#hamishholmess

[prettysherlocksoldier]

SO EXCITED

SHERLOCK SEATTLE! TIS HERE!!

I'm probably gonna be turning in soon (didn't sleep last night, don't ask) but be sure to message me if you wanna meet up, and I'll get back to you tomorrow morning before everything kicks off!

[prettysherlocksoldier]

Sherlock Seattle

CAN YOU BELIEVE HOW CLOSE IT IS!??!!!

Also, if you haven't already, let me know if you wanna meet up! I'm staying at the Silver Cloud and get in Thursday!

[brihseis]

hamishholmess replied to your post “do u no of any good figureskater!lock?”

Working on the Edges, by earlgreytea68!!! Sweet god, SO FUCKING GOOD!

i hope the anon's seeing this, thank you! :)

[hamishholmess]

[1]

                  “Callum, why the hell would I want to attend a ballet?”

Callum Everett poked out his bottom lip in a pout. “Come on, John. Don’t make me go alone. There will be men in tights, for chrissake.”

The men yanked open their forest green lockers, tossing in their soaked towels and dirt covered cleats. Watson was making quick business of shedding his practice gear, face red and tufts of hair sticking up where salty sweat and tackle after tackle had caused it to run amuck. John Watson stood in his black shorts, scratching his ankle with his other foot. He laced his fingers together and tugged at the back of his neck. “Damnit, Everett. I love Molly. You know I do. But it’s such short notice.”

Callum weaseled in at the weakness. “Okay, let’s make a wager. London Broncos are playing against the Bulls this Saturday. If the Broncos win, you’re off. If Bradford wins, you have to come with us.”*

Watson considered as he peeled off his socks. He licked his lips as he reached for a new towel. “Alright. Yeah.” Callum pumped a fist into the air, and as Watson headed towards the showers in nothing but his pants, Everett popped a sweat drenched towel across John’s left arse cheek. With a hiss and a middle finger, John turned the corner. “You ungrateful prick!”

    -

The match was on the telly. About a third of the team sat in various places in Watson’s living room. “Alright, boys. I’ve got Imperial Stout, Guinness, whiskey, and the means to make hot toddies. Pick your poison.”

John was a fairly average looking man. He had perpetually disheveled blonde hair that paired nicely with blue eyes, varying from shallow ocean to midnight, depending on his mood. They were kind eyes, tinted with the ferocity of a man who has seen and survived a life that had left much wanting. His nose was sharp and symmetrical and just below, a mouth framed in laughter lines. He was amenable, charming and too sharp tongued for his own good most days. Women adored him, men befriended him, and Watson knew no strangers.

“Better double up that whiskey shot of yours, Watson. It’s gonna be a rough afternoon for you. I hope you have a date lined up.” Callum plucked a Stout from the plastic band and collapsed onto the gray houndstooth couch. He kicked off his trainers and began to prop his feet onto the coffee table.

“I always double my whiskey shot, Everett. And get your feet off my table. Molly would be ashamed.”

-

John tugged another tie out of his drawer and laced it under the collar of his pale blue button-up. He sighed in frustration. Katherine had called him twenty minutes earlier. Conveniently enough, she had fallen ill in the last two hours. John wasn’t surprised; he never kept a woman too long. His career path wasn’t a traditional one. Women liked a man who is, or wanted soon to be, settled, well off, and easily accessible; John really only qualified in category two. Sometimes the lifestyle is enough to keep a girl for a few months, especially if he was off season, but overall he had become accustomed to short and sweet pairings. He preferred a life of travel, rowdy nights and his friends. So much more of the world had been seen that way. There were few things better than traveling through the night by bus, teammates passed out in various awkward positions, good music leaking through headphones as the lights of different cities whirred past in neon lines. Or the first time he stepped onto a new field, feeling his cleats dig into the well-kept grass, the rush of adrenaline that swept through every muscle of his body. Watson was yet to meet someone that had even remotely convinced him a settled life in London would be better.

He decided on a navy tie, assuming it was safe with his warm gray suit. Formal attire wasn’t his greatest strength. He was running a wax-covered palm through his hair when his doorbell rang.

The oak door pulled open and a stunning brunette held her own in the frame. She was taller this evening, wearing a moderate heel, her hair pulled up in a tumbling mass of curls. She had gentle brown eyes and thin lips pulled into a warm smile.

“Molly. You look lovely.”

“Hello, John,” Molly grinned. “So glad you could make it tonight.”

Callum trotted up the stairs, resting his freshly-shaven chin on Molly’s shoulder. “Yes, we are, in fact. Particularly me!”

Molly’s brown eyes rolled a bit and she let out a mildly frustrated laugh. “Is Katherine ready?” Her eyes were sparkling. John was always amazed by Molly Hooper, but tonight, by two things in particular: one, that Callum told Molly about every woman John dated and two, that Molly remembered every single one, in spectacular detail. He supposed he could only blame her fantastic character. John realized he probably ought to take a few lessons from her. He could never remember who had a dog and who taught kindergarten. Watson mostly remembered their favorite recreational activities after sunset.

“No, no she isn’t, actually. She won’t be joining us this evening.”

Callum’s smile faltered, followed by a look of shameful guilt. “John, if you don’t want to come, we’ll be perfectly fine, really, don’t feel like you have to –“

John raised his hand and grinned. “Really. I said I’d come, I want to come, so if you don’t mind a third wheel, I believe I’m seeing a ballet for the first time tonight.”

“We’d love to have another date,” Molly offered, in her most faux-seductive voice. She blushed immediately, giggled and Callum leaned in to kiss her cheek.

“Well damn, Watson, guess we’re a threesome tonight. You know Molly. Wild one.”

John winked, snagged his gloves off the small table in the foyer, and shut the door with a click. The trio flagged down a cab and shot off in the dark towards the heart of London.

    -

Molly exited the cab with ease. She was one hell of a woman, and John loved her for Callum. She was a fascinating combination of grace and clumsiness, innocence and fervor. Her silver heels clacked on the sidewalk as she led the way to Marylebone, peering over her right shawl covered shoulder. The grin plastered across her face warmed John’s heart. It honestly had not mattered either way whether or not he won the wager and came tonight, but he knew it would please Molly, and that had been more than enough to convince him to follow through. Callum walked next to him, one step for John’s every two. Everett’s green eyes watched his fiancé with untouched adoration. John could tell he was tracing the straps of Molly’s pewter colored dress, resting on her shoulders in particular, before following down to admire her calves. John looked away and gave Callum the privacy. Oddly enough, being with them never made John feel lonely. Katherine didn’t appreciate the pair of them the way John did. She didn’t listen to Molly when she spoke, didn’t look Callum in the eye when he tried to explain a play, or the rules of rugby. She was fun, but she wasn’t a Molly; she wasn’t worth keeping for all of time or eternity. Sometimes John wondered if anyone would see that in him. He liked being the good time; loved it, in fact. The thought of him settling down somewhere and being with one person for an extended period of time was a curious one. He mulled it over as he entered through the glass doors of the venue. Marble floors covered the expanse of the interior, silver fixtures and a large, crystal chandelier setting off prisms across the walls and John’s gray suit. It was luxurious in an understated way, and John chuckled at the absolute contradiction of the thought.

“Okay, through the right set of doors, up the stairs. We’ve got box seats. I’m going to see if I can find Sherlock and wish him luck! I’ll see you in just a few.” Molly planted a kiss on Everett’s mouth, and headed for another door. John looked at Callum; they both shrugged their shoulders and headed through the proper set of doors. The stairs were covered in a rich, red, velvet carpet. Watson felt guilty for wearing shoes. At least he had shined them up, even if he had done a half arse job of it. After three sets of stairs, the boys broke into a hall way, each set of box seats labeled from the outside. Their tickets read BX221A, 221B, 221C, 221D.

[hamishholmess]

John was sitting at the bar, downing his fifth pint. A comfortable buzz had settled into his bones. It was Friday night, and the pub was packed with dancing bodies. The lights were low, and he could feel a little bass deep in his chest.

A pretty blonde strolled up to him. She laced her hand around his neck and leaned in: “Dance?” It was a question with a hint of assumption and shit ton of alcohol. John slid off his stool and volunteered to be led through the throng of humans. She was mild at first, keeping her distance and only lacing her knees next to John’s. Then her hands had found his chest, running from his shoulders down to the top of his trousers. John felt a bit warm under his collar as he watched her turn and wrap her long hair in a fist, pressing her hips into his. He wouldn’t reach out to touch her; this wasn’t really his scene. But it was fun, and innocent, and mildly sexy.

The song shifted, and she kissed his cheek and winked, heading to the bar. John assumed she was getting another round. He lingered awkwardly among the hot bodies. Just as he was about to walk away, cold fingers wrapped around his wrist.

The arm they belonged to was long, pale, with gorgeous blue veins surfacing at the soft skin near the palm of his hand. His. John looked up into a frightfully attractive face. His predator was tall, a little over six feet at least, with alabaster skin and fierce, gray blue eyes. They rested above absurdly defined cheekbones and were accompanied by a mouth that could only be described, in pure honesty, as full, pouting and delicious. Oh, fuck. The man slid his black-denim covered leg between John’s, and Watson felt his breath exit in one frantic rush. The song leaking from the DJ’s speakers was a huge hit in America… a slow, pulsing beat. Latch. That’s what it was.

John didn’t consider himself much of a dancer, but somehow he got sorted very quickly with this terrifying, tantalizing man. The stranger laced one of his palms to the small of John’s back and gave a small pull. Their hips touched, and John felt a familiar heat bloom in his stomach. He licked his lips and looked from where their hips were grinding together up to his face. John opened his mouth, to ask the stranger his name, but a long, lithe finger came to rest across Watson’s lips. They were cold, and John suddenly had a desire to take it in his mouth.

John was being pushed away, then turned. He felt both hands grip the concave parts of his hips and pull. There was hot breath in Watson’s ear; he began to feel faint. “Sherlock.” The voice was deep, dark and glorious. John shivered. Jesus Christ. John wrapped an arm up and around Sherlock’s neck and gripped the other hand on his hip. He watched as his knuckles grew white. Teeth were biting at the curve of his ear. John reached into the head of curls and tugged. He felt a fantastic hardness twitch underneath him in unison.

And then the song was over. John didn’t want to leave the curve of the inside of Sherlock’s hips, didn’t want to release the curls tightly wound in his short, callused fingers, didn’t want to watch that mouth walk out the door. The next bass-filled top hit came on, and John turned, giving Sherlock a strong push towards the toilets. The brunette smirked and John gave a devilish grin. John pushed him through the bathroom door and against the wall. Watson yanked at the man’s belt, and pressed into him, biting at his neck. He kissed Sherlock’s ear and breathed “John.” He watched with satisfaction as gooseflesh broke out across the taut skin of his arms. Someone pushed at the door, but didn’t linger long after understanding where this freight train was headed. Sherlock shoved John’s hands away and cornered him into a stall, slamming the flimsy door behind him. His hand was cradling the back of John’s head, and then his lips were burning fire into John’s. His tongue found entrance to John’s mouth and was tracing his lips, exploring the roof of his mouth… John gasped. Hands were under shirts and pulling at the buttons and zips of their trousers. John teased Sherlock through his pants, rubbing his hands across a magnificent erection. Watson felt his own pulse beneath the tension of his cotton pants. John watched in fascination as Sherlock fell to his knees and ran his tongue across John’s leaking hard on. “Fuck” left Watson’s throat in a broken moan. Who the fuck was this? He must have him. Now.

John grabbed Sherlock’s gorgeous jaw and forced eye contact. His eyes were blown wide with lust, his pupils consuming the silvery blue that was there mere minutes ago. John gently pulled Sherlock back to his feet and gave his cupid’s bow a small kiss before pulling his pants to his knees. He took Sherlock’s hand in his own and ran his tongue down the center. He licked his own hand and wrapped it around Sherlock’s flushed, velvet skinned prick. It was perfect, and gave a deep twitch at John’s contact. Sherlock melted into the wall, head tilted back, curls falling across his eyes. Watson nipped at the exposed skin of his pale neck. He was so tempted to leave a love bite, just there. Under the jaw, close the ear. Sherlock’s hips arched forward, demanding more from John. John spat in his hand and pressed his miserably hard cock into the delicious v of Sherlock’s hip. He wrapped his hands around both of them, gasping, and began to rut against his own hand and Sherlock’s hip.

“Goddamnit.” That voice. It was like warm honey melting over biscuits fresh out of the oven. Like the perfect cup of earl grey, two sugars and a dash of milk. It resonated in John’s bones like a song. He had never wanted someone so badly in all his fucking life. Christ. Sherlock’s chest was heaving, and John bit at the bones exposed from the sternum.

“You do realize you’re coming home with me?” John spoke in a lethal whisper. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open and a smug grin possessed that perfect mouth. John chuckled in a menacing way and fell to his knees, knowing Sherlock was close. He enveloped the hot heat of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth. Sherlock watched through heavily lidded eyes as John’s cheeks hollowed. There was a magnificent, guttural sound that escaped his lungs and John’s prick twitched between his legs. Six, seven, eight. Sherlock was shuddering under John’s touch, knuckles white from clenched fists. John ran his hand teasingly down Sherlock’s chest, clawing at the ripples in his abdomen. His cock found the back of John’s throat and he moaned. Sherlock fell to pieces. “Jesus. Fuck. John.” Jawn. Oh. While savoring Sherlock slipping down his throat, John wrapped his hand around his own cock and two thrusts in, he came.

John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s thigh, steadying his breathing. He giggled after a moment, realizing the absolute absurdity of the situation. He looked up at Sherlock from his knees. The brunette’s eyes were glinting deviantly, the right side of his mouth pulled up at the corner.

“Still planning to take me home?”

“God, yes.”