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Skullduggery (Chapter 10)
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I'm not going to talk about the sex first. I'm just not. That would be gauche and I'm many things—loquacious, distractible, enthusiastic, opinionated, amusing, dead—but I am not gauche.

I will say that if I ever write a book about my boys—and I should really write a book about my boys—the chapter covering the week after Sherlock re-proposed John's proposal should be called Baker Street: The Sexy Greatest Hits.

Because over that long week leading up to the wedding (you heard that right) they did it early, often, and everywhere. On the kitchen table and the floor, in the hall and the loo, on the couch, the coffee table, and the stairs.

I know, I know, that's not the unusual part. Because honestly over the last two years can you think of a single surface in this flat they haven't spread it on?

No, the unusual part was that after the third time I noticed a trend. After the sixth there was so much to notice I can't even tell you. Yet of course I'm going to tell you. That's the kind of relationship we have isn't it?

Isn't it?


But before I get to all of that, I need to get my head on straight—so to speak—and organize the facts so I understand how we got here.

The most important fact is this: A little over two weeks ago Dr. John H. Watson asked Mr. Sherlock No-Middle-Initial-Given Holmes to marry him. Mr. Sherlock No-Middle-Initial-Given Holmes freaked the hell out and said no through the confusing medium of masochistic sex.

Then, instead of dope-slapping his lover upside the head and demanding a different response, John H. Watson chose to put on spiritual sack cloth and ashes in the time-honored fashion of martyrs everywhere. And Mr. No Middle Initial let him.

And if you pause right here and let it, your brain can fizz up with a hundred heartaches that could have followed from there. Faster than a smart retort, quicker than a long-suffering sigh that flat could have bristled with arguments that said too much, or gone mute with silences that said even more.

Sherlock, who's spent the last twenty years teaching himself with care how not to care (and never quite succeeding), could have reverted to type and simply let his mouth do what it's always done: hold the wide, unwelcoming world at bay.

John? He could've acknowledged that, yes, though rather cherubic, he didn't sign on to be a damned saint. He could have packed his bags, grabbed his cane (because his leg would have been hurting; you know it would have been hurting), and curtly nodded his way out the door.

Fortunately, for me and for them, both of these men are men remade, different from who they were two years ago. So John didn't leave and Sherlock didn't drive him away. Instead John realized that victim-slash-saint was not a flattering look and so sat himself down and wrote a little letter.

God I love that letter, every shaky pen stroke, every scratched out word, every spot where he pressed his forehead to the paper because he needed the words to come out damn it. It's not particularly lyrical that missive, and it wanders in spots, but it was written with grace and heart and if I'd had someone write me a letter like that when I was alive, I can tell you that I wou—

Never mind. Never mind. …moving on.

Well, you already know the rest, really. Every wall, no matter how big, is made of smaller parts, and with that little letter John finally succeeded in taking the last bits of the wall standing sentinel 'round Sherlock's heart and smashing those fuckers to ruins.


The drinks were on the house.

After John said yes and dragged Sherlock up off his knees, Angelo was so relieved he jogged round the cash register several times, kissed my boys twice—I think he's got a crush on both of them—and proceeded to open so many bottles of wine and pour so liberally that everyone in that place got absolutely plowed.

"Thith is very good wine!"

Angelo remembers everything that happened that afternoon, despite the raging hangover the next morning, and one of the main things he recalls is being very surprised Sherlock had a lisp. The other really big thing Angelo remembers is that John is an extremely good kisser.

Many hours later and after several aborted attempts to leave the restaurant—there were endless well-wishes from most of the strangers, and some American woman kept topping up their wine glasses and shouting "Kiss!"—the boys stumbled home and got even more plowed, euphemistically speaking.

Which is to say that that's when the reliving of their sexual greatest hits began. While John will maintain he can't get an erection when he's drunk that's not technically true. He can get hard, he just can't get, you know, un-hard very fast.

Kitchen table sex has a special place in John's heart, he can't tell you why. Maybe it's because the table's at just the right height for him to stand straight up and plow straight in, I don't know, but when they stumbled into the flat and Sherlock was still singing—

"—an' I'm getting married in the morning! Thomething thomething, thpruced up in me priiiime! Girlth, come and kith me; show how much you'll mith me, but get me to the church on time!"

—and obviously lisping so magnificently, that John was getting ridiculously randy hearing it. So moments after the flat's door closed John helped his fiancé (!) tug off his coat and as Sherlock tripped around the sitting room randomly (still singing), John just followed him, peeling clothes off Sherlock's body, the well and truly sloshed detective not even, you know, detecting this, until his pants and trousers were bunched up around his ankles.

Naked but for those ankle-located garments, socks, and shoes, Sherlock looked down, cocked his head to the side and said, "Oh John Watthon, what are you doing to me?"

John didn't answer, just poked Sherlock in one shin then the other until the tall man lifted each lean leg in turn. John tugged off those slim-fit trousers and drawers, stood up—

"Are we going to have thex John?" asked Sherlock, rather bright eyed, "Because I think that would be very nith."

John didn't answer, just sort of herded Sherlock backward toward the kitchen, tugging his own clothes off as they stumbled along, stealing sloppy kisses, right up until the top of Sherlock's thighs pressed into the table off of which they eat, you know, food.

"Oh, thith is going to be marvelouth," Sherlock said solemnly, already knowing that John—who almost always has no problem lasting as long as they both want—was today going to be even more capable of going the extra mile and would keep Sherlock on the edge for a good, good long time.

The sloshed detective was not wrong. After climbing up bare-butt naked (except for socks, John likes the ridiculously cute-slash-fuckable look of his pale and perfect fiancé (!) nude but for a pair of dark socks), planting each foot on a chair, and sliding his arse to the very edge of the table, Sherlock watched with rapt attention as John slicked himself up with a fair bit of spit (the chance of the drunken doctor finding some lube was infinitely less likely than finding the location of his own mouth), John took his own sweet time pushing his cock right up to the hilt in Sherlock's lovely, plump rump.

"Oooooh yeeeeth!" Sherlock groaned theatrically (he does not know any other way), flung his arms out to the side, and grabbed hold of the table edges. "Ride, cowboy, ride!"

For a moment Sherlock giggled hysterically, then his fiancé (!) followed his directive and started galloping hard toward sunset.

Sherlock did not shut up for the next twenty minutes. Twenty minutes.

Oh good god if I'd had someone keep me on the very edge of coming for twenty minutes when I was alive I swear I'd have—

Never mind. Cough. Never mind. Moving on.

As I was saying, the detective was positively gabby as his fiancé (!) humped happily away in that bodacious-yet-firm, big-yet-well-proportioned arse. "Oh god John! I have goothbumpth!"

John stroked his fiancé's (okay, I'm going to chill with the exclamation marks for awhile if you don't mind) hips and said nothing. That was fine, he was hearing everything.

"There! You're there, right there! Oh god I'm gonna die John, thith feelth tho good I'm gonna die!"

John leaned over and kissed Sherlock's belly and, tangentially—considering what they were doing—wondered if that belly didn't seem just a teeny tiny bit bigger than it used to. Feeding Sherlock must be working, and as a matter of fact—

That train of thought was derailed instantly when Sherlock shouted, "Harder John, harder! Make my toeth curl!"

The good doctor was happy to oblige and so he widened his stance a little, canted his hips a lot, and pounded into that voluptuous detectivey behind for pretty much all he was drunkenly worth. Which was quite a lot.

"Ngghh!" grunted Sherlock at full volume, "Ngghhhhhh!"

John glanced down at the chair pressing against the side of his knee. Sure enough, Sherlock's toes were curled up tight in their black cotton socks. Grinning, the good doctor tightened his grip on his fiancé's (!) hips and started pulling his cock out nearly all the way before shoving that bad boy back in about as hard as he could.

"Oh my god John I'm theeing thtars, a million twinkly thtars!"

John could not possibly have rammed home any harder without possible injury, so he didn't, but encouraged mightily by Sherlock's garrulous input he started varying the pace of his thrusts from very fast to achingly slow.

In response Sherlock grabbed hold of the table edges even more tightly, arched his neck, and in the general direction of the refrigerator waxed positively lyrical. "John, oh John, John John I love you John. My heart John, it's pounding and pounding and I think I can't breathe, I can't breathe becauth it'th beating tho wonderfully hard John."

John maybe started to think about stopping, a bit concerned, but Sherlock squealed in possibly the most high-pitched voice his fiancé (!) had ever heard out of him, "Oh fuckin' god don't thtop, if you thtop I'm going to break into a billion pietheth!"

So John didn't stop and neither did Sherlock, not for twenty very long minutes. I can remember every single thing Sherlock said and every single thing they did during those twenty very good minutes and sometimes, when it's three in the morning and I'm staring out the sitting room windows, bored out of my skull (it is to laugh), the time can be made to pass very nicely if I just cast my mind back to the day they got engaged and had plastered-out-of-their-minds sex on the kitchen table.

"Oh good guh—guh—god John," Sherlock moaned, "can goothbumpth come because I thwear mine are!"

That might be my favorite line from that particular afternoon or perhaps ever, I'm hard pressed to choose between that and one Sherlock uttered later that evening (still a bit drunk): "Do you think you'd like the feeling of my cock in the sock in your arse or would that just be weird?"

Anyway, even pleasure can get to be too much and so finally Sherlock prised one hand off the edge of the kitchen table, put his fist around his swollen cock, and let the force of John's thrust drive his erection back and forth in his own spit-slicked hand.

I don't even have a heart any more and I swear mine was pounding and waiting and pounding and—

"John John JohnJohnJoooooooooooooooooooohn."

Sherlock came hard enough to shoot come right up to his own damn neck, so help me, and I think I was about to shout or something when John did it for me, uttering the first words he'd said since they came home.

"I—" he thrust once more into Sherlock's still-throbbing arse, "—fucking—" his toes curled, "—love—" he threw back his head, "—you!" and started coming.

I swear to god it took me three hours before I could have a single coherent thought in my head.


I could go on, you know I could.

Once the boys slept awhile (passed out), sobered up (dealt with terrible hangovers), ate something (John could manage only toast; Sherlock ate like a stevedore), then slept again (this time like normal people), they woke feeling rather fabulous and while they were heading down the stairs toward the shower and the loo, they spontaneously decided to wank each other off in the stairwell. John, tummy far more settled than earlier, fell to his knees as Sherlock started coming, opened his mouth and from a good ten centimeters away rather voraciously consumed everything Sherlock had to give.

After the shower and some food and a nap on the couch (Sherlock hadn't had a case in over a week, which was fine, his brain had been plenty occupied by other things, and John's locum work is at best hit-and-miss anyway), they woke up and I'm not sure whose idea it was but the end result was that John had apricot jam smeared about his naked person and Sherlock sucked it off him—special care given to belly button, belly, and erection—until the proceedings ended quite satisfactorily for everyone involved.

I could go on, you know I could, but there was so much more it's unreasonable to expect me to cover it all and discuss the wedding, too.

Suffice to say that the sitting room's red stuffed chair is a tight fit when one man is sitting in it and the other is straddling him, impaled happily on a raging hard-on and grunting, "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes."

Also suffice to say that eating spaghetti off one another's belly's on the floor was as messy the second time as it was the first time they did it (last year? last month? I can't keep track anymore), and that it ended as orgasmically as it had then.

And frankly I'll just skip right over the stuff they did with Sherlock's great coat and John's striped jumper and the black lace corset with pretty red accents that neither of them can even remember buying.

I'll also not go into how happy I am that they gave up on the idea of doing it at the morgue, and in the alley back of the dentist's office that's over by Madame Tussauds (I was nervous enough they'd get caught when they did it the first time a couple months after they got together), and that they decided to forego a quickie in the loo at Angelo's ("I have a vague feeling we're starting to border on tacky now, you know?") and instead decided to continue their mating marathon safely within the homey confines of 221B.

I will finish this up by saying just one more thing, John looks a lot cuter in high heels than I'd have thought possible but Sherlock—oh god.


Do you see what you've done to me? You asked about the sex (didn't you? I could swear you did) and you got me completely derailed from the whole point of this chapter. And the whole point of this chapter was supposed to be about the wedding.

The wedding of Dr. John H. Watson to Mr. Sherlock No Middle Initial Holmes. (Basically I could happily say those exact words in that exact order until I'm dead. Which I am. But you know what I mean.)

Moving on.

It was a small wedding, and that was intentional and for two reasons.

First, they didn't want to have wait long. Even waiting a week seemed insane, and you can guess who it seemed craziest to, can't you?

"What if he changes his mind?"

It was two in the morning and I was recalling the doggy-style thing they'd done that night against the mantle and how at some point both of them had looked at me with such a look my hair—so to speak—had stood delightedly on end, when Sherlock breathed those soft words against my supraorbital foramen.


(Sorry, he'd completely caught me off guard.)

"What if he changes his mind? I don't want to wait. I want to get married now. Now."


(Look, it takes awhile to gather scattered wits when you have nothing left to keep them all in one place, okay?)

"I know better. I know that I know better. John's not going to change his mind. He's not."

Uh, yeah.

(Don't say anything, you, just don't.)

"He's not going to leave or undo what's done, in my heart and my mind I know this, but, but…"

You're excited, hon, you're just excited. You want it to happen now.


Sherlock sighed, petted my lambdoid suture with one long finger. "Yes. That's it. If I'm going to marry John—I am going to marry John—I want to marry him now. Right now."

It's two in the morning. A slightly inconvenient hour for nuptials. And also if you marry John without Mrs. Hudson present I will thrash you.

That's the second reason the wedding was small. There just weren't many people they wanted to have there. Mrs. Hudson, John's sister and her current lover, Gregory Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes (I have a feeling about those two but I'm not sure), Angelo and his extended family, Mrs. and Mr. Merrick, shopkeepers over on York (he's a lot like John, only thirty years in the future) and that's about it.

So yes, this chapter was meant to discuss the wedding, the unexpected thing that happened at the wedding, and wrap this story up all nicely, but you went and asked about the sex (you did, I could swear you did) and I got long-winded (you did notice up top where I used the word loquacious as pertaining to myself; you do know what that word means don't you?).

Anyway, I'm tired and it's four in the morning and so let me just finish up with my thinky thoughts and regroup and we'll meet back here.

Then I'll tell you what happened at a very lovely Berkshire vineyard where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson invited a few friends and family to join them and proceeded to do something that looked a lot like getting married.

      Next chapter


Why, yes, I DID ask about the sex!

YES! I love you madly, but I'mma smack you upside yer head, you tease! *smooches yer head instead*

This was a riot and a boatload of sexy fun and I adored it to bits.

You know what's coming next, right? (aside from S & J?) You do. I know you do. Ready?


Yeah, you totally knew.

Re: Why, yes, I DID ask about the sex!

*Ouch!* Well I deserved the smack upside the head, yes I did. *Sigh*

At least the final chapter, wherein a small wedding occurs, is already half done. Woot?

We don't have to ask about the sex, dear Skull - we know you will always tell us about the sex! XD XD XD

"Are we going to have thex John?" asked Sherlock, rather bright eyed, "Because I think that would be very nith."

Yeth, that thounded very nith... oh fuck, now you have me doing it. Much very nice sex, and also very nasty sex, and a fair amount of really nasty as hell sex!

So what about the wedding? ;-)

Yes, Rory will indeed tell all, won't she? But what else does she have to do really?

And we shall visit the wedding in the next and final chapter. And so help me god if I start another multi-chapter fic in addition to the ones I already have going please dope-slap me. Hard. Thank you.

John Watthon!!!!!Sherlock lisping John's name is the most delicious thing!And the sex?OMFG Atlin
"Ride,cowboy,ride!"I had to put a hand in my mouth to keep from laughing out loud when I read it.I still didn't stop.

*Giggle* I am glad you like it and that I gotchoo laughing. This was one cracky chapter, let me tell you. The voices in my head were feeling silly, they certainly were.

Thank you for the comment m'dear!

ROOOAAARING with laughter! And, a little flushed, truth be told.
HOW did you manage to make lisping sexy?
Sexthy Sexth indeed.

And this: "voluptuous detectivey behind"
Loved it.

Thrilled this made you laugh—yay! And have you *seen* that behind? Voluptuous doesn't even begin to cover it. As a matter of fact you have to go here and enjoy the sheer bounteous beauty that is Benedict's bum (if you haven't already):

And also, the lisping. Oh the lisping.

Thank you for the wonderful comment!

and gigglefits with Ms. Skull are the best 2:30am (uuuugh) study break EVAR.

And if I were a tipsy American lady who witnessed two boys who looked like THAT getting engaged in a little Italian dive, you bet Rory's (late evaporated) prefrontal cortex I'd be making them kiss. repeatedly.

*Snicker* I like to think that the tipsy American lady is me. No. No, that's not right. The tipsy American lady definitely is me.

Glad you enjoyed your study break! Glad I gave you gigglefits. I did warn this one was cracky!

Thanks for the comment, my dear!

John finally succeeded in taking the last bits of the wall standing sentinel 'round Sherlock's heart and smashing those fuckers to ruins.

Possibly the best line I have ever read. Gorgeous! My heart went all wibbly.

And yes, I definitely knew that the American woman with the wine was you - in your dreams, anyway!

Love the aside about Greg and Mycroft!!

I'm going to be quite sad when this story ends. *pouts*

I am always so happy when someone plucks out my favorite line and says it's theirs as well. You just did that. *Mwa* to you!

Thank you for the comment my dear. And don't be sad the story's closing, there's always The Never Ending (Seriously) Adventures of Feeding Sherlock, as well as Minutiae. Those are stories I will continue unto the pearly gates of heaven. Period. Forever. I've decided. Ironclad. Amen.

Oh God, I don't even know where to start. I was giggling straight throught this entire chapter.

I was also actually reading out loud the parts where Sherlock's lisp shows up, just to actually hear it and giggle some more.

And this, THIS is glorious: "can goothbumpth come because I thwear mine are!" I want this on a tshirt...or stitched on a pillow or something.

Hahahaaa, and you invited yourself along for the wedding, how nice ;) We expect pictures :p

ahh, thank you for the update, this was hilarious and hot and sweet and yay they are married :D

wait, and the lady making them drunk and asking them to kiss...that's you also, isn't it? Hahaaaaaaa


It is 5:30 in the Goddamn morning and I'm trying to run a bath and you know, be a responsible adult and get ready for work and such, and I'm literally LOLing in the bathroom reading this on my phone and trying not to wake the rest of the house.

Fuck me sideways, Atlin, that was amazing. I think I'm theeing thtars, too. A million twinkly thtars.

(and damn that's a fine ass on that man. Nice link.)

I love this comment so hard I might break it. I want to hug it and squeeze it and pet it and whisper to it sweet sweet nothings.

You are not so bad yourself, but you already knew that.

When I saw this chapter was ending there, I may have let out a teeny howl, but then I realised that means more chapter(s) :D So I can't be mad at you :) I'm so happy and sad to see this concluding I may have a small existential crisis before the next one :P

Awww, I am glad to hear of your suffering and sad. Glad and sad. Sad and glad. Weird and weirder. *Cough* What I mean to say is I am glad you have enjoyed / are enjoying Rory's fine story stylings!

And, if it's any comfort, at least Feeding Sherlock and Minutiae will go on forever!

Oh yes, it's such a drag to hear about all the sex.

Also, Sherlock lisping when he's drunk is my favourite thing ever. Do you have any idea how much of my head canon comes from your stories?

"Do you have any idea how much of my head canon comes from your stories?"

Do you have any idea how giggly-happy this makes my ego? I have a GIGGLING EGO courtesy of you Kim.

Thank you.

"I have a vague feeling we're starting to border on tacky now, you know?")

::: dies :::

:-P Of course it would be John who would at least *start* to think so. Sherlock might think so but he wouldn't care. If I were doing Sherlock I wouldn't care either, come to think of it...

Ah Wendy and Rory, do you know how happy you make us all?
This was just the start I needed today ! So thanks so very much. I am very much looking forward to the next chapter... But I really REALLY needed the laugh that this gave me.
Drunk, lisping Therlock RULES!

I am very happy I gave you the laugh you may have needed this morning. Drunk Sherlock, drunk lisping Therlock—it is to love. And love I do. Love love love.

Thank you for the comment my dear!

The lisp! The table sex! The lisp!

*ahem* Lovely, hot and sweet chapter!

The lisp is love. I love the lisp. I would marry the lisp and Rory. Maybe not in that order. Depends.

"As I was saying, the detective was positively gabby as his fiancé (!) humped happily away in that bodacious-yet-firm, big-yet-well-proportioned arse. "Oh god John! I have goothbumpth!""

That, and indeed the whole thing, made my ladyparts very happy. And throbby. Good god, lispy Sherlock is exponentially hotter than he has any right to be. And arse? Nggg. And Sherlock's little belly? Ditto.

You weren't expecting anything coherent were you?

"lispy Sherlock is exponentially hotter than he has any right to be"

Ain't that the confounding truth? I don't know what it is...maybe it makes him sound vulnerable and therefore more human? Or maybe—oh who cares. It makes him sound fuckable. There. Solved.

*Mwa* my dear!

have again laughed too hard, and probably way too loud. seems I have scared the homeless man with his shopping cart. couldn't help it, laughter carries from the windows through the trees down to sidewalk. was laughing too hard to run down stairs and explain that the noise wasnt the possessed spirit of the trees, was just me cackling like a loon over sherlock and his amusing sexy lisp antics. yeah, well ...

can't wait for next chapter. next time will note should close windows before reading Atlin Merrick. lesson learned, eh? :)

Awww, poor homeless gentleman. Maybe you should print out some porn and give it to him.

Thank you for making me giddy happy with the intel that you laughed so loud you frightened people.

P.S. Next chap up this weekend fer sure!


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