1 - 20 of 27 Works by CaitlinFairchild
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They’re sure of each other, now. They’re settled. And as far as Sherlock is concerned, settled isn’t the least bit boring or stifling or constraining.
Settled is marvellous. Settled is freeing.
Settled means sometimes you make romantic love by candlelight, murmuring hushed words of endless devotion solely because you want to, because the moment feels right and good.
And sometimes, settled means you fuck on the sofa on a Saturday afternoon, straightforward and uncomplicated, no deep desperate romance necessary, just because fucking is fun.
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Sherlock takes a nap and gets stung by a bee. That's pretty much it.
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After a tragic confrontation with terrible consequences, Sherlock and John follow Mary as she flees to America.
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The Subtler Pleasures of a Thoughtful Correction by CaitlinFairchild
Fandoms: Sherlock (TV)
24 Jun 2020
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The door of their flat thumps shut behind them. John slides the deadbolt home, and for some reason the rasp and click of it is loud in Sherlock’s ears.
“Turn to face me,” John says in the hallway, his words brooking no dissent.
Sherlock does.
John reaches up, tugging Sherlock’s coat free from his shoulders, sliding it down off his arms and tossing it carelessly aside. He places his hand on the centre of Sherlock’s chest, very deliberately, and pushes him slowly but insistently against the wall.
“Do you know what I have to do?” John asks. His hand anchors Sherlock against the wall, not with force but with undeniable authority, and it makes Sherlock feel like a captured specimen of some sort, pinned and mounted for John’s inspection.
Series
- Part 8 of Somatic Theory
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Now, willingly stripped and bound and pushed to his knees, he is the closest he’s ever been to the absolute and essential essence of who and what he is. Somehow, within the structures and rules of this strange, elaborate sexual game, Sherlock has discovered new and a completely unknown side of himself, here at the juncture where the most base of biological impulses meets a desperate need for intimate emotional connection.
These moments are where the entire bewildering tangle of his damaged and fragile psyche is laid bare, every nerve and fiber twitching, raw and exposed.
It’s terrifying and freeing. It’s the highest he’s ever soared, the closest he’s ever flown to the sun.
Series
- Part 5 of Somatic Theory
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“Sherlock,” John continues, careful and quiet. “I’ve seen your back. I know you were hurt. I don’t want to pry, I don’t want to cause you discomfort but...I’m starting to think something else happened there. In Serbia.”
Sherlock rolls away and sits up on the edge of the bed, his back to John.
“A great many things happened in Serbia,” he says, flat and remote. “None of them were pleasant.”
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In the Bleak Midwinter (A Canticle for Advent) by CaitlinFairchild
Fandoms: Sherlock (TV)
17 Jul 2015
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In the autumn of 2014, Mary Watson shot Sherlock Holmes. This is what happened after.
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“They were designed to copy human beings in every way except their emotions. The designers reckoned in a few years they might develop their own emotional responses. You know, hate, love, fear, anger, envy. So they built in a fail-safe device.”
“Which is what?” John asks.
“Four year lifespan.” The Chief Inspector takes a deep drag, exhales a plume of smoke. “There’s a Nexus 6 over at the Holmes Corporation. Latest model upgrade. I want you to put the machine on it.”
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“Poor pet,” John says with dark-tinged affection. “Were the nice pants I bought you uncomfortable? Rubbing and chafing against you?” He dips his head, kisses the sharp edge of Sherlock's jaw. “Were you hard all day long?” he murmurs into his ear.
Sherlock nods.
“And It’s been a while since we played, hasn’t it?”
Sherlock nods again, dark curls bobbing.
They’ve had vanilla sex in the interim, of course, of the kisses and cuddles and late-night-handjob variety, and while the orgasms were nice, it doesn’t even begin to compare to this.
It’’s like holding a 40 watt bulb next to a supernova. It’s not the same and it’s not enough anymore and they both know it, absolutely.
“It’s only been a week, you greedy whore,” John reprimands with a bare touch of amusement. “God, you’re such a slut, so desperate to spread your legs after just a few days without.”
***
Or: Sherlock's not the only one who's maybe, possibly, probably in way too deep, here.Series
- Part 7 of Somatic Theory
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And if you say the word, I could stay with you by CaitlinFairchild for allonsys_girl, bittergreens
Fandoms: Sherlock (TV)
05 Nov 2014
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What Sherlock thinks is, On the day I die, be it in a dirty alley at forty or in my bed at eighty, the last thing I will remember is tonight, the way you looked at at me on the snowy pavement, cheeks pink with the cold, breath puffing in frosty white clouds, your heart in your eyes and snowflakes in your hair. I will remember that single perfect moment in my life, that moment I knew I had everything I ever wanted, and whatever happens next, I will die content.
What he says is simply, "Marry me."
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“And once again, you think you know what’s best for me.”
John rises from the chair, the anger and frustration and hurt overwhelming him, bursting out of every pore, and he doesn’t even know for sure that it’s Sherlock he’s angry at, really, but the only reason he tied himself to Mary in the first place is because the person he really loved left him behind, and the woman he married once sat in the shadows above a darkened swimming pool and aimed a sniper rifle at his heart and later shot his best friend in cold blood and cuckolded him and just gave birth to a child that wasn’t his and right now he just can’t do this, he just fucking can’t do this anymore.
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John has to somehow rebuild his life in the wake of Mary's betrayal and Sherlock's deceptions.
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“Open your eyes, love,” John whispers. “Open your eyes and look.”
Series
- Part 6 of Somatic Theory
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The bedroom door opens and closes. The bedside lamp clicks on. A warm rough hand cards gently through his hair.
“My good boy,” John murmurs from behind him, and reaches for the side table drawer. He finds his collar and fastens it quickly with one practiced hand, stroking and petting his hair with the other. He sinks down carefully to his knees behind Sherlock, presses his clothed body into his back. The friction of fabric against his naked skin is delightful, makes a shiver run down his spine.
“I was afraid, and I shouldn’t have been,” John breathes into his ear. ”If you trust me, I will trust you.” He kisses the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, bites him there gently. “You were right. I was keeping myself from you, and I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. I owe you a thousand apologies for that. And I will offer every one to you, I will. Later. But for now…”
Series
- Part 4 of Somatic Theory
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“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmurs. “Love. Just--just dance with me. Please.” John presses his face to Sherlock’s chest in entreaty.
Sherlock doesn’t know what else to do, how else to survive this moment, so he does what John asks, and dances.
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John is still and relaxed, drifting close to sleep, when Sherlock figures out the thing he wants to say.
“I like bees,” he murmurs into the warm, musky silence between them.
John’s breathing changes as he contemplates the non sequitur.
“I never knew you gave bees a second thought,” he says softly.
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“Hello there, gorgeous,” John murmurs, warm and fond. “I’ve missed you.”
Sherlock reaches into the pocket of his dressing gown and pulls out his collar. The metal hardware jingles as he drops it in John’s lap and waits.
John’s fingers in his hair grow still. John picks up the collar and inhales. Exhales.
“Sweetheart. After what you’ve just been through...I don’t know if this the kind of thing we should--”
Something spikes in Sherlock’s chest. It’s hard to breathe past it.
“John,” he says, fighting hard to keep his voice even, “surely you’re not so stupid that you can’t parse the profound psychological difference between what we do and actually being forcibly imprisoned.”
Series
- Part 3 of Somatic Theory
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John’s fingers leave Sherlock’s hair and he settles back into his well-worn chair. Arousal is flooding Sherlock’s amygdala, lighting his nerves on fire, making his skin tingle and burn with need. He squirms a bit against the bite of the restraints.
John’s face darkens, grows stern. “Settle, you,” he rumbles warningly. He takes a sip of his tea. “Eyes on the floor.” He sets the tea down and picks up his paper.
Sherlock gazes at the floorboards, breathes out, stills his mind and waits. As the minutes tick by he finds himself slipping into the dreamy-yet-alert aura of subspace, his entire being subsumed, calmed by the simplicity of this, responsibility lifted from his shoulders, the only thing asked of him is to do exactly what John tells him to do.
Series
- Part 2 of Somatic Theory
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“I want us to go slow,” John says softly. “I want to enjoy every moment of this. Do you know why?”
“No,” Sherlock says, and it comes out a touch impatient but God, how he wants. “Why?”
“Because this is the last time I’m going to kiss you for the first time. And this time, I’m going to do it properly.”
Series
- Part 3 of Lessons in Astronomy
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If Sherlock doesn’t have those hands and mouth on his body as close to right now as possible, he feels like might very well die tonight after all.
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“Sherlock, I think you may be on to something.” John tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “I won’t hit you,” John said, radiating calm control as he pulled hard on the sensitive strands, making him gasp in pain and surprise. “But I’m thinking hitting isn’t the only way to give you what you want. You want sensory input? I can get--” he pulled Sherlock’s head up and leaned closer-- ”Very--” he pulled his hair even harder-- “creative,” he whispered, licking the delicate curve at the top of his ear.
Sherlock moaned, a throaty, desperate sound that sent a jolt of fire straight through John’s body. “Oh yes, John,” he breathed. "Yes, please.”
Series
- Part 1 of Somatic Theory