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Johanna Watson has always been straight.
It’s kind of her thing. Yes, OK, she was in the Army, she works out, the contours of her body have more to do with muscle tone than curves, she keeps her hair in a buzz cut, even now, and even if she’d cared about the state of her nails before Afghanistan, that would have cured her of it.
But if people looked at all that and wanted to call her a dyke - whether in a positive-solidarity or flirty way, or behind her back, or yelled at her back, so she’d have to go over and sort them the fuck out, because a drunken wanker is a drunken wanker, and she’d never needed much of an excuse anyway - then that was just their stupid prejudice.
Every now and again, people get the wrong end of the stick about her and Sherlock. Probably a lot less than if they had been two blokes, but it happens. Lestrade had looked rather hopeful when Anderson had leapt all the way, again, to the wrong conclusion.
And yeah, obviously, Sherlock is kind of beautiful. Too skinny - Johanna wishes she’d eat a bit more - and nothing like the kind of girls you get on the front of the tabloids – less curves than Johanna even, all long white limbs and silky skin and pale hair, because Sherlock thinks shaving is pointless cultural subservience and, really, she’s right.
Sherlock’s generally right.
Which is why this, now, is a bit confusing to say the least.
“But you want me to, don’t you?” Sherlock is asking, frowning, not as if she’s confused but as if she’s concerned that Johanna is being particularly obtuse and wondering when the head injury occurred, because, really, how could Johanna be slower?
That? Is pissing Johanna off, and the buzz of anger, of adrenaline, is not helping the situation.
Yes, OK, she’s aroused. She can’t help it, she split up with Simon two months ago now (he said she only cared about Sherlock, and she’d wanted to say, Yeah, sure, fine, but who said I had to care about you to get a bloody leg over?, and then she’d felt awful, because she was, you know, The Nice Person), and she’s sick of her own right hand and after one incident with Mrs Hudson coming up to ask in a worried voice about a broken boiler making a noise, the vibrator has gone forever.
“Frankly, Sherlock?” she says, because she’s learnt that with Sherlock the direct approach, as ridiculous as it may feel, is the only way. “Yes, I would really appreciate someone going down on me just about now. Well done, you’ve deduced correctly, however you did it...”
“You’re rocking slightly on your jean seam. Subconscious, but it means you want an orgasm. Were you currently in a relationship you would have started texting your boyfriend approximately half an hour ago to arrange an assignation. And this is the right time slot – you always show increased frequency of this behaviour around the time of your ovulation. Our ovulation.” She frowns.
It has annoyed Sherlock so very, very much that they have synced.
“Also your nipples have stiffened, although the room is warm, and when I asked you just now if you were thinking about cunnilingus your pupils dilated.”
Johanna takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a moment. “However you did it, Sherlock, and, for the record, OK, I don’t think anyone besides sex researchers calls it that, the point is, it’s not happening.”
Sherlock has already come to sit next to her on the sofa, and is now leaning forward with curiosity clear across her features, her eyes sparkling with interest, and Johanna is still wishing she would drop the subject, but being the object of Sherlock Holmes’ fascination? That never really stops being slightly amazing.
“I really would like to try,” Sherlock murmurs, as if she’s talking about a new kind of acid-fast blood test or a better air rifle or any mystery really, Sherlock loves mysteries with more intensity than perhaps she’s capable of ever really feeling for anything else.
And Johanna is, apparently, a mystery.
Sherlock’s mouth is slightly open, all eagerness, and, dressed as usual in only thin pyjamas and a dressing gown, the peaking of her own nipples is clearly visible.
Novelty turns Sherlock on. Johanna knows that, even if Sherlock hasn’t quite made the mental connection yet. Although Sherlock has never had a relationship of any kind, at least as far as Johanna knows, she’s not completely disinterested. After a successful case, before she’ll sleep or eat again or let herself relax, she always spends a good hour in her bedroom, gasping.
What does Sherlock do to herself? Johanna wonders, suddenly. Does she just scrub her clit till she shudders, or does she press into herself? Does she know how to make that feel good? Does she lie back, knees bent, legs splayed, or does she crouch on the floor to get a better angle? Does she use something? Put something in herself? Does she pinch or stroke or twist or tap or thrust?
The tightness between Johanna’s legs twists harder and sharper, aching now, and Sherlock is nodding, has clearly seen whatever flush has passed over her.
“I just want to try, Johanna. Please?”
It’s the ‘please’ that does it. Maybe. Or maybe the way Sherlock’s lips are just that bit moist, or the way her fingers are flexing on her own thighs, so long and dextrous.
Or that Johanna has never, ever been able to resist charging right after Sherlock into anything, and she’s never, ever regretted it either.
She sighs, relaxes her posture a little, uncrossing her legs.
“Fine. Knock yourself out. No teeth, OK?”
As Sherlock sets out getting her jeans off and kneeling in front of her, Johanna remembers that Sherlock has implied this will be her first time trying this. Which could be fairly... well, she might panic at the taste or the heat or something – Johanna’s had boyfriends who cried off for that reason, and she’s always thought it was fair enough really. If that happens, Johanna will be kind and forgiving. And then very secretly do something very awful and vengeful that she will concoct later, very probably involving the pet skull and glitter pens.
But Sherlock’s pressing her nose and mouth to the crotch of Johanna’s knickers, and taking a deep breath, and not apparently freaking out yet. Just the pressure of this makes Johanna wriggle, and murmur a little as even more blood pounds into tissue that feels too full, too tight already, and she’s so wet the cloth has to be sopping.
Sherlock breathes out again, hot air through damp fabric, and Johanna bites her lip.
“Get on with it, if you’re going to.”
Sherlock flicks a look up at her from under long lashes many women would spend a fortune on trying to imitate, but what Johanna really sees is the soft, almost shy expression, like Sherlock’s surprised and pleased at the response.
Then, she licks her.
Through the fabric, one cautious lick, and then another, not very hard, testing.
“Right, OK.” Johanna has done executive decisions before, she is prepared to get the bloody revolver out now if necessary. “OK. That’s really enough.”
Sherlock pulls back, and there’s something close to dismay on her face, but Johanna just sighs, pulls her knickers clean off and flings them to the other side of the living room and lies back again, legs well apart, and beckons.
“I did not appreciate the timing factor to be...” Sherlock begins, tentatively.
Johanna was planning to grab her head and push her to where she’s needed. She was planning not to worry that that might be aggressive, because, well, if Sherlock was going to get overwhelmed and stop it might as well be whilst Johanna still has the leg power to get upstairs and into her bedroom, but her plans don’t quite happen.
Leaning over, she pulls Sherlock up into a kiss.
Sherlock’s mouth is so warm, and tastes of tea and something else that – of all things – makes Johanna feel safe.
“Kiss me there, Sherlock,” Johanna says, softly, as they part. “That’s all there is to it, OK? You’ll be fine, just, just like that kiss, just...” She closes her eyes and makes an effort of willpower and Being So Nice: “And if you don’t like it, you can stop. I don’t say I won’t kill you, but I’d make it painless.”
Sherlock blinks at her. “That will not be necessary,” she asserts, before leaning forward, curving in, and getting her open mouth right between Johanna’s legs, right onto her stupid, aching, demanding, hot, dripping cunt.
Johanna gasps out, arches her back, grabs onto the arm of the sofa. Sherlock is kissing, yes, and although it seemed like a good way to explain it, Johanna’s never felt it like this before, lips moving and moving over her clit, snagging it so softly and then loosing it again, over and over, hints of tongue all random and anyhow, till she’s moving her hips in her own rhythm, trying to get Sherlock to find it, one hand in Sherlock’s long, black hair, pressing her in.
Sherlock makes some kind of noise that Johanna is just going to vaguely file as intrigued because the last thing she can do right now is concentrate, fixes Johanna’s clit in her lips and starts properly sucking, keeping the right rhythm now, and Johanna’s fingers are really going to leave marks where she’s gripping on, and it’s good, so good, and she’s throbbing-aching-hurting now, twisting tighter and tighter, chasing after release.
The feeling changes – maybe Sherlock’s gathered all the data she needs in one position, or maybe she’s just curious, who knows? – and Johanna’s being licked now, quick, sharp licks like a cat’s, over and over and over, right across her entrance and up and over her, again and again.
She throws her head back, lifts her hips bodily off the sofa as she rises into it, and Sherlock follows and there, there, that’s it, fuck, it feels like she must be coming for five minutes or more – there are sparks behind her closed eyes.
“That was interesting,” Sherlock is saying, softly. Johanna, sprawled all anyhow on the sofa, opens her eyes and looks.
Sherlock is sitting on the floor, knees drawn up under her chin, looking up at Johanna, her face all sticky and her mouth still open and her eyes dark as pitch. She looks... almost lost.
“I didn’t think anyone could find it that enjoyable, I didn’t...”
Johanna sits up, leans over, and kisses her again; she’s tasted herself often enough on another person’s lips, but it’s different on Sherlock, it feels good and pleasing in a strange, primal way to have her scent on this woman.
And, fuck it, Johanna is That Really Nice Person, and she’s certainly got a sense of fair play.
“I could try it on you? You know, if you like?”
Sherlock smiles up at her, in that way she has, like Johanna actually matters in a world full of irrelevancies, and Johanna decides that if one has always been straight that clearly means it’s well past time for a few experiments.