“misfire”
Nsfw. Sigerson continuity. For Alix.
—
John.
It slips out of Sherlock’s lips in a way that can only be accidental, with his head thrown back, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his eyes squeezed shut. It’s a pant, a groan, and it hangs in the air for a little while before evaporating entirely. John.
Granted, Irene’s been expecting something like this to happen. She knows, in the same way she always knows, that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had had sex at least once, and she hypothesized before she even brought imitation phalluses into the equation that the good doctor would enter Sherlock’s mind during intercourse. It’s probably happened prior to tonight. She has no way of proving it, but she suspects that the way Sherlock’s grip on her hips changes sometimes while she’s riding him might be an indicator.
But this is the first time he’s said the name aloud, and it chafes against Irene’s skin likes sandpaper. She doesn’t know why hearing it bothers her; after all, she knew he would be thinking of John Watson. It’s painfully obvious that Sherlock was enamored with him and, going by their email exchanges, still is. Old news.
She doesn’t know why it’s happened tonight, either. This is not the first time she’s been inside of him. Her strap-on’s seen a fair amount of use since he began staying with her—more than it has in a while, anyway. (Your loss, Joan Watson and certain other parties who will remain nameless.) Perhaps it’s merely that she couldn’t confuse herself with John Watson. She’s no more masculine for wearing a dildo like this, not when she’s also wearing thigh-high stockings and a silken, front-slit babydoll. She’s powerful, yes, but that has more to do with the view from up here—watching the muscles in Sherlock Holmes’ back flex and stretch with each movement of her hips—than anything else. The sensation is not unpleasant, either, of pressing into him, of his resistance, his inevitable acceptance of her intrusion into his body, which trembles down silicone and back against her.
But any arousal that had been building within her vanishes at the mention of the name, and she thinks it’s just because she’s not John Watson, and the strange irritation that if Sherlock wanted to roleplay, he should have said so. But she presses on, finishes him off with the rhythm of her hips, and her hand—perhaps a bit more quickly than he would have liked—so they can return to being human, and he will remember who she is.
“I don’t think we should do that again, darling,” Irene murmurs in his ear a little later, her clothed front pressed up against his sweaty, naked back.
Sherlock hasn’t come down from where he was just yet, but he’s on his way; he stiffens against her as if he’s been caught stealing. He clearly hadn’t realized he’d said anything at all, but he knows now.
“You weren’t bad,” Irene clarifies, stroking down his arm with her fingers—slimmer and smaller than John Watson’s. “No, you were very good. But you do understand.”
Slowly, he nods. She knew he would. He and she are nearly the same, reflections in a cracked mirror. He wants to be known, too.
“Good,” she says, and reaches over him to turn out the light.
