Oral Fixation
Dec. 10th, 2010 11:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jackofknavesTitle: Oral Fixation
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tripatch
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade, Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Sally, Sherlock/OMC, Sherlock/Mrs Hudson, Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, "Sherlock has an oral fixation."
1. He chews on pens
It was distracting. Really, really bloody distracting. Sometimes Lestrade wondered if Sherlock did on purpose, talking out loud with his mouth wrapped around a pen cap, occasionally sucking on it in a way that made Lestrade's coat feel too warm.
It was worth it, however, the day he came up with the answer, pleased with his own cleverness, and bit too hard on the end. The picture of Sherlock's lips painted with black ink, like some bizarre Goth lipstick, would keep Lestrade chuckling for weeks.
2. He licks food off his fingers
Though John knew that Mycroft and Sherlock were brothers--had to be, there couldn't be more than one set of parents out there who would curse their children with such unfortunate names--they were so different that sometimes he had a hard time believing it. He had ordered take-away Chinese, sweet and sour pork, for the both of them. Though Sherlock's hands, nimble and quick and as clever as the rest of him, were made for chopsticks, he forewent them in favor of picking up one of the slippery pieces and dropping it into his mouth.
The unnaturally coloured orange sauce dripped between his fingers and John turned to get him a napkin. Sherlock shook his head, instead putting all four of the fingers of his left hand in his mouth. His lips stretched around the fit, and John stared, mouth agape, as he caught flashes of a pink tongue dipping between the crevices of his long-boned fingers, drawing his tongue up the side and barely curling to capture the last vestiges of sauce from the tip.
"Are you quite alright?" Sherlock asked, catching John's staring.
John shook himself. "Uh. Just a bit spicy. I just, uh, need a glass of water."
3. He uses lip balm. Incessantly.
London's grey winter had struck with a vengeance, painting the city with filthy snow that quickly grew slushy and muddied under the trampings of city-dwellers rushing to and fro from work or the grocery store or wherever they went. The wind was especially brutal, biting underneath the hidden places of coats and scarves.
Sherlock pursed his lips, which were cracked, chapped, and bleeding. He chewed on them, Sally noticed, especially when he was lost in thought and had a thousand-yard stare, he would bite the corner of his mouth, pale lips contorting under his teeth, and occasionally he would tear a strip of them away, leaving a livid line of red in its place. Absently, he pulled out a small tube of lip balm, smearing it over his lips and flinching almost imperceptibly when the balm hit a tender spot, still raw and sore.
Sally watched as he ran his fingertip over his lower lip, rubbing the balm into the thin skin. He ran a tongue over it, the tip just catching a globule of balm on the corner and quick as a flash, it was tucked back into his mouth. Sally could smell it occasionally, the stark medicinal stench covered with sweet vanilla. She wondered, occasionally, what it would taste like on his lips.
4. The way he drank from bottles was, honestly, positively indecent
Normally pubs like this irritated Sherlock, the grit of random people and idle chatter rasping against his skin until he felt that he had been sanded smooth beneath their banality. How people found this enjoyable, he would never know. Still, the man who had the information he needed frequented this one in particular, the Dog and Duck, and he pasted a fake smile on his face, leaning one hip against the wooden counter of the bar. The man was sitting on a stool, and judging by the way he kept shifting, either the seat was uncomfortable, or he was gay. That could be used to his advantage. Sherlock jutted his hip out a slight bit more, leaning one forearm on the bar and tilting his face toward the man.
"Would you like a drink?" the man asked, stuttering a little as he said it.
Sherlock ducked his head a bit, a maneuver which let one dark curl fall enticingly forward. He brushed it back, flashing the vulnerable white inside of his wrist as he did so. "That would be lovely," he purred.
The bartender placed two bottles in front of them. Sherlock detested the taste of beer--much preferred wine, or liquor, if it came to that--but the man thought he was from the lower, poorer side of town, and so the man Sherlock was pretending to be should have no problem with the hoppy taste.
He gritted his teeth and then leaned the bottle back into his mouth. His neck was arched, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, and he wrapped his entire mouth around the opening of the bottle. He chugged half of it in one go, letting it loose with an obscene pop. A trail of amber liquid dripped down his chin and without thinking, he lifted a hand to his face like a cat, drawing the remnants away and lapping at them delicately. The salt from his skin actually almost made the flavor pleasant. He turned back to the man, who had gone from possibly-gay to definitely-gay.
He was practically panting, Sherlock thought with a sneer. He kept his game face on, however, leaning forward and placing one, almost tentative hand, on the man's shoulder, drawing it lightly down his sleeve before resting on the inside of the man's elbow.
"You were saying?" he asked sweetly, gratified when the man began to babble about his landlord.
5. There's more than one reason he gave up smoking
"It's almost impossible to keep up a personal smoking habit in London these days," he had told Lestrade, but the reason was actually a good deal more complex. He had met ex-smokers, and they all had the most prosaic, frankly, dull reasons. Too expensive. Too bad for your health. Too smelly. No, what he honestly hadn't counted on was the frankly sexual appeal of smoking. A cigarette sometimes, and all the time for him, was just a cigarette, but apparently not for others. In the days before 221B Baker Street, and the subsequent blogging of his criminal cases by John Watson, he had just come back from Florida to ensure the conviction and execution of one Mr. Avery Hudson, who was an unsavoury character who deserved much worse than lethal injection. Still, he returned to London to give the news to his elated wife, Mrs. Hudson, a woman rather overly fond of plying Sherlock with biscuits and tea while saying things like, "Oh, you need to eat more," and making incessant tutting sounds.
"Your husband was convicted by a jury of his peers," Sherlock announced. The flight had been long and he had no truck with trivialities anyway. "He is on 'death row' as we speak."
"Oh, thank goodness," Mrs. Hudson said, waving her hands about. "That's marvelous news."
"Quite," Sherlock said with a tight smile. He extracted a silver cigarette case from his coat pocket, drawing it out and raising his eyebrow at Mrs. Hudson questioningly.
"Oh, no, dear, it doesn't bother me any," Mrs. Hudson said with a smile. "I remember the days when it was quite all right. Things keep changing, though, don't they?"
"Mmm." He lit his cigarette, taking the first lungful and feeling the burn in his throat and chest, like sparks catching on the edges of wood and leaving black charred marks there. There was the rush, like his head was suddenly lighter than it had been before, the feeling like his blood was pumping faster, more efficiently, and the wonderful clarity and peace that the nicotine sent through him. He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling settling in his skin with a bit of a smile touching just the corner of his lips. Heavenly. He drew the fag up to his mouth for another drag when he noticed Mrs. Hudson staring at him openly.
"Is something the matter?" he frowned. She had said it was all right, but people, he had found, frequently said one thing while meaning something quite different.
With a suddenness of motion that Sherlock wouldn't have thought the woman capable of, Mrs. Hudson grabbed the sides of his face and locked her lips with his. She smelled like grandmotherly perfume, cheap laundry soap, and the hint of tea. He took a step back, knowing his eyes looked wild. "Uh, I've got to go. Cases to solve. Police to heckle. Congratulations on your husband."
He ran out the door without looking back, vowing never to deal with the woman ever again. On the way, he passed a rubbish bin and without pausing, stuck his hand in his pocket and dumped all his cigarettes, case included, into it. He would rely on nicotine patches from now on. It was high time he quit anyway.
6. He used to suck his thumb
It was undignified, Mycroft had decided, watching his younger brother curl up into an oversized armchair with a book planted on his knees and his thumb firmly in his mouth.
"You'll give yourself an overbite," Mycroft reasoned with him.
Sherlock ignored him.
"Besides, it makes you look childish."
His only response was a sneer around his thumb.
"For goodness' sake," Mycroft said impatiently. He stalked over to where Sherlock was and attempted to pry his thumb away from his mouth. Sherlock fought back, the book falling to the floor in the scuffle, but his thumb remained firmly against his tongue.
"Oh, fine," Mycroft finally said, throwing his arms up in despair. "Suck your thumb, then. You'll be thirty and sucking your thumb to go to sleep at night. Disgusting."
He left Sherlock to it, who calmly picked up his book, wiped it off, and put his thumb back in his mouth. He was twelve; thirty years old was too far off to contemplate at the moment, and besides he was warm, and comfortable, and had a good solid book in front of him. Things were good.
Author:
tripatchRating: PG-13
Pairing: Sherlock/Lestrade, Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Sally, Sherlock/OMC, Sherlock/Mrs Hudson, Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, "Sherlock has an oral fixation."
1. He chews on pens
It was distracting. Really, really bloody distracting. Sometimes Lestrade wondered if Sherlock did on purpose, talking out loud with his mouth wrapped around a pen cap, occasionally sucking on it in a way that made Lestrade's coat feel too warm.
It was worth it, however, the day he came up with the answer, pleased with his own cleverness, and bit too hard on the end. The picture of Sherlock's lips painted with black ink, like some bizarre Goth lipstick, would keep Lestrade chuckling for weeks.
2. He licks food off his fingers
Though John knew that Mycroft and Sherlock were brothers--had to be, there couldn't be more than one set of parents out there who would curse their children with such unfortunate names--they were so different that sometimes he had a hard time believing it. He had ordered take-away Chinese, sweet and sour pork, for the both of them. Though Sherlock's hands, nimble and quick and as clever as the rest of him, were made for chopsticks, he forewent them in favor of picking up one of the slippery pieces and dropping it into his mouth.
The unnaturally coloured orange sauce dripped between his fingers and John turned to get him a napkin. Sherlock shook his head, instead putting all four of the fingers of his left hand in his mouth. His lips stretched around the fit, and John stared, mouth agape, as he caught flashes of a pink tongue dipping between the crevices of his long-boned fingers, drawing his tongue up the side and barely curling to capture the last vestiges of sauce from the tip.
"Are you quite alright?" Sherlock asked, catching John's staring.
John shook himself. "Uh. Just a bit spicy. I just, uh, need a glass of water."
3. He uses lip balm. Incessantly.
London's grey winter had struck with a vengeance, painting the city with filthy snow that quickly grew slushy and muddied under the trampings of city-dwellers rushing to and fro from work or the grocery store or wherever they went. The wind was especially brutal, biting underneath the hidden places of coats and scarves.
Sherlock pursed his lips, which were cracked, chapped, and bleeding. He chewed on them, Sally noticed, especially when he was lost in thought and had a thousand-yard stare, he would bite the corner of his mouth, pale lips contorting under his teeth, and occasionally he would tear a strip of them away, leaving a livid line of red in its place. Absently, he pulled out a small tube of lip balm, smearing it over his lips and flinching almost imperceptibly when the balm hit a tender spot, still raw and sore.
Sally watched as he ran his fingertip over his lower lip, rubbing the balm into the thin skin. He ran a tongue over it, the tip just catching a globule of balm on the corner and quick as a flash, it was tucked back into his mouth. Sally could smell it occasionally, the stark medicinal stench covered with sweet vanilla. She wondered, occasionally, what it would taste like on his lips.
4. The way he drank from bottles was, honestly, positively indecent
Normally pubs like this irritated Sherlock, the grit of random people and idle chatter rasping against his skin until he felt that he had been sanded smooth beneath their banality. How people found this enjoyable, he would never know. Still, the man who had the information he needed frequented this one in particular, the Dog and Duck, and he pasted a fake smile on his face, leaning one hip against the wooden counter of the bar. The man was sitting on a stool, and judging by the way he kept shifting, either the seat was uncomfortable, or he was gay. That could be used to his advantage. Sherlock jutted his hip out a slight bit more, leaning one forearm on the bar and tilting his face toward the man.
"Would you like a drink?" the man asked, stuttering a little as he said it.
Sherlock ducked his head a bit, a maneuver which let one dark curl fall enticingly forward. He brushed it back, flashing the vulnerable white inside of his wrist as he did so. "That would be lovely," he purred.
The bartender placed two bottles in front of them. Sherlock detested the taste of beer--much preferred wine, or liquor, if it came to that--but the man thought he was from the lower, poorer side of town, and so the man Sherlock was pretending to be should have no problem with the hoppy taste.
He gritted his teeth and then leaned the bottle back into his mouth. His neck was arched, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, and he wrapped his entire mouth around the opening of the bottle. He chugged half of it in one go, letting it loose with an obscene pop. A trail of amber liquid dripped down his chin and without thinking, he lifted a hand to his face like a cat, drawing the remnants away and lapping at them delicately. The salt from his skin actually almost made the flavor pleasant. He turned back to the man, who had gone from possibly-gay to definitely-gay.
He was practically panting, Sherlock thought with a sneer. He kept his game face on, however, leaning forward and placing one, almost tentative hand, on the man's shoulder, drawing it lightly down his sleeve before resting on the inside of the man's elbow.
"You were saying?" he asked sweetly, gratified when the man began to babble about his landlord.
5. There's more than one reason he gave up smoking
"It's almost impossible to keep up a personal smoking habit in London these days," he had told Lestrade, but the reason was actually a good deal more complex. He had met ex-smokers, and they all had the most prosaic, frankly, dull reasons. Too expensive. Too bad for your health. Too smelly. No, what he honestly hadn't counted on was the frankly sexual appeal of smoking. A cigarette sometimes, and all the time for him, was just a cigarette, but apparently not for others. In the days before 221B Baker Street, and the subsequent blogging of his criminal cases by John Watson, he had just come back from Florida to ensure the conviction and execution of one Mr. Avery Hudson, who was an unsavoury character who deserved much worse than lethal injection. Still, he returned to London to give the news to his elated wife, Mrs. Hudson, a woman rather overly fond of plying Sherlock with biscuits and tea while saying things like, "Oh, you need to eat more," and making incessant tutting sounds.
"Your husband was convicted by a jury of his peers," Sherlock announced. The flight had been long and he had no truck with trivialities anyway. "He is on 'death row' as we speak."
"Oh, thank goodness," Mrs. Hudson said, waving her hands about. "That's marvelous news."
"Quite," Sherlock said with a tight smile. He extracted a silver cigarette case from his coat pocket, drawing it out and raising his eyebrow at Mrs. Hudson questioningly.
"Oh, no, dear, it doesn't bother me any," Mrs. Hudson said with a smile. "I remember the days when it was quite all right. Things keep changing, though, don't they?"
"Mmm." He lit his cigarette, taking the first lungful and feeling the burn in his throat and chest, like sparks catching on the edges of wood and leaving black charred marks there. There was the rush, like his head was suddenly lighter than it had been before, the feeling like his blood was pumping faster, more efficiently, and the wonderful clarity and peace that the nicotine sent through him. He closed his eyes and focused on the feeling settling in his skin with a bit of a smile touching just the corner of his lips. Heavenly. He drew the fag up to his mouth for another drag when he noticed Mrs. Hudson staring at him openly.
"Is something the matter?" he frowned. She had said it was all right, but people, he had found, frequently said one thing while meaning something quite different.
With a suddenness of motion that Sherlock wouldn't have thought the woman capable of, Mrs. Hudson grabbed the sides of his face and locked her lips with his. She smelled like grandmotherly perfume, cheap laundry soap, and the hint of tea. He took a step back, knowing his eyes looked wild. "Uh, I've got to go. Cases to solve. Police to heckle. Congratulations on your husband."
He ran out the door without looking back, vowing never to deal with the woman ever again. On the way, he passed a rubbish bin and without pausing, stuck his hand in his pocket and dumped all his cigarettes, case included, into it. He would rely on nicotine patches from now on. It was high time he quit anyway.
6. He used to suck his thumb
It was undignified, Mycroft had decided, watching his younger brother curl up into an oversized armchair with a book planted on his knees and his thumb firmly in his mouth.
"You'll give yourself an overbite," Mycroft reasoned with him.
Sherlock ignored him.
"Besides, it makes you look childish."
His only response was a sneer around his thumb.
"For goodness' sake," Mycroft said impatiently. He stalked over to where Sherlock was and attempted to pry his thumb away from his mouth. Sherlock fought back, the book falling to the floor in the scuffle, but his thumb remained firmly against his tongue.
"Oh, fine," Mycroft finally said, throwing his arms up in despair. "Suck your thumb, then. You'll be thirty and sucking your thumb to go to sleep at night. Disgusting."
He left Sherlock to it, who calmly picked up his book, wiped it off, and put his thumb back in his mouth. He was twelve; thirty years old was too far off to contemplate at the moment, and besides he was warm, and comfortable, and had a good solid book in front of him. Things were good.
