrassing squeak.
Annabelle stopped to look at him. “You aren't going to say something boring like ‘Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me’, are you John. Because that would be most disappointing.”
John answered honestly. “Nope. I wasn't. I am pretty sure I have nothing else after that.” Then he shifted against the hard… thing? What could he could it? Women didn't have… bits. Bits that stuck out. Like male bits. No. He was a doctor, and women generally didn't have male bits.
“Of course they don’t John.”
“Did I think that, or say that?” John demanded.
“You said it John, but it is also clear what you are thinking. The thing I find both disappointing and intriguing is the way you have been comparing me to myself all night and still have not figured anything out. And despite very clear evidence, namely my cock in your ass…”
“IT ISN'T IN SHERLOCK. THERE ARE CLOTHES PRESENT.”
“Ah! There we go John, was that so hard?”
John paused. “Sherlock?” And if that embarrassing voice squeak wasn't back…
Sherlock didn't deign to answer, just settling himself more comfortably.
“So. Shall we continue?”
“What Sherlock? No! No of course we shan't bloody well continue. I need time to deal with this.”
“Deal with what John? The fact that you want to have sex with me? Because you aren't gay? You are quite obviously attracted to men, John. Need I remind you that you have been thinking of me all night? Even while you had, in your own words, a magnificent women in front of you.”
“Surely I can be forgiven that,” John countered weakly. “Of course she – er you – reminded me of you all night.
“Very well John. I understand that you are surprised. But if you have just observed then we could be engage in …”
“Sherlock. Do not day another bloody word. We are going to go downstairs. We are going to have a cup of tea. And we will never talk of this again.”
Sherlock leaned back enough to let John roll of the bed. But his words stopped him.
“Of course we are going to discuss it John. You are obviously attracted to me, and I don’t want to dress up as Annabelle every time I want to have sex with you.”
Fandom: Sherlock
Kinks: cross dressing, bottom john
Summary: John has a night our, and meets an impossibly sexy woman who reminds him of Sherlock. Although John will do his best to put that out of his mind
notes: complete at this stage
“Where are you going, John?”
Sherlock’s voice came from the shadows. John huffed in exasperation. “I told you not half an hour ago! I am going to the pub.”
Sherlock looked at him for a moment. “Another attempt to allow some action in the barren wasteland that is your sex life.”
John rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Sherlock. I am just going to the pub for a beer. I like the pub. And I like beer. And what do you mean ‘a barren wasteland’?”
Sherlock sneered. “Please, John. Must you forever underestimate my powers of observation. You are wearing your second best jumper – you wear that one when you are not sure of the outcome of the evening, saving the best for when you are sadly mistaken that you will ‘score’.”
John winced at the sound of ‘score’ coming out of Sherlock’s mouth. The question though, was what would sound better. ‘Engage in sexual conduct’? John snickered to himself. Much more Sherlock, and so incredibly non sexy.
“I do understand that you have a short attention span John, but if you ask a question you should at least have the manners to listen to the answer.”
“Manners?” exploded John. “Manners? Given you are the rudest git I have ever…” John trailed off. “Forget it. Sorry Sherlock. Please, continue to fascinate me with stories of my lackluster love life.”
“It isn't lackluster John. It’s nonexistent. I calculate that you haven’t had a date in 3 months, and haven’t engaged in sexual conduct” (Aha! John thought to himself) “in at least 8 months.” Sherlock pinned him with a look. “Although, I would think it is closer to 12 months. The ‘best’ jumper has not made an appearance since New Year’s Eve, and it did not appear to herald any significant change to your…”
“OK, Sherlock. OK. Thanks for that.” John looked at as his flat mate with his standard expression: something caught somewhere between affection and exasperation. “It must be a boring evening if you have lowered yourself to comment on my sex life.” John held up a hand to ward off the interruption. “Or lack thereof. Anyway, wish me luck then, and I will be back. Well, hopefully not for a while.”
John happily bumbled his way out of the 221b Baker Street. He was unable to hail a taxi, but continued on with undaunted good spirits. He had a feeling tonight was going to be good night.
Sherlock’s grey eyes followed John. Sherlock too, had a feeling tonight was going to be a good night.
John sat at a table looking at the people around him. Although it could be far more interesting (and embarrassing) with Sherlock (‘Look John, those two couples over. It is boring watching them try to pretend that they are not all having affairs’), he enjoyed the time alone. He could sit and just watch the world. Listening to the ebb and flow of conversation, observe the allure of a shapely behind, feel the cold beer on his throat. And he had the time just to let his mind cant along at its own lazy pace. Not that he was not smart, he huffed into his beer. In his own way, John Watson was a clever man. And loyal. With excellent taste in jumpers.
John snickered into his beer. He must be drunk. He didn’t normally think of himself in the third person. Or about his jumpers that much. Although sometimes… sometimes he thought there might have been a hint of interest in Sherlock’s eye as he observed John in a particularly fetching jumper. John sighed. ((Already?( he thought. (I must be out of practice if I am already in the melancholy stage. Must remember to meet up with Greg more regularly.()
Pulling himself together, he reminded himself he was a wearing his second best jumper. (Oh god. How sad. It really is my second best jumper) and that women didn't like a man who moped.
“What a wonderful jumper you‘re wearing” a deep, throaty voice murmured beside him. “It brings out the blue of your eyes.”
John looked up. And kept looking up. The woman standing in front of him was rather tall (as tall as Sherlock, he would hazard a guess), with stunning grey eyes. John blinked and took more of her in. Unruly black curls hit her shoulder blades. Her lean form was encased in a purple silk shirt teamed with a black skirt that, should she turn around, John was sure would highlight a shapely behind.
John blinked again. This woman was like Sherlock but in female form. Surely he couldn't be that lucky?
A couple of beers later, John decided that yes, yes he could be that lucky.
He didn't quite understand how it had happened, but this sexy and intelligent and magnificent and amazing woman had approached him. Captured his attention, and somehow taken over. She kept the conversation flowing. And Annabelle had kept the beers flowing all night. Every time he had stood to get her a drink, or had called for a round, she had somehow been there before him, pushing him down, and just managing to conjure the drinks, like Sherlock and his taxis. It unmanned him a little. (Bad John, he thought to himself. No thinking of Sherlock. You are here with this amazingly sexy and intelligent woman! Who seems to be interested in you!)
This magnificent woman (Annabelle, what a magnificent name!) was, to put it quite simply, magnificent. And amazing. She probably liked amazing.
“You’re amazing,” John said, looking straight into her eyes. Annabelle looked down into his eyes.
“Why, thank you John,” Annabelle purred. “I am enjoying the time I spend with you. I find it… stimulating.”
John’s cock jumped a little at that. At her voice, at the movement of those delicious lips... John could imagine them wrapped around his cock, he would beg for it happily. He frowned and subtly rubbed his cock. Sure, it was a little hard. But just a little. If Sherlock had said the same thing, he imagined he would be completely hard. Ah, enough with the Sherlock. Maybe it was the alcohol. But… surely he hadn't drunk so much that just when the possibility of incredible sex (any sex his mind reminded him. (Any sex is better than what you've had in the last year).
Annabelle was speaking again. “… and of course that is the wrong decision. But what do you think, John?”
John blinked owlishly. He hadn't heard, being too busy having a conversation with himself, regarding his lack of a sex life. Huh! He didn't even need Sherlock to remind him of his barren wasteland. But it would keep being barren unless he could somehow show he had been listening… Ah! John was hit by a wave of sheer genius. “I never had much of an opinion Sherl-Annabelle! Magnificent Annabelle! But your argument was very persuasive.”
He smiled sunnily at Annabelle. Then attempted to change it to sexy. It mustn't have worked, because Annabelle looked vaguely concerned.
“So tell me more about what you do, John.”
Yes! Here was a question he could answer. “I write a blog,” he said, somewhat bashfully. “I write about my flatmate, and the crimes he solves. He is reasonably well known, so the blog is quite popular.”
“You’re selling yourself short,” Annabelle stated. “You write in an engaging manner, for everyday people.”
John frowned slightly. “Have you read my blog? That sounds like something Sherlock would say.” He laughed. “Why do you write it like this, John? It is obvious( from the clues what happened. Why do people need to know about what you were wearing(.” John remembered the conversation. It was a time he had been stabbed (again) but his woolliest jumper had saved him from a more serious injury. Perhaps John sharing his wardrobe with the world had saved tens – no! hundreds!! – of people from being fatally stabbed.
But Sherlock hadn't seen the point of even mentioned he had been almost hurt. Because he hadn't been. But then again, it was John who had the popular blog.
“That is a charming story, John. Now, at some point in the near future I would like to engage in sexual conduct.”
John spat his beer across the table. Coughing a little he reached for a napkin, mopping the front of his jumper, then the table. “Ahh.. right.”
That was not sexy. Not even in the slightest. Right?
Annabelle looked him for a moment. She was giving a distinct feeling of nonplussed. “With you John,” she helpfully filled in. “I wish to have sexual relations with you. How much have you had to drink? Surely my intent was clear.” She sighed.
And somehow that sounded like the annoyed sigh of someone else he knew, someone who was also high handed… but no. He was drunk. He wasn't going to imagine that it was Sherlock he would soon be fucking. It was the magnificent Annabelle. The tall, and sexy woman who had sashayed (and Sherlock would never sashay) over and had his full attention from the moment she had opened her plush, red lips and spoken in that deep and smoky voice.
He should just trust in the pulling power of his second best jumper.
After procuring a cab (was he the only person in the city unable to hail a cab?) they ended up in John’s room. Did I even give my address? he foggily wondered. He must have, after all, here they were at 221b Backer Street. Luckily, Sherlock wasn't home. At least, he hadn't been on the couch, which is where he would have been if he had still been here. John vaguely wondered where he was. Sherlock would probably like Annabelle.
Annabelle was a take charge kind of woman. She had helped him to his feet (and god help him if she wasn’t as tall as Sherlock. John’s head fit under her chin! But that was fine. John Watson was man enough for a woman like Annabelle!), and ushered him out of the building. He had attempted to put an arm around her waist and pull her close (and she was remarkable slender. With not much in hip department. Or waist. Or bust either now that he thought about it. But she carried it well. Annabelle was definitely a woman. An amazingly womanly woman). While shifting his arm, trying to find the most comfortable position on her she had sighed, slid her arm in front of his and pulled him in close. He almost said something at that point. Something like “A gentleman always escorts a lady”. Or maybe he had said something, because Annabelle had responded with “This is much more comfortable for both of us.” (But it isn't’t really John had told her. Well, not her. Himself. Inside his head. She would probably just disagree. It is much nicer for the man to escort the woman, rather than the other way round. And I am the man. Plus he wanted to hold her. It didn't feel quite the same when he was on the one being cuddled.)
John had slowly followed Annabelle up to his room. (And while that didn't seem quite right, he was willing to let it pass.)
Thoughts of what was to come flickered across his mind. Softly kissing those gorgeous lips. Running his hands down her shoulders, skimming over the (very slight) curve of her breasts. Maybe venturing southward to cup her delectable arse. That thought had come and gone numerous times throughout the evening. Pulling her to him, biting her lower lip until with a moan she opened for him… oh yes. That had been a particularly pleasant idea.
But not once had John imagined being held down on the bed with Annabelle pretty much doing what she pleased.
“Ummm. Annabelle?” He asked. She didn't give much response.
Just moved in to softly kissing him. Then started running his hands over his shoulders, skimming over his (very manly) chest. Stopping to tweak his nipples. (A manly squeak was forced out of him at that). Her strong hands moved southwards, pausing at his hips before flipping him quickly onto his stomach.
This is fine, John told himself. Not what he planned, but then again, he didn't usually date such… forceful women. For some reason John had always dated quiet, kind types, who he seems to forget whenever he Sherlock calls. He couldn't imagine Annabelle putting up with that. Oh god! I’m in bed and thinking of Sherlock. This was a bit not good! But what if Sherlock was here? Would Sherlock be on top? Probably not. Because out of the two of them, John was definitely the man.
While John was daydreaming about topping Sherlock, Annabelle pressed herself against him. And Annabelle seemed to be filling out her knickers better than any other part of her wardrobe.
“Ummm… Annabelle?” John’s voice came out in an embarrassing squeak.
Annabelle stopped to look at him. “You aren't going to say something boring like ‘Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me’, are you John. Because that would be most disappointing.”
John answered honestly. “Nope. I wasn't. I am pretty sure I have nothing else after that.” Then he shifted against the hard… thing? What could he could it? Women didn't have… bits. Bits that stuck out. Like male bits. No. He was a doctor, and women generally didn't have male bits.
“Of course they don’t John.”
“Did I think that, or say that?” John demanded.
“You said it John, but it is also clear what you are thinking. The thing I find both disappointing and intriguing is the way you have been comparing me to myself all night and still have not figured anything out. And despite very clear evidence, namely my cock in your ass…”
“IT ISN'T IN SHERLOCK. THERE ARE CLOTHES PRESENT.”
“Ah! There we go John, was that so hard?”
John paused. “Sherlock?” And if that embarrassing voice squeak wasn't back…
Sherlock didn't deign to answer, just settling himself more comfortably.
“So. Shall we continue?”
“What Sherlock? No! No of course we shan't bloody well continue. I need time to deal with this.”
“Deal with what John? The fact that you want to have sex with me? Because you aren't gay? You are quite obviously attracted to men, John. Need I remind you that you have been thinking of me all night? Even while you had, in your own words, a magnificent women in front of you.”
“Surely I can be forgiven that,” John countered weakly. “Of course she – er you – reminded me of you all night.
“Very well John. I understand that you are surprised. But if you have just observed then we could be engage in …”
“Sherlock. Do not day another bloody word. We are going to go downstairs. We are going to have a cup of tea. And we will never talk of this again.”
Sherlock leaned back enough to let John roll of the bed. But his words stopped him.
“Of course we are going to discuss it John. You are obviously attracted to me, and I don’t want to dress up as Annabelle every time I want to have sex with you.”
