Entry 3 of 3 for the SoCal Sherlockian Fanfiction Challenge – AU Crossover: Inspector Gadget
The wrong place at the wrong time. It was cliché and unfortunate, but it was John Watson's life in a nutshell. He wasn't the sort to go collecting gambling debts or dealing in drugs, by any means, but somehow, in one way or another, he always managed to find himself on the tail end of a very bad day. And usually a remarkably dangerous one at that. In retrospect, he didn't quite mind all that much, reveling in his own ability to take a hit or remain calm under pressure. Whatever the situation, whatever the bad day, John was usually able to fight, talk, cheat, or scramble his way out. Not that he went looking for trouble, but when it found him, as it often did, he knew how to handle it. And if he got a little thrill out of it as well, then no one but himself had to know.
That being said, not all bad days were so easily escapable.
"He said you would have it! So where the fuck is it?"
"Honest to God, mate. I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Stop fucking with me!" The man all but growled as he shoved the nozzle of the gun that much further into the soft spot between jaw and neck. John hissed, licking his lips once before smiling in what he hoped was a believable attempt at composure.
"Look," John held up his hands. "There's just been some sort of mistake. I don't have anything for you. I don't even know the guy who sent you to me, I just-"
The fist came out of nowhere, knocking the man out with a solid crack, his gun skidding across the pavement as John straightened himself up and looked around the alleyway in shock. But the only person within any sort of punching distance was himself. The other was a man standing just at the mouth of the alley, his quick footed, noticeably graceful-though John had no idea why it was noticeable-stride bringing him up to John in seconds.
"Are you hurt?" The man asked, though he was already on the floor, examining the gunman and looking nowhere near concerned with John. So John decided not to answer, choosing to ask him a very important question instead.
"How did you punch him from all the way over there?"
Probably not so much an important question as an insane one. Though the look of amusement in the dark haired man's eyes made him wonder just how insane.
"I didn't," he smirked, getting to his feet with a swirl of his long, black coat. "I threw something at him."
It was definitely a fist, though… John wanted to say, but considering the implications, he chose instead to mumble, "Good shot." He swallowed, unable to stop staring at his strange and mysterious savior, the angular cheekbones, the storm colored eyes, the general air of… well, mystery. He realized how daft he must have looked just in time to remember he hadn't even thanked him for the saving. Before he could, however, the man held out his hand.
"Sherlock Holmes," He said, voice low and posh and deliciously rumbly. John cleared his throat and settled his hand into Sherlock's, trying not to get as distracted by the feel of him as he had the sight of him. It didn't work. Good lord, he was practically fawning.
Chalking it up to hero worship, though it was a lame attempt at best and he knew it, John shook his hand once and whispered, "John Watson. Thanks for… that."
"You're very welcome, John Watson." Sherlock's smirk seemed to tug even more prominently at the corner of his mouth. Which alerted John to the fact that he was looking much too hard at it. Or at least, he was until the gunman moaned out a curse and began to get to his feet, thwarted again by Sherlock's fist once more slamming into his face. Except Sherlock was still a good six feet away.
"How did you-?" John tried to sputter, he really did, but Sherlock was already running out of the alley. His hand and arm, however, were trailing a bit behind, snagging John at the elbow and pulling his body abruptly after him.
"Come along, John!" Sherlock called from much too far away for being led by his grip. "The man had accomplices. If we can find out-"
He'd turned the corner. Turned the bloody corner more than five feet ahead of him and his hand was still on John's elbow. What the bloody ever loving-!
Abruptly, John was not just being pulled or dragged, but yanked to catch up, a weird metal tubing between arm and hand slithering back into the normal length of Sherlock's arm like a measuring tape once they were both hidden by the alley a few streets over. John looked up to find Sherlock's attention elsewhere. How it could be on anything other than his impossible anatomy was beyond John, because it was all he could bloody well think about all of a sudden.
He could handle pretty much anything, any amount of very bad day, but this… This was something John wasn't quite sure he knew how to handle.
"Did you just-?" John tried, but Sherlock shushed him, looking down the back of the alley where John could hear some voices piping up, coming closer. Still, he tried again, albeit softer this time. "So you did punch that guy. From all the way down-"
"Listen, John." Sherlock whispered fiercely, the look in his eyes bringing John up short. "I'll explain everything in due time. But right now, I need you to be quiet."
But why am I here? Why did you drag me along? How was that possible? How are you possible? John wanted to reply, but he held his tongue, for some reason trusting the man to keep his word, whatever that word might be.
The rest of the night was spent chasing leads to a drug cartel around the major back streets of London, Sherlock pulling all manner of impossible stunts from tripping a man thirty feet in front of him to removing and leaving his ear behind in order to eavesdrop on the gang with less chance of being seen. It left John winded and confused but utterly thrilled, the rush of the chase and the adrenaline of almost being caught, twice, still thrumming in his veins when Scotland Yard finally allowed them to leave. John could see Sherlock attempting to bring up their last conversation at once, but John was far too wired, motioning towards a restaurant across the street with a stretch. "Food first, crazy tales of your ridiculous anatomy later."
It was after a beer and a half and most of his plate of ziti that John finally allowed Sherlock to explain. Though no amount of food and alcohol could have prepared him for the story.
"An experiment?" John gaped. "You let someone experiment on your… well, you?"
"Not someone," Sherlock corrected. "My brother. Or rather, a group of scientists dedicated to the subject and funded by my brother. The trials were all mostly successful, and considering the benefits it would have to my career as a Consulting Detective I was more than willing to-"
"Mostly successful?" John backtracked, astounded. "What if the experiment had failed?"
"Each surgery was conducted individually in prime operating conditions," Sherlock waved John's concern away. "The likelihood of any negative repercussions, most specifically death, was substantially reduced."
John pushed the remaining ziti around on his plate with his fork, not quite sure how to ask the questions buzzing around his head. So he settled for, "What did some of these experiments entail, then?"
Sherlock smirked, as if he could read John's mind and all the elaborate ideas that were running rampant within. "Mostly adjustments to limb elasticity and metallic framework installations."
"That's how you punched the guy in front of me from thirty feet away," John whispered, Sherlock nodding in something akin to approval.
"Then there's the other additions, certain items constantly on my person, if not hidden away in various section of my body."
"Certain items…" John prodded. "As in?"
"Mostly necessary equipment for the job. Guns, knives, handcuffs, magnifying glass, a riding crop."
John nearly spat out the last of his beer. "A riding crop? What on earth would you need that for?"
The eyebrow raise Sherlock offered had John's cheeks burning in embarrassment. Especially when he actually answered with, "For determining the amount of bruising after death." When John only stared, not quite sure how those two concepts fit together, he added, "I only use it on corpses."
John bust out laughing, the loud, crumpling in on yourself, all-encompassing laughter. So much so, that he didn't realize he'd said, "Too bad," until after it had already left his mouth. Which caused him to choke on his own spit as he attempted to back pedal. "So, you have super stretchy, metal infused arms and legs, items hidden about your person-"
"Inside my person, if we're being technical," Sherlock smirked. John pretended he hadn't heard that.
"-and a detachable ear…" John blushed further, clearing his throat before asking, "Anything else detachable? Or attachable for that matter, if that's what you're into, I guess."
"Into?" Sherlock grinned, all but laughing in amusement. John blanched.
"I don't mean… I meant, for your job! If there's, maybe, a gun you can attach to your chest or-or something, I don't know how this all works! It's all new to me, mate…" John trailed off with a nervous chuckle, running a finger around the rim of his glass and licking his lips absently.
"Not detachable, exactly," Sherlock leaned across the table, resting his chin on his hands. "But let's just say, I do possess an exceptional control over my body."
John felt like the floor had dipped beneath him, this man, probably the most good looking man he'd ever met, this very not quite the most human of men, in all respects, was definitely offering him an invitation here. And John knew when to not look a gift horse in the mouth.
John raised his hand to get a waiter's attention, motioning for him to bring the cheque. "Your place or mine?"
In the end, they'd chosen Sherlock's flat, mostly because it was closer, but also because John was curious.
It wasn't exactly what he'd expected, but it was homey, comforting, and it suited the man in strange ways. John took of his jacket and hung it on the coatrack by the door, sitting himself down in a chair with a union jack pillow while he waited for Sherlock to make some sort of move. Whatever move that might be.
In all honestly, John wasn't even quite sure what he was doing, following a strange man-a very, very strange not-quite-man-to his flat with the very obvious intentions of having sex with him, mostly because he was the most attractive creature John had ever seen, and also because the words 'exceptional control of his body' had practically made John's toes curl at the implications. And if there was something slightly wrong about that, John was doing his best not to notice.
"You have surprised me twice tonight, John Watson," Sherlock said, his voice that same low rumble John had heard earlier, in the alleyway.
"How so?" John heard himself ask, watching as Sherlock took off his coat and walked into the kitchen.
"You let me drag you along on a case," he called from out of sight, words accompanied by the clinking of mugs and the sound of water filling a kettle. "And you let me take you home."
"That's surprising?" John asked, though he was pretty certain he understood why.
"Most people react a bit differently when they learn about who I am, what I can do." Sherlock replied.
"How do they react?"
"Probably more along the lines of running for their lives, not so much your level of… intrigue."
"No offense, but you're hardly frightening," John scoffed.
Sherlock returned, two cups of tea in hand, made rather quickly from John's experience. He decided not to ask how he'd heated the water or where he'd gotten the tea. All in due time. "Some would disagree," Sherlock smiled, handing John a cup. John sipped at it slowly. It was perfect.
"I have to admit," John said eventually. "I don't normally do this. In fact, I've never done this."
"Sex with robotically and genetically enhanced human beings?" Sherlock said, deadpan. John groaned.
"Sex with strangers." John corrected. "But yeah, I guess that too."
"Well then," Sherlock put down his tea and got to his feet, holding out a hand for John to follow. "There's a first time for everything."
Sherlock looked surprisingly human with his clothes off, no robot limbs or strange compartments outside his skin, but that just made it seem all the more surreal, if that were possible. John had stripped first, Sherlock paying very close attention to each bit of skin John revealed, which was much, much too nice. And then John had asked Sherlock to join him, got up on the bed and gave him a look that was as seductive as he knew how to be, and Sherlock hesitated.
"It's okay," John had said knowingly. "You won't scare me off." And Sherlock had been stunned, truly and adorably stunned, blushing furiously before the man's natural grin-or what John assumed was natural, considering how well it fit him-wormed its way back onto his face. The remainder of the clothes had found themselves forgotten in corners and over furniture mere seconds later.
Sherlock crawled towards John from the foot of the bed, working his way up John's left leg, stopping to run his teeth along his inner thigh and John felt it through his whole body. "This is a particularly sensitive area for you," Sherlock spoke against that same spot, the vibrations of his voice tickling at the overly sensitive skin.
"How do you know?" John asked in a trembling whisper. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes flickering in a way that looked almost like… computer code.
"I can read your vitals, scan your reactions, pinpoint the exact locations of your most sensitive areas based on an individualized readout." John didn't know how he was making the technological jargon sound sexy, but John was lost to the sound of his voice. "Like this one," Sherlock kissed at the spot above John's right hipbone. "And this one," he licked a strip along John's collarbone. "And here," Sherlock pressed his lips to John's softly, parting them and letting his tongue dart inside for too short a moment. "You particularly enjoy being kissed. I'll make a note of it."
John was all but reduced to jelly, and yet, he still managed to form the words, "Anywhere else?" at which Sherlock only chuckled.
"All in due time, John."
A soft hiss and a light click grabbed John's attention then, Sherlock reaching behind himself to the nape of his neck and retrieved, seemingly from nowhere, a red strip of fabric which Sherlock proceeded to use to tie John's wrists together over his head. It felt like silk.
"Where did that-?" John tried, but Sherlock just shook his head and bent down to offer John another quick kiss.
"Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to," Sherlock winked, reaching to his hip and pushing on the skin there. John watched, wide eyed, as a small compartment door opened in his skin, a pair of handcuffs inside. Sherlock attached one cuff to the headboard and the other to the section of silk between John's wrist, leaving him tethered but comfortable, then closed the compartment back into his hip. "Still not running away?"
"Not yet," John replied breathily, arching into Sherlock's touch as he worked those delicious, cupid bow lips down his neck to his collarbone and lower, lower, lower, settling below his navel.
"Good," he sighed, dipping his tongue into the indent there before licking a line from John's hip to the base of his cock. John twitched at the almost contact, painfully hard already, and when Sherlock took him into his mouth, John had to force himself not to buck up frantically into the perfect wetness and heat.
Sherlock was a wonder with his tongue, managing to swirl delicate patterns with tantalizing pressure against the underside of his shaft while still hallowing his cheeks in hard sucks as he bobbed his head. And when he took John all the way into the back of his throat, swallowing around him, John swore he saw starts. Which is why it took him a second to feel the invasion of a lube slick finger pressing carefully into his ass, not even having to search before rubbing delicate circles around his prostate. John did buck then, arching his back involuntarily and pushing his cock even further into Sherlock's throat where he simply continued to swallow as though he no longer needed to breathe. Which maybe he didn't.
Sherlock added a second finger, barely thrusting, in and out and against his prostate in overwhelming brilliant ways, before adding a third. John was writhing under him at this point, cock still buried deep in Sherlock's throat, occasionally sliding along the length of it back up to his mouth and tongue and gentle scrape of teeth before Sherlock took him back in, sometimes even deeper than John thought possible, not that he could focus on much more than the irresistible sensation of it. And then the fingers were gone and replaced with the blunt head of Sherlock's cock. John's mouth fell open.
"H-How?" John panted, Sherlock pulled his mouth away with an audible pop just long enough to reply, "Answers you don't want to know, John," before swallowing him back down. But John couldn't help himself, willing himself to open his eyes-though he had no recollection of closing them-and glancing down at where they were connected.
Sherlock's cock continued to bury itself slowly into John's ass, but the majority of Sherlock's body was still kneeling between John's ankles so Sherlock's mouth could reach his cock. Between his penis and his actual groin, a length of what looked like the same metal tubing from before kept them connected, and kept Sherlock in control as he inched all the way to the hilt in John. Jesus Christ…
Sherlock stopped, pulling away from John's cock again and breathing hot, shaking breaths against the head with each word. "Not exactly detachable," he chuckled. John could only offer a moan in reply. "Still not running. Even now." Sherlock smirked, awestruck, it seemed. "You amazing me, John Watson," he added, cracking his neck once before simultaneously lowering John's cock back into his mouth and throat and thrusting into John's ass.
The dual sensations were almost too much, the feel of Sherlock swallowing around him as well as a talented cock pounding into his prostate on every shove forward, it was sensory overload, his whole body on fire with the rising tension. He could feel his orgasm just out of reach, waiting for that last, final, brilliant something to push him over the edge. So John opened his eyes again, took in the visual before him, Sherlock's lips stretched around his cock, spit slick and swollen, his hands tightened this side of painfully onto John's hips where he assumed finger shaped bruises would form, Sherlock's strange display between his legs, easily forgivable for the way that cock made time stop on every thrust. And then Sherlock looked up at him and that was it, nothing existed but white, hot pleasure and burning release, stars popping in and out of his vision as he came in spurt after spurt all the way down Sherlock's throat.
Sherlock swallowed every twitching spill of it and released him, crawling forward until he'd reattached himself to his own cock, lifting John's knees into the crook of his elbows and pounding hard and fast, to his own completion. His whole body tensed then, Sherlock burying himself to the hilt and pressing himself tight against John's body, kissing at the inside of his knee as he jerked against him once, twice, three times more. And then Sherlock stayed there for a moment, pressed as deeply as he could be-well, he said could-before finally pulling out and collapsing at John's side with a content and satisfied groan.
John chuckled softly to himself, unable to help it, and when Sherlock gave him a questioning look, he had to will away the giggles before he could answer. "That last bit was almost normal compared to the rest of it." Sherlock frowned and John laughed louder, holding up his hands in apology. "Excellent. Completely, mind-blowingly brilliant. But normal." When Sherlock still looked unconvinced, John added, "Refreshingly so," and Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle along with him.
Finally, after John had been untied and they'd both cleaned up and settled down, curled against one another and reveling in the afterglow, Sherlock mumbled against John's neck, "I'm only human."
John placed a kiss into his hair, closing his eyes as he replied, "And so much more."
John Watson had a nasty habit of always finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, a run of bad luck that had made him capable of handling any manner of very bad days. But occasionally, or rather for the first time in his life, and most certainly in ways John never, ever would have expected, he found himself in a very right place, with a very good string of luck, and what was looking like the beginning of some very, very good days.
He hummed happily to himself as he drifted off, the words leaving him again in a tired, heartfelt whisper against Sherlock's temple.
"And so much more."