Fan Fiction Friday: Sherlock Holmes and Watson in "Five plus one"

By Rob Bricken in Miscellaneous, Nerdery, TV
Friday, April 13, 2012 at 2:12 pm
I understand the principle behind Sherlock Holmes erotic fan fiction, really I do. Two men, living together, very popular stories, it happens. And with the new, awesome show -- starring new nerd hunk Benedict Cumberbatch -- well, it's tailor-made for folks to write stories about Sherlock and Watson getting it on. What I don't understand is why someone would write a story about Sherlock being a submissive to Watson's dom, as that flies in the face of every Sherlock story, movie, TV show and whatnot. Why write about Sherlock Holmes, erotically or otherwise, if you're not going to make him anything like Sherlock Holmes?

Of course, I also don't understand why you'd write a story about Sherlock getting sexually dominated and humiliated, but I've long ago given up trying to solve those kinds of mysteries. Suffice to say, this story by author Fireofangels is much like the classic Holmes tale "The Five Orange Pips," except there are six of them and instead of orange pips they're things that get inserted in Sherlock's anus. Shall we?

Sherlock whines by the door, feeling very uncomfortable. What if Mrs Hudson walks in? It could happen. At any given moment. It really could.

If only Sherlock had some kind of ability to deduce when Mrs. Hudson might return from her trip.

He snuffles against the wood, scratching at his with his gloved hands, not even able to make a sound. He butts his forehead into the jamb by accident, a tiny whimper escaping his mouth, but the muzzle stops any sound from coming out of his mouth.

Oh, lord.

It had all been going so well. They had had a lazy afternoon in, since it was a Sunday and nothing else was happening. Mrs Hudson had gone away, so John had suggested his favourite form of entertainment - puppy play.

WHAT. THE FUCKING. FUCK. "Puppy play"? Is that a thing? Some horrible fetish in-between furry-dom and infantilsm? God fucking dammit. If Sherlock piddles on the floor, I quit. Also, what's the chance that the author isn't British but spelled favorite as "favourite" because he thought it brought a touch of authenticity to his Sherlock/Watson puppy sexual role-play story?

Not for him, of course, but he did love to watch Sherlock scramble around on the floor, long limbs bound with leather to keep him from hurting himself, humping himself up against the sofa, responding to any command John gave him. It made John want to shove his dick down Sherlock's throat until the other man choked. Sherlock kind of liked it too.

Well, I can see how you'd want to fuck a puppy whose really a gangly man with bound limbs and WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING HERE

They had graduated from 'roll over' and 'sit' to 'suck my cock, now, fuck, yes'. John could get quite heated when he wanted something. Sherlock hadn't meant to get into trouble, he always tries to be as good as he can when he is John's puppy, but John had just moved unexpectedly, and he had accidentally scraped at him with his teeth. Only a tiny bit. Only a really, really tiny bit.

But it was enough to gift him with a series of painful smacks to his backside, and for a ragingly angry John to put the muzzle on, saying he couldn't be trusted, and that he needed to learn his lesson.

As a massive Sherlock Holmes fan, both of the original stories and the new BBC series, I'd like to point out this story hurts me beyond measure. That is all.

Next thing he knew, he was outside, collar and leash tied securely to the door handle. You'll stay there until you've learnt your lesson, John said, slamming the door on Sherlock. Silence reigned.

It was then the Hound of the Baskervilles stopped by. "Hey, baby, you new around here?" the giant mastiff asked, sniffing Sherlock's ass.

After a couple of hours of begging to be let inside prove increasingly fruitless and awfully exhausting, he submits to the punishment, levering himself down onto his front. He dozes fitfully. John finally deigns to open the door, tugging him inside by the leash that he had looped and knotted round the door handle earlier in the afternoon.

'Do you think you've learnt your lesson?' he asks, unbuckling the muzzle, pulling a submissive Sherlock up into his arms. 'Are you going to be good for me, now? No more naughtiness, puppy, yes?'

Sherlock nods, letting out a soft bark, knowing it is what John needs to hear.

Seriously, this is making me nauseous. The Sherlock enema FFF wasn't as awful as this shit (er, no pun intended).

'Good boy. Game over.'

And he can relax.

Hey, remember back when Sherlock Holmes only had a cocaine addiction? Good times.

* * *

Sherlock gazes up at Daddy, slurping noisily at his cock, mouth hollowing carefully around him. His darkened hair falls in soft waves around his face, slender fingers clasping delicately onto John's calves as he brings him off, swallowing easily. Practice makes perfect, after all.

'Good girl,' murmurs Daddy, drawing his fingers through the clumps of curls and waves beneath him, gazing admiringly at the sight. 'Such a good little girl for Daddy, aren't you? Daddy loves you.'

Wait, is Sherlock still a puppy? Have we moved to human infantilism now? Or is Watson Daddy Dog or something OH GOD WHY AM I EVEN THINKING ABOUT THIS AAAAAAUUUUGGGHHH

Sherlock squirms violently at the words, his cock swelling with arousal. He never knew he liked this kind of stuff, but John had convinced him to try it, and he has always said he'll try anything once. This, though. This they have done at least six times. And he isn't tired of it yet.

Before, he thought he'd think it was so wrong - it feels like they're play-acting something terribly naughty - and wouldn't be able to go through with it, but it gets him off so much, more than most things they do together. And the outfits just add to it. Christ, he wants more, he really, really, really wants more.

The Mystery of the Diapered Detective

'Who's Daddy's favourite?' asks John, squeezing at Sherlock's neck, pulling him up onto his lap, kissing him hard and tugging him close.

Sherlock's voice is small and childish, when he can finally muster it.


'Yes, you are,' John says. 'Help Daddy with his problem, won't you, darling?'

The Admittedly Simple Case of Watson's Erection

Sherlock can feel John against him, hard and insistent. He knows what he wants. It's what he always wants. He wriggles into position, looking up at John as he tugs gently at his erection, guiding it into him, his slick hole taking it with ease.

'Clever girl,' John says, thrusting ever-so-slowly into him.

"I'll thank you to leave us out of this perversity!" /every velociraptor from Jurassic Park

Sherlock groans, heat slicing through him, his own dick swollen against his skin, desperate to be helped. But he knows he must do what Daddy needs before he is allowed any release. That is how this game works.

Daddy fucks him until he cries, big fat delicious tears of joy that trickle onto the childish clothes John sourced specially for this game. When he is finished, he pulls Sherlock over his knee, spanking him for getting upset, trapping Sherlock's cock between his legs, telling him it's not important any more.

Sherlock comes all over the sofa.

Daddy is not best pleased. But later, they laugh about it. Sherlock is happy.

Question: Are there adults who enjoy the whole infantilsm thing without it being sexual? Are there guys in diapers, pacifiers in their mouths, shitting themselves, going "Why in god's name would someone take something as pure as adult babies and sexuallize it? That's just wrong. Also, I went wee-wee."

* * *

'I don't like it,' says John, slamming the door behind them. 'I don't like seeing you make a little slut of yourself.'

Sherlock Holmes in The Adventure of the  Mixed Signals

Sherlock frowns at John, trying to pull away from the tight grip he is currently being held in.

'I don't know what you mean,' he says, but John's hands only tighten around his waist, hard enough to bruise.

Wait, Sherlock's a puppy, then he's a baby, now he's just a regular submissive -- MAKE UP YOUR GODDAMN MIND, FOR FUCK'S SAKE.

'You know exactly what I mean,' John says, pushing him up against their front door, his eyes flashing. 'You. Flirting. With Lestrade. I saw you. Playing with your hair. Touching him. You never need to touch him.'

In Watson's defense, that is almost certainly true.

'I wasn't! I wasn't - I mean, I was touching him, but I wasn't flirting. Why would I flirt with him? Please, John, don't be like this?'

John's hands find their way into his hair, winding strands of it around his fingers, tugging hard enough to make his eyes water. It hurts. It always hurts.

'You're a liar, Sherlock. Always a liar. I know what I saw. You're not the only one who can 'deduce' things. I'm not blind.'

"Dim, sure. But not blind!"

Sherlock whimpers despite himself as John's hands find their way to his neck, squeezing lightly but terrifyingly, before they sink to his crotch, tugging his trousers down roughly, making Sherlock yelp in pain as they scrape over his hips, not even bothering to undo the buttons.

Sherlock Holmes and The Pants that Are Apparently Made of Sandpaper of Something, Because Seriously How Else Could They Scrape When Pulled Off

'Can't you-please-'

'I don't think so, do you?' John says, pulling the recalcitrant detective towards the bedroom. 'I'm not even sure I'm going to let you leave this flat again. Ever. You need to be taught a lesson, you bastard.'

He is fucked on the floor, knees aching painfully, come flooding him time and again. He is a slut, John says, shoving into him carelessly, pulling his head back, making him groan. Sluts don't get to use the nice bed, John says. They take the pain and they love it. He can think on that next time he tries to touch Lestrade. If there is a next time. Sherlock doesn't think there will be.

Meanwhile, a completely bored Moriarty is just gunning down people in the street.

Sherlock sucks John's cock under the covers later as the other man reads and relaxes, only half of him allowed on the bed, the position making his body ache in places he never thought possible. He knows he deserves it by now. He knows he will not try and touch Lestrade again. Or anyone else, for that matter.

He sleeps at the bottom of the bed, curled up on top of the sheets, ready to do John's bidding when he wakes. His head is fuzzy, his mindset confused, his body hurting. He is John's.

In the early hours of the next morning, John breaks the game with a few soft words. He spends the rest of their weekend looking after his lover, who takes a full half day to return to normal headspace. Not an easy one, that one.

On the plus side, at least Watson hasn't ordered that Sherlock be gang-raped the Baker Street Irregulars, so that's something.

* * *

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably.

'I... okay. Let's try it.'

John loves how amenable Sherlock is to each and every suggestion he makes. He wonders if he actually has any boundaries. He wonders where his own went. He supposes this one is like an experiment. And he knows Sherlock likes experiments.

They begin this one with a carrot.

Fuck this. I'm getting a drink.

It goes in easily.

I guess the carrot...

/puts on sunglasses

...really does work better than the stick.


He is actually faintly worried that it might break off inside Sherlock - it has been in the fridge for a few days and isn't quite as hard as it once was. But it's fine.


The minute he sees Sherlock's buttocks twitch in front of him, he knows he has hit the spot.

God help me, the minute I read this line, my brain immediately imagined Sherlock's carrot-infused buttocks saying "What's up, doc?" in a Bugs Bunny voice.

Sherlock comes a few minutes later into the glass provided, groaning deeply.

Next, a parsnip.

Say what you want, but this is still a better salad bar than the one at Golden Corral.

This one is a little more like a butt plug, John thinks, flaring out at the bottom. It's hard to get in deep, and Sherlock shifts and whimpers in pain more. He does come eventually, though it's not an easy job, and, as John suspected, the amount of come is lessened by the way the vegetable is shaped.

I started to question the mechanics here, but I quickly realized what I was doing and immediately beat myself into unconsciousness. I now have a black eye, a bloody nose, and two chipped teeth, but it's certainly a lot less painful than actually thinking about this nightmare.

They work up to the aubergine. He takes a little break to stretch Sherlock enough, and eventually he thinks he is ready, his hole almost gaping obscenely at John. He pushes it inside, watching Sherlock's body visibly contract. He can't really move it much, it's too thick for that, but he pushes it as deep as it will go, and by wiggling the end of it, brings Sherlock off eventually.

What the fuck is happening? Is Watson making the world's most disgusting smoothie?

He has to fetch a few more glasses, he thinks. When he returns, the sight of Sherlock on all fours, stuffed to the gills with purple pulp, panting softly, is enough to make him cream himself, just a little. Amazing.

They give the marrow a go, but it's not as soft as the aubergine, and it's a lot bigger too. Sherlock tries his best, straining around the object, but he can't get it deep enough to use. They settle for a large courgette instead. That's better, John thinks, as a boneless Sherlock struggles to stay on his hands and knees, body wanting to give way as he spurts into the next clean glass.

Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Guy Who Just Kept Sticking Vegetables in Another's Guy's Ass

As he cleans an exhausted Sherlock in the shower later, he idly wonders whether brussel sprouts could be a good substitute for anal beads. Maybe he'll try that.



* * *

It's very early in the morning, and they walk together in Regent's Park. No one else is around, bar a few joggers, who barely notice the two men wandering near the trees. Sherlock's walk is almost waddling with the plug that John has kept inside of him all night, sitting deep within his amenable body, jiggling with each step. He is faintly delirious with lack of sleep, and has become a little dazed and silly. Just how John likes him. Nobody sees this side of Sherlock, apart from him.

The side with the legume stuck up his asshole? One would hope not.

'Here,' John says, stopping them by a secluded spot. He sits down, tugging Sherlock with him, forcing him onto his bottom. Sherlock yelps as the plug drives into him, sending sparks through his vision. They sit facing each other, John's legs crossed, Sherlock's splayed wide. He can just see the outline of Sherlock's erection through the loose tracksuit bottoms he had guided Sherlock into earlier.

'Play with yourself,' he says, taking Sherlock's hand and pushing it into his trousers.

Sherlock moans, fisting his erection immediately. He always does what John says. John thinks it's magnificent. He watches Sherlock jerk himself off, rubbing idly at his own crotch.



He does as he is told.

'Start again, but I want you to hump your plug, and make little noises, just for me, as you do it. I want to know how much you're enjoying it.'

Sherlock makes a grunting, gurgling sort of sound as he starts to shift up and down on the mass that spears him, practically mewling as the combination of his own hand and the thick plastic scraping against his prostate sends him into paroxysms of arousal that he never thought previously possible.

Sherlock Holmes in The Pound of the Asskervilles

John pulls Sherlock close when it is time, smothering his panting mouth in his clothes, telling him he can scream and yell and do whatever he likes. And scream he does. He soaks his trousers through, completely lost to the normal world as his hips jerk violently. It's a good thing they're not far from home.

Nope, it would be a good thing if they has never taken their ridiculously awful sex play outside. It would be a better thing if the author's computer had blown up before th author had begun ti write this story, but that's neither here nor there.

The journey back is long, wobbly, and full of whimpering. They'll have to do it again next week, John thinks, patting the sodden, stumbling man next to him.

* * *

He thinks, in retrospect, that this might have been something of a mistake. He can't move. His arms are bound tight behind his back, tight cuffs keeping his arms safely locked away. He can't speak, his mouth full of a ball gag that he himself had bought only weeks previously.


He stands straight against the wall, cock straining painfully against the belt that prevents it from getting hard, knowing he is completely unable to control this situation. He feels strong, firm hands move over his body, sliding down towards his thighs, parting them gently.

Sherlock Holmes in A Study in Brown

Before he knows what's happening, he feels soft lips against his hole, kissing, licking, laving, loving. He whimpers into the gag, squirming desperately until a smack to his hip stills him. He knows what that means. He tries to stay as still as he can while the ministrations continue, but it is the hardest task he thinks he has ever accomplished.

The Crevice of Fear

That is, until he feels hard flesh press up against him, frotting against his naked skin, slicking his back with pre come. If he could get hard, he'd be so incredibly. Oh. Fingers fumble, loosening his restraints, and he swells in response, groaning in thanks as he feels slick fingers enter him, working away patiently until his tightness is just a touch looser.

The Adventure of the Speckled Bum

Having someone else inside you is like nothing else, he thinks, white-hot heat flooding through his body as he is literally screwed into the wall, body pressing right into the cold white stone, pushing back against the thickness, desperate to come.

The Adventure of the Butt-Parting Plan

It doesn't take long - they orgasm together, one filling the other, the other wasting it all. He'll clean it up later, he is told. And he does.

The Adventure of the Second Stain (weird, that works as is)

Later, much later, they lie together in bed, holding hands beneath the duvet. That one day a year Sherlock gets to turn the tables, John thinks? He. Er. Might have to extend that to a few more.

THE END. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to solve the case of "How Much Scotch Do I Need to Drink to Achieve the Sweet Embrace of Death." Should be a pip.

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