Richard Book is Innocent (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oxfordtweed) wrote2011-01-15 01:56 am
oxfordtweed) wrote2011-01-15 01:56 am
Too Stupid for my Fic Journal
There was a post on FFRants about cut and paste plagiarism, and this idea struck me. So, I found a Fuzz fic I wrote that had some very disticnt images of Sandford, and ran a find/replace script on it to make a Sherlock fic.
Be warned. Here be very OOC porn.
The main problem with London was that it was a small village, and it didn’t take Sherlock long at all to come to the conclusion that he was going to be stuck in an enforced celibate hell. The women all either hated him for locking up family members, or were insane, and far as he could tell, London had no gay community. Many of the villagers were of the old-fashioned variety; homophobic, xenophobic, and until recently, believed firmly in corporate punishment. And right now, Sherlock represented everything the very core of London stood against. Hell, he didn’t even go to church. Heathen.
There were times when he considered ringing up Sebastian, he was so desperate, and asking if he might be welcome for a weekend hurrah in the city. Of course, he’d falter at the last moment, occasionally finding himself at the pub, instead, tucked away in the corner with a glass of over-priced red in front of him.
Tonight, he had managed to gather the courage to beg Sebastian to let him stay the weekend, and got voice mail instead. For a moment, he even entertained the idea of venturing out to Buford Abbey, maybe finding a liberal club of sorts, and getting everything out of his system, but the idea of a one-night-stand was less than glamorous, no matter how you tried to spin it.
He’d drank half of the bottle of Shiraz by the time John found him, letting himself fall easily into the seat across from Sherlock.
“Well, at least it ain’t cranberry juice,” John said as he looked at the label. “Why’s it got a kangaroo on it?”
Sherlock smiled in amazement. “Because it’s from Australia,” he answered as he took the bottle from John, topping off his glass.
“But... I thought wine comes from grapes?”
Sherlock laughed, before looking away from John, his eyes focused on some of the trappings hung above the bar.
He was surprised to find himself talked into John’s flat again. Warm and happy, he settled into the sofa as John shuffled around his DVD collection, eventually settling on Patriot Games, sliding it into the player. Sherlock meant to ask what the DVD was supposed to be about, but found himself distracted instead by the curve of John’s thigh underneath his jeans.
“You alright, Sherlock?” John asked suddenly.
Sherlock snapped to attention. “What?” he asked dumbly. “Yeah.”
John shook his head lightly as he settled on the sofa, queuing up the movie. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep, and we haven’t even started the film yet,” he pointed out.
“Right,” Sherlock said nervously. “Sorry.”
Any other man would have complained, and Sherlock knew he probably should have, when John leaned heavily against Sherlock’s side, breathing easily as the opening credits faded in and out. Sherlock shifted slightly under John’s weight, eventually managing to twist himself around onto his back, leaning against the arm of the sofa. Eventually, they both got themselves comfortable, and watched as IRA terrorists tried to assassinate some of the Royal Family.
Finishing off his drink, John put it on the table and innocently rested his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. Again, Sherlock knew he should protest, but didn’t. He felt a light stirring in his crotch, and apparently John had felt it too, pulling his had away sharply. “Sorry, Sherlock,” he said.
Sherlock looked up at John quickly. “What?” he asked.
“Oh.” John returned his attention back to the telly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Sherlock shook his head. “Wasn’t asleep,” he said quietly.
“Oh.”
Before Sherlock had a chance to respond, John had moved on top of him, his hand back on Sherlock’s thigh, but with intent. For a brief moment, Sherlock looked at his partner, startled, before grabbing hold of his shirt collar and bringing John into a kiss, desperately exploring the other man’s mouth. John let his hand move from Sherlock’s thigh to his belt, clumsily unfastening it.
“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, breaking away to see what the hell he was doing with Sherlock’s belt.
“I thought...”
“You think too damn much,” John said. He pulled Sherlock’s belt from his trousers, dropping it to the floor, and immediately set work on his zip.
Sherlock wiggled out of his trousers, watching as John tossed them to the ground as well. “Right here?” he asked.
John shrugged. “Yeah?” He didn’t sound very certain, but seemed to like the idea anyway. He slid his hand under Sherlock’s underwear, stroking his fingers up the already hard shaft before taking off his shorts all together. He repositioned himself before going down on Sherlock, pulling back foreskin and taking the tip in his mouth, before slowly working down the shaft.
“Ohjesuswasn’texpectingthat!” Sherlock let his head roll back over the arm rest, his eyes closed tightly in an effort to keep them from going crossed completely.
His left hand gently stroking what he couldn’t fit in his mouth, John moved his right hand down Sherlock’s stomach, his fingers trailing down behind his bollocks, rubbing the area with firm strokes. Sherlock arched into John’s mouth, making an effort to try not to choke the poor man. What was left of any cognitive thought was wiped clean when John’s hand moved further down, sliding a finger into his opening. He didn’t work with any particular rhythm, flicking his tongue against the glans as he took Sherlock even deeper. Sherlock forgot all about playing nice, and began bucking, pushing himself deeper into John’s mouth.
His hands struggled for a place to rest, as he felt himself being pushed over the edge, gripping madly for anything his fingers could find. He felt a knot build up in his stomach, and just as quickly as it came, it was gone with explosive release. He could feel his own heat filling John’s mouth as he collapsed back into the sofa, his chest heaving. Taking a few moments to situate himself, John sat back up, reaching for a towel in a nearby stack of washing.
“You ain’t alone, you know that?” he asked, as he wiped his face.
Sherlock only nodded.
“You just gotta say something.” He chucked the towel toward the kitchen, before fetching up Sherlock and wrestled the man over his shoulder, standing awkwardly.
“John!” Sherlock cried out nervously.
“You think I’m done with you?” John asked, kicking Sherlock’s discarded trousers out of his way as he made tracks for the bedroom.
Be warned. Here be very OOC porn.
The main problem with London was that it was a small village, and it didn’t take Sherlock long at all to come to the conclusion that he was going to be stuck in an enforced celibate hell. The women all either hated him for locking up family members, or were insane, and far as he could tell, London had no gay community. Many of the villagers were of the old-fashioned variety; homophobic, xenophobic, and until recently, believed firmly in corporate punishment. And right now, Sherlock represented everything the very core of London stood against. Hell, he didn’t even go to church. Heathen.
There were times when he considered ringing up Sebastian, he was so desperate, and asking if he might be welcome for a weekend hurrah in the city. Of course, he’d falter at the last moment, occasionally finding himself at the pub, instead, tucked away in the corner with a glass of over-priced red in front of him.
Tonight, he had managed to gather the courage to beg Sebastian to let him stay the weekend, and got voice mail instead. For a moment, he even entertained the idea of venturing out to Buford Abbey, maybe finding a liberal club of sorts, and getting everything out of his system, but the idea of a one-night-stand was less than glamorous, no matter how you tried to spin it.
He’d drank half of the bottle of Shiraz by the time John found him, letting himself fall easily into the seat across from Sherlock.
“Well, at least it ain’t cranberry juice,” John said as he looked at the label. “Why’s it got a kangaroo on it?”
Sherlock smiled in amazement. “Because it’s from Australia,” he answered as he took the bottle from John, topping off his glass.
“But... I thought wine comes from grapes?”
Sherlock laughed, before looking away from John, his eyes focused on some of the trappings hung above the bar.
He was surprised to find himself talked into John’s flat again. Warm and happy, he settled into the sofa as John shuffled around his DVD collection, eventually settling on Patriot Games, sliding it into the player. Sherlock meant to ask what the DVD was supposed to be about, but found himself distracted instead by the curve of John’s thigh underneath his jeans.
“You alright, Sherlock?” John asked suddenly.
Sherlock snapped to attention. “What?” he asked dumbly. “Yeah.”
John shook his head lightly as he settled on the sofa, queuing up the movie. “You look like you’re about to fall asleep, and we haven’t even started the film yet,” he pointed out.
“Right,” Sherlock said nervously. “Sorry.”
Any other man would have complained, and Sherlock knew he probably should have, when John leaned heavily against Sherlock’s side, breathing easily as the opening credits faded in and out. Sherlock shifted slightly under John’s weight, eventually managing to twist himself around onto his back, leaning against the arm of the sofa. Eventually, they both got themselves comfortable, and watched as IRA terrorists tried to assassinate some of the Royal Family.
Finishing off his drink, John put it on the table and innocently rested his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. Again, Sherlock knew he should protest, but didn’t. He felt a light stirring in his crotch, and apparently John had felt it too, pulling his had away sharply. “Sorry, Sherlock,” he said.
Sherlock looked up at John quickly. “What?” he asked.
“Oh.” John returned his attention back to the telly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Sherlock shook his head. “Wasn’t asleep,” he said quietly.
“Oh.”
Before Sherlock had a chance to respond, John had moved on top of him, his hand back on Sherlock’s thigh, but with intent. For a brief moment, Sherlock looked at his partner, startled, before grabbing hold of his shirt collar and bringing John into a kiss, desperately exploring the other man’s mouth. John let his hand move from Sherlock’s thigh to his belt, clumsily unfastening it.
“Why didn’t you just say something?” he asked, breaking away to see what the hell he was doing with Sherlock’s belt.
“I thought...”
“You think too damn much,” John said. He pulled Sherlock’s belt from his trousers, dropping it to the floor, and immediately set work on his zip.
Sherlock wiggled out of his trousers, watching as John tossed them to the ground as well. “Right here?” he asked.
John shrugged. “Yeah?” He didn’t sound very certain, but seemed to like the idea anyway. He slid his hand under Sherlock’s underwear, stroking his fingers up the already hard shaft before taking off his shorts all together. He repositioned himself before going down on Sherlock, pulling back foreskin and taking the tip in his mouth, before slowly working down the shaft.
“Ohjesuswasn’texpectingthat!” Sherlock let his head roll back over the arm rest, his eyes closed tightly in an effort to keep them from going crossed completely.
His left hand gently stroking what he couldn’t fit in his mouth, John moved his right hand down Sherlock’s stomach, his fingers trailing down behind his bollocks, rubbing the area with firm strokes. Sherlock arched into John’s mouth, making an effort to try not to choke the poor man. What was left of any cognitive thought was wiped clean when John’s hand moved further down, sliding a finger into his opening. He didn’t work with any particular rhythm, flicking his tongue against the glans as he took Sherlock even deeper. Sherlock forgot all about playing nice, and began bucking, pushing himself deeper into John’s mouth.
His hands struggled for a place to rest, as he felt himself being pushed over the edge, gripping madly for anything his fingers could find. He felt a knot build up in his stomach, and just as quickly as it came, it was gone with explosive release. He could feel his own heat filling John’s mouth as he collapsed back into the sofa, his chest heaving. Taking a few moments to situate himself, John sat back up, reaching for a towel in a nearby stack of washing.
“You ain’t alone, you know that?” he asked, as he wiped his face.
Sherlock only nodded.
“You just gotta say something.” He chucked the towel toward the kitchen, before fetching up Sherlock and wrestled the man over his shoulder, standing awkwardly.
“John!” Sherlock cried out nervously.
“You think I’m done with you?” John asked, kicking Sherlock’s discarded trousers out of his way as he made tracks for the bedroom.