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Sherlock Holmes Fic: "Comfort" (NC-17)

Title: Comfort
Rating: NC-17 (here be shmexins)
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Mary Watson
Word Count: 4850 words
Disclaimer: I would really like a Watson all for myself, but alas, I’m only borrowing.
Spoilers: Um. No?
Warnings: Het. Tame language.
Summary: Watson comes home from a difficult case and seeks comfort with his wife.
Author's Notes: This came from a dream I had last week and some of my LJ friends enabled me, urging me to go ahead and write it up. Thanks, in particular, to who_is_small for being SO enthusiastic and to chaoticchaos13 for further encouragement and pep talks. This hasn’t been beaten with a beta stick, so the fault is all mine.

Mary can tell the case was a hard one just by the way John gets out of the cab. Looking down at the Hansom just beyond the end of the walk, the blanket-covered horse idly scraping one hoof on the rain-glossed cobblestone, she keeps mostly behind the lace curtains. The window seat of the upstairs parlor has proven to be the perfect watchtower, where she may read, sew, write in her little journal, or work on her needlepoint; all with an easy view of the street. As John steps almost too carefully onto the paved curb, valise in the hand whose shoulder doesn't ache in rainy weather, he turns a solemn face up to the house for a moment. John turns back to the man still in the cab, of course it is Mr. Holmes. The two men converse for a minute, or so, and she sees John nodding and his shoulders heave in a big breath. Something has upset him. He starts to move away, still talking, but then pauses again. Beyond him, a sharply-handsome pale face is revealed—yes, it is Mr. Holmes—and he leans over to say something, also handing John his medical bag; the detective looks up just then with uncanny accuracy toward the second-floor window from which Mary watches. She wonders if he can see that she is holding the telegram that arrived that morning, or guess that she has had it in her skirt pocket all morning and into the afternoon. It wouldn't be much beyond him, she's quite sure.

She wonders why Mr. Holmes looks up at her so long, and why, just before he looks toward John again, he gives her a small, solemn nod. Is it a taunt? Is it a friendly gesture? Or is it merely simple courtesy? No, she's out of sorts and she knows she’s reading more into it than is rational. Mr. Sherlock Holmes has been unfailingly polite to her on every occasion since she became Mrs. John Watson. On many occasions he has also been amusing, charming, acerbic, and kind. Now and then, she supposes he doesn't know she has noted it, but she has seen him glance at her speculatively, possibly—she feels shamed to even think it—enviously? John insists that he holds no ill-will toward her, his Mr. Holmes, but she often wonders if John really noticed the difference between what had been an almost charmingly friendly manner before the marriage and the slightly removed, slightly cooler manner since. John so often sees the best in things, in people, that she doubts he will have noticed. And, because she loves him unreservedly and values that quality in him highly, she will never point it out. It wouldn't be fair. Funny, how she sometimes feels that she and Mr. Holmes are playing some game, somehow vying for John's favour. Or perhaps, closer to the truth, they're very carefully sharing him. What an odd thought, she muses, and a moment later realizes that she should go downstairs before her husband enters and wonders why she isn't greeting him at the door.

Upon reaching the midpoint of the stairs, Mary hears the front door open and close; when she is at the last stair John appears around the corner. He's already doffed his hat and overcoat, as well as setting aside his valise and medical bag. He comes to an abrupt halt, brown eyes full of some terrible emotion that she watches him push aside at the sight of her. She smiles, putting all her love and worry for him into it, saying his name in quiet welcome.

"Mary," he murmurs, crossing the distance between them and embracing her tightly, burying his face in her hair with a short, explosive sigh. "I've missed you so, my love."

"I've missed you, too," she replies, squeezing him in return. "Are you well? You aren't hurt?" Although his grip loosens slightly, he doesn't release her, only breathing in the smell of her hair and kissing the side of her head. He has often told her that he adores the smell of her hair, and thinks of it when he's away.

"No, no, I've not been hurt," he assures her, pulling back enough to look down at her. His gaze is searching, sad, and it's as though he's been away for months, rather than a few days. "I...Mary, love, I—" For a single moment she thinks he might even cry, but then he shakes his head and continues abruptly, "I can't talk of it just yet, I'm sorry."

"It's alright, my darling," she says gently, putting one hand to his cold, slightly-damp cheek. "Oh, you're so cold! Come upstairs, there’s a fire already going in the upstairs parlor."

John readily lets her lead him upstairs, his hand warming in hers as she takes him to one of the chintz-upholstered chairs before the fan-shaped fire screen. He sits, but doesn't release her hand when she would step away. "Don't go," he nearly whispers, looking down at her hand, rather than up at her face.

"I was going down to fetch Jane; you should have some nice hot tea and something to eat." She pats the back of his hand with her free hand and slips out of his grip. "You're chilled and tired, my dear. Would you prefer to change and have something brought to you in your study?" Worried for him, she pauses in the doorway, letting her concern show in her expression, though she tries to keep smiling for him.

"No, no, I'm not hungry, I'm..." He swallows and rises, something in his expression changing, looking almost like desperation. "I just wanted to..." Trailing off, he seems to come to some decision, reaches past her to shut the door of the parlor, and then takes her in his arms again. He kisses her cheek, her temple, and again burrows his face against her neck, into the lace of her neckline and soft skin above it. "I need to feel you close. Need...oh, Mary! I need to feel something other than this... this empty horror inside me." His face is cool, but his breath is warm and his moustache tickles a bit; she shivers with the mixed sensations.

"John! Darling, what's happened?" She asks, alarmed and afraid to know what can have affected him so, but wanting to support him, to help him.

Shaking his head, he kisses the tender skin beneath her ear, setting her dangling pearl earring to swinging. She strokes the hair at the back of his head, feeling the cool dampness near his nape, below where his hat would have fallen, which tells her he spent a little while out in the weather that day, before coming home. Combing her fingers through the short hair that narrows down toward his collar, she feels him shudder a bit and he cups her face, kisses her.

Gentle at first, he merely kisses her lips, and she smells that he's had a cigar sometime earlier, and some liquor—possibly whiskey. When he ever so gently suckles her lower lip, she can't help the sigh that escapes her. As if that small noise triggers him, he tilts her head and seeks entry to her mouth, which she willingly grants him. The taste of his mouth is colored by the cigar and, yes, the whiskey, but it's still the familiar taste of her lover's mouth. His tongue, such a shocking thing the first time she had felt it in her mouth, is now welcome; she meets his gentle invasion and he gives a soft moan as she kisses him back with all the skill he's taught her.

Mary loves kissing her husband. Now that she's grown comfortable with it, with him, she doesn't fight the rush of warmth and liquid eagerness that flows through her at the touch of John's mouth upon hers, his tongue dueling with hers, lips nipping and suckling hers. Her fingers are in his hair, her breasts suddenly sensitive to being crushed against his chest, and when he releases her face to wrap his arms around her, she is up on tip-toe and eagerly pressing herself to him.

"Mary, yes," he murmurs against her mouth before capturing it again, his kisses harder, deeper, needier, and his fingers are at the buttons running down the back of her blouse. She squeezes her hands in between them, fitting her arms in and around his, trying to unbutton his waistcoat, but he shakes his head as he releases her mouth again. "No, please, let me see you. Just let me..." He doesn't finish his sentence, but the want in his expression, the deeper, huskier tone of his voice, all serve to plead his case.

She cups his face, rises on tip-toe again to kiss him, and smiles up at him warmly. "You know I'm all yours, John. I love you."

"Mary, my dearest love," he whispers, and though he voices only those simple words, there are sonnets in his expression. He draws her blouse away, pausing to carefully free the little pearl buttons at her wrists, and then flinging the pale blue garment vaguely at the nearest chair. She wears only the lightest corset and chemise necessary, since she's had no plans to go anywhere, and his eyes fall to the outline of her breasts, very slightly swelling over the corset, hidden by a thin layer of cotton. He bends to kiss her again, hands at her waist, finding the buttons of her skirt and making quick work of them. Next, he is unlacing her corset with his deft doctor’s fingers.

Between kisses and murmurs of mostly-wordless appreciation, John slowly peels Mary out of her clothing, layer by layer, leaving her in chemise, pantalettes, and her warm woolen stockings that stop just above the knees, as well as her black, heelless slippers. He leans past her, turning the key in the lock of the door, though he almost doesn't look away from her to do so, and she feels a blush creep across her whole body at the nearly-worshipful expression in his face.

"Yes, this is... oh, you're so lovely," he says softly, his hands warm now as they come around her waist and bring her to him again, the bumps and ridges of his brown tweed traveling suit so much more noticeable against her. She's very nearly naked and he's still fully dressed. Somehow it's more exciting than scandalous, especially since he is her husband, and when he cups her bottom to press her against him more fully, a little sound of anticipation escapes her. "So warm and beautiful," he murmurs against her jaw, then nipping and suckling at the thin skin over the long tendon in her throat in a way that sends goosebumps all along her body and makes the warm heat between her legs increase. One of his hands cups her breast, thumb teasing over her already-tight nipple, and she makes a humming, sighing sound of enjoyment.

"I've missed you, my love," she whispers.

Without speaking, he bends her back over the support of his stronger arm, and lowers his mouth to the tight point of her breast, lipping it through the thin fabric of her chemise. With his free hand, he unties the laces at the neck, pulling the gathered fabric down to fully expose her breasts. Despite the fire, the air of the room is still a bit cool on her bare skin, but it only serves to make his mouth feel that much hotter when he encloses her nipple in its wet heat. He fondles and pulls at her other breast with his hand at the same time, rolling and lightly pinching her nipple exactly the way that makes her breath catch in her throat. She tilts her head back and arches into him willingly. Sharp stabs of raw sensation go through her, from both nipples to that secret part of her womanhood that is already wet and eager.

Unable to be still, she runs her fingers through his hair, strokes his shoulders, his back, whatever she can reach, and every little nip, pinch or suckling pull of her nipples is making her sigh or moan or whisper a soft, "Yes, oh!" or some other encouragement.

"Wait... I want to—" He speaks against her flushed skin, brings her upright again to kiss her with the sort of passion she's used to him exhibiting once they're both in bed, naked and entwined. "Mary, you're so beautiful like this," he whispers, and she blinks up at him half in confusion and half in embarrassment.

"Shouldn't we go to the bedroom?" She asks, rather belatedly worried at making love in the late afternoon in the upstairs parlor, even if it is with her husband. Now that he's not pressed up against her, she gives a little shiver from the cool air touching most of her skin.

"No, I want you like this, here and now," he says, his voice thicker with that special timbre that sends thrills through her, as she usually hears it when they are in bed together. Glancing around, he takes her hand and guides her over to the small fireplace, waiting for her to step out of the puddle of garments, and his smile is a little crooked when he takes both her hands in his. "Do as I say, my love, and hold on here and here." He brings her arms outward, pressing her hands to the edge of the mantelpiece, leaning in to kiss her breathless while holding her there.

Looking up at him, she nods, unable to think of anything to say that wouldn't be 'yes', anyhow. His eyes are intent, warm, yet there's still something behind them that's desperately needy, and she wants to give him anything that will make that edge of desperation go away.

John slides his hands up her arms, the shape and feel of his palms and fingers familiar, his skin slightly rough compared to her own. Fingers skimming up over her shoulders and along the lines of her collarbones, he then runs his hands down to the swell of her breasts, cupping them, stroking the thin, delicate skin reverently. Leaning forward, he laves and nibbles her breasts once more, switching back and forth lazily, while his hands move on, untying the tapes at the waist of her pantalettes, slowly drawing them down over her hips. Mary sighs and, without thinking, brings one hand to his head, but he captures it and presses it back down upon the cool edge of the mantelpiece when he notices. However, his touch isn't rough and the look he gives her is heated, rather than censorious or cross, and the heat in that expression is enough to make her willing to do whatever he asks of her.

Mary's peripherally aware of the warmth of the fire beyond the ornamental screen as it radiates along her lower back, her bottom, and her legs, but the flame is small enough that it's not uncomfortable. The wavering light touches off warm gold and reddish glints in John's hair when he leans over to slide the pantalettes down her legs, and Mary lifts one leg and then the other at John's light tap against each ankle. When he rises again, she is left only in her stockings, her satin slippers, and chemise. Brown eyes glance at her, as if testing whether she is still willing, but she can only look up at him with love and want now, her body fairly simmering with eagerness to be touched by him. The little smile he sometimes gives, when he's thinking of such things, quirks his lips just a tad; a good sign, she thinks, but remotely.

John steps closer, gathering the hem of her chemise in his hands and pulling upward, the fabric like a caress as it brushes against her stomach and back and over her highly-sensitized breasts. "Lift your arms now, love," he instructs her softly and she does so without hesitation. He rewards her with a long, slow kiss once he's pulled the garment over her head and tossed it aside. The fabric of his suit is scratchy against her skin and like tiny prickles against her nipples, and he molds her to him tightly, allowing her to feel that he's hard beyond that barrier of cloth.

"I dreamt of this," he says in a near whisper, his breath tickling her ear. His hands trace the curves of her buttocks and then upward along the slope of her back. "Dreamt of you, all honey and cream and silk." Chills run through her at the timbre of his voice, at the words—which he sometimes uses as much as his lips or hands—that touch her mind like he is touching her skin. "Just like this," he nips at the curve where her neck and shoulder meet, his hands gliding along her arms and stretching them out once more. "Open and warm and willing."

"John," she sighs, holding onto the mantelpiece where he places her hands again, tilting her head back with half-closed eyes, the notion that he dreams of loving her touches her deeply.

"The world may be ugly and cruel..." he speaks against her skin, interspersing touches of his lips and tongue with more words, "where depraved creatures prey upon the innocent," his mouth follows the swell of one breast, draws her nipple in just enough to make Mary murmur in pleasure, then he moves across to the other breast. "It chills my very soul until everything is cold and bleak. But then I remember that I have you. My dearest love, so good and kind...so beautiful." He gives his attention to her other nipple, his hands stroking down along her ribcage and resting upon her hips, the pull of his teeth and the flickers of his tongue making her moan. "I've been wanting to come home to you, but we had to make sure... so many little details, so many delays... and I just wanted you to make me warm inside again."

"Oh, my poor darling!" Mary shifts, wanting to hold him, but he shakes his head, glancing up at her with a strange sort of entreaty and she keeps still, merely saying softly, "You have me, John. I'm here—yours—and always will be." Apparently it's the right thing to say, for he closes his eyes, as if in relief or gratitude, and he bends down further, his moustache tickling a little at her midriff as he presses kisses along a line from her breastbone to her navel and then looks up again.

His gaze takes in all of her, heated and wanting, his hands tightening upon her hips. "Almost exactly like my dream!" His soft words are full of pleased wonder and she smiles down at him.

"Whatever you want, my love...anything," she tells him, having often wanted to do more to please him, but having no experience other than what he has shown her.

John kneels before her, pressing a kiss to the shallow curve of her belly, hands stroking down the outside of her thighs and then up the backs of them. He looks up at her and she notices—not for the first time—how the browner tone of his sun-touched hands and face make her skin look paler and creamier by comparison. Her heart flutters a little to feel his breath upon the fine dark-blonde curls at the juncture of her thighs.

"Spread your legs, love," he tells her as his fingers stroke upward along the cleft of her buttocks and down again, curling in between her thighs from behind in a way that is ticklish and stimulating at the same time. Her imagination runs ahead in leaps and bounds, making her wonder if he is going to do what she is thinking of, and the thought makes her want to squirm as even more warmth rushes to her womanly places. He doesn't have to ask her again. Mary shifts her weight, spreading her legs and, when she feels the gentle, urging pressure of his hands upon her thighs, spreads them further still.

John has, on a number of occasions, pleasured her with his mouth, but it has always been in bed and in the dark of night. It has, also, been quite divine, sending her into paroxysms of release, but she's always thought of it as a secretive thing, wondering if anyone else in the world can have discovered such marvels as what her John can do with his mouth and hands. Yet, somehow, she has never heard a word of such bliss from anyone.

"Ohh...yes..." He murmurs as he cups the very center of her with one warm hand, obviously discovering how wet she has become. When he slides one finger slowly along the damp cleft between her legs, tracing without quite parting the tender folds any further, she shivers and makes a small sound in her throat. "Beautiful," he says, and she's not entirely sure if he means the sight of her, the feel of her, or the sound of her, but the way he says it is utterly sincere.

Mary shivers again as his fingers trace the same path, this time moving upward, sliding easily into the dampness that his attentions have caused and, when he brushes against the little nubbin of extraordinarily sensitive flesh hidden there, she gives a little gasping sound, the muscles in her legs twitching. He does it again, this time lingering longer upon that spot, making her moan and shift restlessly.

"Look at me, love," John says, bringing her gaze down to see him, kneeling there before her, one hand upon her most private place and the other curved around the back of her thigh. "I want to see you." Even as he speaks, he strokes her again and, somehow, seeing his hand move while feeling his touch makes the sensation more intense than before.

John’s fingers move against her, gently parting the lips of her sex, and he leans forward, his breath cool for only an instant before his tongue blazes a hot trail inward toward her little bud of sensation. Mary gasps, gripping the mantel a little tighter to keep from reaching down to touch him, and though she’s sure her face is bright pink in excited embarrassment, she can’t look away from the sight of him. She’s never really seen much of him when they have made love before, either it’s been dark or she’s closed her eyes; but here, now, there’s the gray late afternoon light coming through the windows, as well as the firelight.

Mary realizes that she likes seeing his hands upon her, his tanned fingers amid the dark gold curls of her mound, his brow slightly furrowed, but his expression one of almost serenity. It’s all she can do not to move her hips forward when she feels his moustache tickling the sensitive curve at the top of the folds he has spread open, but when his tongue strokes a circle around that little nubbin again, she can’t stop herself. Rocking into his touch, she hears her own soft sounds as if from a distance, bites her lip to try and keep them quiet, and when John glances up at her—his mouth still pressed to her so intimately—she feels a surge of pleasure at the passion in his gaze.

John spreads her further, sucking the whole bundle of sensitive flesh into his mouth, and Mary can’t stifle her gasping cry. A throaty sound comes from John and she realizes it’s a chuckle, as if making her cry out pleases him, and for some reason that only makes her already lust-fired body simmer more intensely.

She feels John’s other hand leave off gripping her thigh and the next moment his fingers are stroking at her exposed, thoroughly drenched, opening.

“Oh, yes!” She says immediately, wanting more of him, knowing how wonderful it will feel. Once again he offers that soft chuckle, but no words.

The next time he sucks at her while rubbing his tongue in a firm swirling pattern he also slides two fingers slowly inside her, and she cries out again, her hips rocking into the pleasure without any bidding from her will. As if this is what he has been waiting for, or perhaps just because he knows her body so well, John starts a rhythm of his fingers and his mouth that has Mary steadily gasping out short, sharp cries that she can no longer even think to stifle.

When he adds a third finger, Mary shouts a breathless ‘yes!’ and rides his mouth and hand shamelessly, uncaring of the moisture trickling down her thighs or the sweat beading upon her skin. Hearing her own cries and moans, and the slick, wet sounds caused by the wonderful havoc he is wreaking upon her body filling the room, distantly—so very distantly—she thinks she ought to be ashamed, but the waves of beautiful sensation won’t make room for such things. Coherent thought means nothing as her lover sends her further and further beyond herself. Only a few moments later, the familiar little tremors jolt through her, building into a deep wave of tingling, sharp pleasure that carries her over the edge of release with more abandon than she has ever known before. She cries out his name and sees small sparkles of light on the inside of her eyelids for those few blissful moments of ecstasy.

“I’ve got you…oh, my love!” John is holding her, guiding her downward when her knees buckle, and she opens heavy eyelids to find she’s straddling his lap while he still kneels upon the hearthrug. He is kissing her, and she him, hungrily, gratefully, and she tastes herself upon his lips, just as she has upon other occasions. Beneath her, though her body is positively singing and the well-loved flesh between her thighs is throbbing, she feels the hard ridge of him, still hidden behind his trousers.

“John…oh, my darling,” she murmurs into his mouth, still panting, wishing she could tell him how he’s made her feel. “Oh!” Is all she can say, but she feels him smiling against her mouth and knows that he understands.

“God, you are so lovely,” he whispers, and when she pries open her eyes again, he is looking at her hungrily, lovingly, but that desperate neediness seems to have disappeared.

Shaking her head, not knowing what to say, she kisses him again, gripping him in her arms and with her thighs, pressing herself to him as if she could somehow transmit her joy through her skin directly to him without any need for words.

“But…but, you…” She is coming to her senses, though it’s difficult, and she knows he has not yet had his own release, but he shakes his head, closing her eyelids with gentle kisses and then closing her mouth with yet another.

“In a moment, yes,” he says softly. “There’s plenty of time for that.” He is smiling at her when she opens her eyes again, and she can’t help but smile in return as she claims his mouth for another kiss. And another.

Not long afterward he lays her down upon the hearthrug, rising up long enough to peel off his own clothing, and then proceeds to make love to her again, achieving his own release, at last. They lay twined together there till dusk falls, speaking in soft murmurs and whispers of inconsequential things. Later, safely tucked in bed, they speak long into the night of the things that had horrified him so, and Mary does her best to push away the bleak ugliness with the warmth and comfort of her love.


Three days later, after John’s been to Baker Street a few times to finalize his notes on Mr. Holmes’ recent case, as well as talking of another that’s fallen into the detective’s hands, a bouquet of flowers is delivered for Mrs. Watson. After the maid has left the parlor, Mary looks through them for a card, admiring the odd combination of irises, white bell flowers, fern fronds, and tendrils of ivy interspersed with a few sprigs of rue. Frowning at them pensively for a few minutes, she then gasps and puts her fingertips to her lips. She isn’t completely certain that she’s remembering correctly, but she touches them, murmuring to herself.

“Compliments and gratitude. Friendship—or is it wedded bliss? Sincerity… apology or contrition. Oh...my.”

Though she did think at first that they must have come from John, once she has seen the bouquet through the language of flowers, she knows that they must have come from Mr. Holmes. Fair brows arched high in surprise, trying very hard not to blush, she lingers another little while before seeking a vase.

It is a compliment to her, in a way, that he has not included a card, but she does not care to think too hard on exactly how much Mr. Holmes knows, or has guessed, of the kind of comfort he brought John home to receive.


( 31 Post-its — Grab A Post-it And Pen )
Aug. 24th, 2009 06:19 am (UTC)
this is just...wonderful. the pacing is so smooth and sensual, it feels like it was made to be read in some dark seductive chocolate-ad voice. and its brilliantly beautiful. magnifico.

also, i love that you warn for het.
Aug. 24th, 2009 06:44 am (UTC)
I'm very happy to hear you enjoyed!
My goodness, the idea of a luscious-voiced reader is wonderful! *grin* Thank you so much!

Heh, glad the warning amused. *chuckles*

Aug. 24th, 2009 11:24 am (UTC)
Ooooooh, VERY dangerous thing to read first thing in the morning *faints*

I haven't read explicit het in...gawd, I don't even want to THINK about how long. But THAT.WAS.HOT. Many, many kinds of hot. Goodness, woman, I think you may have just dissolved me into a naught more than a quivering thing. That quivers. It bears mentioning, of course, that the language is gorgeous and the characterization spot-on (and that I'm dying to know what it was that had Watson so upset), but you'll have to forgive me for waiting so long because the sexins, they have undone my brain. WELL DONE YOU!
Aug. 24th, 2009 12:32 pm (UTC)
I have to agree -- very dangerous to read first thing in the morning. I'm glad I don't have to be at work until later than most folks, because this is definitely going to require a cold shower...

Aug. 24th, 2009 03:38 pm (UTC)
Ohhhh, thank you!! I'm quite tickled that you like this!
Hee hee! Cold-shower-worthy is totally made of win, IMO! \o/

Thanks again for the kind words!
Aug. 24th, 2009 03:36 pm (UTC)
*grinnnnn* Oh, yay! Undoing YOUR brain means I really did good! *bounces happily*
I'm glad to hear it came off well (oh, my, sorry). I have just the basics of what traumatized Watson, because this all came from a dream, but--as you can see--the dream focused on the shmexins. Heh.

Thank you VERY much! <3
Aug. 24th, 2009 03:41 pm (UTC)
I AM SO JEALOUS OF YOUR SUBCONSCIOUS. Why don't I have dreams about hot Watson mantel smut? *grumble grumble* Fortunate Random, to dream such lovelinesses! And fortunate us, too, to get to read about it afterwards :)
Aug. 24th, 2009 04:47 pm (UTC)
It's not always shmexins and adventure, but I can't really complain. *grin*
I likes to share the fun, yes, yes, indeedy.
Aug. 24th, 2009 08:24 pm (UTC)
By the way, it occurs to me that the maid in this is named 'Jane' and I just want you to know that if I cast you in a fic, you'd be one of the characters having a LOT more fun that that. In all the stuff I write during the Watson's marriage, they always have had a maid named Jane. I didn't even think twice about it.

You prolly didn't even notice/care/whatever, but I worry about these things. o0

EDIT: zomeday eye'll lern tew shpel

Edited at 2009-08-24 08:25 pm (UTC)
Aug. 24th, 2009 08:29 pm (UTC)
Lol! I certainly didn't think it had anything to do with me-- though if I had, I'd have awwww'd to me mentioned, not been offended to be cast as the maid XD Definitely not a thing to worry about :)
Aug. 24th, 2009 01:09 pm (UTC)
Oh my goodness, what a way to start the day! This is shockingly hot - I love that you took Watson and Mary's relationship seriously, and also the way you lingered on and brought out the eroticism of her virginity before him, and all the Victorian clothes, mmm. Wonderful!
Aug. 24th, 2009 03:45 pm (UTC)
*happy grin* Very pleased to know you enjoyed! I'm also tickled that you enjoyed the Watsons--and yes, I don't see why Watson couldn't have been a good lover and teach his luv how to be one, too. Oh, yes, the clothes! *sigh* So fun to play with.

Thank you so much!
Aug. 24th, 2009 04:58 pm (UTC)
Good Lord, this was hot! I followed Jane's rec links over here, and am I ever glad I did! I have been dreaming of some good Watson/Mary fic, and this delivers beautifully. Your Mary is spot on, sweet and sexy as ever, and now I have a massive crush on her. Damn. I love Mary's mix of innocence and eagerness. And Watson-I....guh. I got to get me one of those!

And Holmes, oh Holmes steals the show (as he always does) at the end with his bouquet. That brilliant, infuriating man and his damned insinuations. The little flashes of his relationship with Mary are fascinating, and overall this was just a joy to read. SO so glad I found this.
Aug. 24th, 2009 05:21 pm (UTC)
Oh, yay! I'm tickled that the trip was a good one for you! JaneTurenne is made of awesome and sparkly win to rec my fic. Very happy to hear you enjoyed these two; I have a soft spot for Mary and thought she deserved some sweetness, same for Watson. I know, the dream this came from was totally smoking.

I'm glad Holmes' little bits came across well for you, I wasn't sure how that would work out for folks reading this. Yay!
(Because, doesn't he always have to have the last word?)
Aug. 25th, 2009 03:00 am (UTC)
Victorian-flavored, mantle-located sexual healing? I approve!

Don't mind Watson up there. He just doesn't like his skills being bandied about. ^_~

Totally worth the pain and suffering of a malfunctioning connection to get to.
Aug. 25th, 2009 06:08 am (UTC)
Yay! Well, Watson's modest, isn't he?
I'm so glad you enjoyed!
Aug. 25th, 2009 04:35 am (UTC)
HOT.. HOT.. HOT... Ha! You should see my enthusiasm now, it is a red ball of flame :D I agree with Jane in that I have last read het a very long time ago, and this was totally fantastic. Shaken Watson for the win! And Holmes in the cab! And the clothing! And the hotness! You write very fine Mary! Omg the hotness! *faints* Congrats. We need to egg you on all the sodding time. Prepare thyself :P <3

EDIT: Icon and also as a matter of pride, because in your journal I have to ;)) <3<3<3

Edited at 2009-08-25 05:05 am (UTC)
Aug. 25th, 2009 06:11 am (UTC)
\o/ Woohoo! I'm so happy that you liked! Hee hee, and you're partially responsible, as you saw!
Thank you, thank you, for the lovely compliments!

EDIT: You may be a small Who, but you are a big pill! *giggle* *huggaluvs*

Edited at 2009-08-25 06:12 am (UTC)
Aug. 25th, 2009 11:37 am (UTC)
Well done! *applause*

Very sensual.

It made me very happy to see that bouquet, too, it is such a time period-true touch.

Aug. 25th, 2009 03:09 pm (UTC)
Ooh, yay!
Excellent to hear appreciation for bouquet goodness!

Thank you, m'dear!
Aug. 30th, 2009 03:22 pm (UTC)
Brilliant, my dear, as always. All the detail (oh, and the smut, too) were wonderful.
Aug. 30th, 2009 06:42 pm (UTC)
*happy smiles* Yay! Thank you, very much!
I'm tickled that you enjoyed!
Nov. 7th, 2009 02:02 am (UTC)
I am sorry that I'm reviewing this so late, but I've just gotten into the Holmes fandom and am more or less hungrily devouring fic at a greedy pace.

I've actually read most of your Holmes fic now, but I had to let you know that this piece in particular touched me a lot more than I expected it to. I suppose I'm a Holmes/Watson fan, as that's what I've been reading and what I came to your journal to read, but I love the way you've drawn Mary here. She is intelligent, and aware, and she loves her husband dearly while understanding that he needs Holmes no more or less than he needs her. Her thoughts were poignant, insightful, and intensely real, and the sex scene was scorchingly hot (man, I want to marry John Watson now).

Mostly, though, I loved Sherlock Holmes in this fic. He never actually comes closer than a blurred face through a window, but he is still very present in the Watson home, and in the relationship between Mary and her husband. Somehow, you've managed to accomplish that without angst, cheesiness, or OOC-ness. The reflections on very carefully sharing Watson, the flowers at the end, and most of all the slightly painful but very real unspoken respect between Mary and Holmes made this fic for me, and I think I may adopt this as my canon view of Watson's married years.

Dear God, this is the comment that WOULD NOT END. Gahh. Apparently I have no off button when I'm typing. I'm sorry for babbling your ear off, and I promise I'll go away now.
Nov. 7th, 2009 05:44 am (UTC)
Firstly, do not fear the unending comment - I, too, and a TERRIBLE babbler. Ask anyone. Listen for the sound of rolling eyes. *nod nod*

Secondly, I am ABSOLUTELY delighted to hear your thoughts on the fic. I'm fairly new to the LJ fanfic community (and sharing my fic, in general) and I love hearing what works and what grabs folks. And I'm delighted that you seem to have touched on most of the main points that I was trying to convey, which pleased the craptarts outta me! XD

What's funny, is I recently found "merlin" (your icon is lovely) and have been doing the same with it as you say you're doing with the Holmesian fanfic. *grin* I love synchronicity.

Thank you so very, very much for your lovely comment!
Jun. 10th, 2010 10:13 pm (UTC)
I stumbled on this fic thanks to a poster at SHkinkmeme, where I'm a moderator.

I know I'm a little late to the party, but I really did enjoy this. My particular weakness is Watson/Mary fic, so this was fun to read. It's really sweet and hot at the same time.

Thanks again! And it gives me hope that I can make Watson/Mary fic hot too.
Jun. 11th, 2010 04:34 am (UTC)
Oh, I love the SH kink meme, and more so this new incarnation. I could never catch up with the old one, too much chaos. Moderator? Awesome!

Late is never a problem, there's still punch and maybe some dip, but you'll have to dig around in the couch cushions for some chips. Ohhh, I'm delighted that you're a Watson/Mary fan and doubly delighted that this suited your tastes!

I'm sure you CAN and I'll look forward to seeing it!

Thanks so much for letting me know your thoughts on this!

Jun. 11th, 2010 04:41 am (UTC)
I totally encourage you to post. Right now I'm the only het writer and seriously, it's a lonely, lonely place. The cheese is standing alone. Eating the stale chips and drinking whatever alcohol is left in random cups.

If you poke around the filled posts thread you'll see some Mary-centric fic I've done.

I will admit to liking Mary. She's a lot of fun to write.
Jun. 11th, 2010 05:02 am (UTC)
*chuckles* Well, I do het AND slash, though mostly slash (my orig fic has more het than slash, like bookends or summat).

I'll go poke, indeed!

BTW, I've done several fills for the previous incarnation of the SH Kink Meme, too, and I had a Mary/Holmes snippet that would fit the bill for one of the prompts, but I can't find the prompt now - perhaps have imagined it, I dunno.

Mary, when done right, can truly be fun, indeed!

Jun. 12th, 2010 10:11 pm (UTC)
Het and Slash? That's like saying you play baseball and basketball well!

But yes, please do stop by. We've also got a fanfic contest going -- nothing too huge, but it might get the muses up and running.
Jun. 12th, 2010 10:25 pm (UTC)
Heee, I do both, but I never claimed to do them well! *grin*

I saw the contest announcement, but I'm sorry to say that the prompt didn't even get a flutter from the muse, but I'm going to be keeping an eye out for the next one!

Jun. 13th, 2010 12:34 am (UTC)
I hear ya. I've got the excuse that I'm judging right now :)

Besides, I've got three WIPs on the meme and on a story I'm working on because the muse demands it. I figure if I sit this one out I'm cool.
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