Authors (in order of appearance): Ariane DeVere, Atlin Merrick, Anarion, Mirith Griffin, and Verity Burns (with introduction by Stacey Albright)
Word count: 1680
Warnings: Porn. Lots and lots of porn.
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to way more powerful and wealthy people than me.
arianedevere, atlinmerrick, anarion, mirith, and verityburns, together for the first time at Verity’s house with the added bonus of Stacey Albright who doesn’t write fic but bloomin’ well should do. Amidst the hilarity and laughter, the burping competitions and the foosball tournaments, fic happened (and Stacey wrote a general comment which we promptly hijacked to use as the intro because damn, that woman should start writing fic). And the rest of us just might have covertly referenced each others’ fic during each snippet.Introduction, by Stacey Albright
Due to timing and fate I have missed out on some of the greatest events in history. The hot pants and Stiletto party of Sodom and Gomorrah that drew the attention of a rather conventional sandal-wearing God, The Giant Erection of the Pyramids, The Van Buren Supernova.......
However, I managed to secure a front seat ticket to the event of the Century, thank you very much Mr Time, Mrs Fate and Mr Verity.
In ‘Verity Central’ a Pandora’s box of porn was unleashed. The pagan gods left first - they had a train to catch, or so they said - followed swiftly by the Titans coughing and spluttering their excuses, the Greek gods were curious, the Norse gods furious but actually just over-excited, the Roman gods quite frankly couldn’t get enough. The five Behemoths of fan fiction who sat before me typing swifter than Mercury with his winged feet, joined in an unparalleled, joyous outpouring of synchronised porn.
“It should be an Olympic event,” noted one particular Greek God, after her tenth re-read.
“I don’t know why we needed to come this way,” Sherlock complained. “If we have to go on holiday, why can’t we go straight there?”
“Half the fun of a holiday is getting there,” John told him as Sherlock sawed impatiently on the steering wheel. “Why go direct down the main roads when you can take the road less travelled, enjoy the scenery and get to know the area?”
He put a hand onto Sherlock’s thigh and turned his best appealing expression towards him.
“Work with me here, love,” he asked. “We both need a change of scenery, and this is a gorgeous location and a luxurious hotel.” He tried to look stern. “And you’re going to enjoy it if it’s the last thing I do.”
Sherlock huffed irritably, but then made a conscious effort to relax. John had been wonderfully supportive while Sherlock had been engrossed in his recent case. The investigation had taken much longer than Sherlock had anticipated and he had barely eaten or slept for five days, lapsing into increasingly long silences, becoming more irritable as the vital clues eluded him, and venting his growing anger on everyone around him - especially John. When he had finally solved the case, he had effectively collapsed and slept non-stop for two days. Through all this, John had been the epitome of patience, though his frustration at the lack of sex had become more obvious as the days passed. He deserved this holiday.
Deliberately Sherlock slowed down, allowing John more time to watch the passing scenery through the windows.
When they finally arrived at the hotel, John went into the foyer while Sherlock parked the car. John took one look at the board listing events taking place that weekend, and his jaw dropped.
“I do not bloody believe it.”
"It's for science."
John, who was on his second glass of complimentary wine and fifth complimentary chocolate, clambered onto the bed, straddled his sweetheart, and wiggled meaningfully.
Sherlock, who'd already deduced the history of the hotel, its manager, and the mattress (conclusions: not good) looked up at his lover and again poked index-thumb-index fingers into John's belly.
"You can control, alt, delete me all you want sweetheart, but I'm not going to 'reboot into silent mode.'"
Sherlock poked again. "Hope springs eternal."
John humped his lover's clothed hips enthusiastically. "Come on, let's go for a record."
Sherlock wondered if John really thought he was that idiotic.
"I'm not that idiotic, John. I know you're trying to keep me in this plush room with the lure of your masculine wiles." Sherlock hooked a finger into John's collar. "It's not working."
John followed that insistent pull. He'd tried distracting his lover with a walk, talk of a London cold case, wine, and chocolates. "Hope springs eternal," he said softly at Sherlock's temple, humping more slowly but no less ardently. "Hmmm. It appears other things have sprung, too." At last the good doctor had found a suitable diversion.
Naked and nestled between pale thighs awhile later, John painted pretty hip bones and belly with wine-wet fingers.
Sherlock responded with a showy moan.
Encouraged, John expanded his canvas to include penis and added tongue to his tools.
Sherlock replied with a thrust and throaty grunt.
Melted chocolate soon become the pigment of choice, applied liberally and broadly. Sherlock spread himself wide and groaned at volume.
By the time John set to sucking in earnest Sherlock was thrashing. By the time the good detective came he wailed so loudly he sounded as if he was being murdered.
How he missed that clue—John will later reflect—he'd never know.
Since the thing with the chocolate worked so well yesterday, John got up the next morning, went down to the dining room, grabbed some pancakes and stuff to fill into it and went back up, where he sat down at the table and started filling the pancakes with banana slices, chocolate chips and chocolate sauce before he cut it into pieces.
Meanwhile Sherlock had joined him at the table - curious as always. John picked up the first piece with his fingers but instead of putting it into his mouth, he gazed at Sherlock and carefully angled his hand so that the sauce dribbled down on his fingers.
Without breaking eye contact, he slowly stuck out his tongue and licked the chocolate up before placing the pancake into his mouth.
Sherlock made a soft noise and then swallowed audibly.
John picked up the next piece. Sherlock hummed while he watched the sauce trickle onto John's skin and then leaned over to start licking. His tongue seemed to be so much hotter than John's own had been and John answered with a hum that turned into a moan when Sherlock engulfed the fingers holding the pancake with an even hotter mouth.
Sherlock swallowed and leaned back with a grin.
John's hand was slightly shaking when he picked up the next piece because feeding Sherlock turned him on to a frightening degree.
This time Sherlock got up and knelt down in front of John, who needed to close his eyes for a moment when Sherlock not only plucked the piece from his fingers but gently started sucking on them. Sherlock's hands were gently stroking John's thighs, which made him moan again.
He opened his eyes and realised that the distraction was successful when Sherlock grabbed the bottle with chocolate sauce and headed for the bed.
“All right, hurry up.”
“Really,” replies Sherlock. “I don’t see why we have to go at it guns blazing, so to speak.”
“It’s all the rage. People everywhere are having sex in exactly three hundred words.”
“Are we allowed to have all the words be ‘Guh’?”
“Elementary,” says Sherlock, steepling his hands on his stomach. “Two hundred ninety-eight thrusts. We count them out loud. At the end, you say, ‘Oh God.’” He’s somewhat miffed that his impassioned grunts aren’t considered sufficiently wordlike to add to the total.
“Do you want to top?”
“Very good.” John squeezes out eight words worth of lube. This is one word for each of the centimetres he’s about to press into his flatmate with his stubby and anatomically disproportionate index finger.
“Exquisite,” remarks Sherlock, as John wriggles the digit somewhere out of sight.
“Eternally.” Sherlock hasn’t deleted the unfortunate events of last Tuesday. He’s just choosing not to bring them up.
“’Til we stop, try to make the first letters spell something.”
Sherlock groans. “So much for counting.”
“All right, then?”
“Surely you consider me better than ‘all right.’ How would you describe me, John? Resourceful? Dynamic? Exhilarating?”
“Tight,” gasps his flatmate.
“Understandable,” concedes Sherlock, who up until this year had had a reputation as “Zero Continents” Holmes. Now he has a reputation as John’s Fourth Continent.
“Do you want me to slow down?”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Is there any chance you could stroke your own…”
“Not a chance.”
“Should I do it for you?”
“Hell yes,” said Sherlock, at a loss for any other two-word affirmative beginning with “H.”
“…K!” As John and pleasure ride him, Sherlock attempts a four-letter word. Interjection? Imperative? Who knows. Only the final consonant remains.
Acrostic: Ariane DeVere’s “A Study In Sherlock", which is where John spends most of the fic.
"I know what you're doing…"
John was not currently in a position to reply, but the expression he raised was amused.
"I don't mean now!" Sherlock attempted to roll eyes which were already rolling back in his head. It was not a successful effort.
"You've been using sex as a distraction…"
John continued to demonstrate that persistent lip-licking could develop an unusually agile tongue. Sherlock concentrated on finishing his sentence before it was blown away.
"…all weekend," he managed.
"Not a complaint," Sherlock promised quickly. "Not a…" Too late.
"You saw the sign in the foyer?" John had pulled back.
Sherlock slid down the wall until he was sitting on the carpet. "A Murder Mystery weekend coinciding with our holiday? There were more signs than you could hide."
John huffed out an exasperated breath and sat back on his heels. "So all my efforts to distract you have been useless!"
"Far from it." Sherlock waggled his eyebrows and John gave him a 'you're not funny' look, which mellowed into a puzzled frown.
"OK, so I get why you didn't tell me," he acknowledged. "But the mystery thing doesn't finish 'til tonight - you could have got at least another blow job out of it. Why now?"
Sherlock shrugged. Even after a full year together, he still struggled to explain his feelings. Luckily, he seldom needed to. He saw the penny drop and John moved forward to straddle him.
"Whatever additional motivations I may have," he said gently, "I touch you because I can't bear not to."
Sherlock was clearly obliged to kiss him. Half an hour later, he raised his head from where it was hanging over the edge of the bed.
"How about I distract you for the rest of the day?"
John grinned. "This Sunday sounds perfect."
The obligatory 221B Author’s Note:
Five lunatic Sherlock writers in Verity’s wonderful home. Endless shiraz, fizzy drinks, food, rain (well, it couldn’t all be perfect), cheese straws that didn’t get eaten (everybody get back there Right Now! We can’t have a summit without cheese straws!), carrots (bear with me now …), laughter, hilarity, so many laptops that it’s a wonder that Verity’s wi-fi didn’t collapse under the strain (that survived but the TV didn’t (sorry, Mr Verity)); Stacey Albright from FF.net who was more bonkers than the rest of us put together (god love her); and finally two crazy kids and a fabulous and adorable dog.
So, five of us writing one fic while each limiting ourselves to just 300 or so words - what else could we call it but Quin-tessential? (Blame me for the title - everyone else did).
And on top of all that I got notification that my silly little 100-word drabble got selected for The Undershaw Preservation Trust’s The Empty House book. And there was much rejoicing (and a lot of embarrassed squirming) (and that was just from me).
What an awesome time. Despite going home with a humungous cold and carpet burns (don’t ask. No, really, don’t ask), it was quite possibly the best three days of my life. I love this fandom - and my friends are beautiful, brainy and brilliant.
My co-authors have also posted this story on their own blogs. Some of them have written Author’s Notes too, so do go visit them and
tell them that they’re as equally bonkers in the head as I am comment!